#discover automobile

[skyburger]

i know their asses are fake music fans i know wamuu has never heard a single george michael song hes never even heard wake me up before you go-go. esidisi doesnt even KNOW about highway to hell. kars is also there

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: February 20, 2023

End Times Prophecy Report.com HEADLINES MONDAY February 20, 2023 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky ===INTERNATIONAL UKRAINE: Putin’s War Against Ukraine: The End of The Beginning RUSSIA: Russia’s War in Ukraine…

[seat-safety-switch]

Everyone hopes for a trouble-free car. Even if you purchase a high-mileage turd that has been crashed more times than it's seen Tuesdays, you still have some dream that it will be magically flawless, and you can clown on those assholes who bought new cars. Unfortunately, such a car does not exist.

We know from every religion's foundational text – especially those that were discovered and collapsed before the invention of the automobile – that cars are simply not that good. You can blame whoever you want for this sad state of affairs: bad previous owners, indifferent auto manufacturers, the ever-present menace of road salt. Eventually something's going to break, and you've got to fix it.

Once, a long time ago, I splurged. I bought the second cheapest car on Craigslist to get to work. It was a low-mileage cream puff, I had convinced myself, and most of the panels were even the same colour of paint. This knowledge, this hubris, made things all the worse when the transmission decided to prolapse itself onto the highway about thirty-five minutes after purchase. The seller? Gone in the wind, leaving only a suspicious pile of peeled bananas and empty bags of sawdust behind. I fixed it, sure, but it still stung.

Trust is the enemy, so why not purchase a car you don't trust in the first place? That's been my philosophy ever since. Buy the cheapest crap with the highest mileage (it's seen enough shit to not get surprised the next time a wheel falls off) and run it into the ground. When it breaks, you're not surprised: it's a piece of shit. Fix it just well enough to get it back on the road. Eventually, you will achieve a sort of automotive symbiosis: a dirtbag driver, and a dirtbag car. Just like with worn-in shoes, you will be endlessly comfortable until you have to walk home.

[pastlivesandpurplepuppets]

I assigned Easy Company the mission of securing the Eagle’s Nest, where Alton More discovered two of Hitler’s private photograph albums. More confiscated the albums, keeping the books hidden when a French officer, supposedly speaking on behalf of a high-ranking French general, demanded that More turn over the albums. In Kaprun he slept on the books and guarded them constantly. When an American officer threatened to court-martial More if he didn’t relinquish the photograph albums, I solved the problem by transferring More from Easy Company to Headquarters Company, where he served as my driver and where I protected him until he returned to the States with his treasured souvenirs.

After the war, Alton More died tragically in a 1958 automobile accident.

~ Dick Winters

[oftenwantedafton]

wither | steve raglan x female reader

a supernatural serial killer AU

rating | explicit

part 2/?

words | 7k

cw | violence

ao3 link

And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

Revelation 6:7-8 KJV

When Steve wants something, he takes it.

The reaper dressed in the security guard uniform leans against the side of the brick building after his evening shift at the nearby mall, watching the man make what he mistakenly thinks is a secret transaction with another individual in the alley around the corner. The narcotics don’t interest him, nor does the cash being exchanged. He has his eye on something else, something bearing the chrome emblem of a horse. He drags a match along one of the bricks and lights a cigarette, calmly waiting for the deal to be concluded. His next victim emerges from the narrow gap between buildings a short time later, angling towards the adjacent parking lot behind the abandoned convenience store where he's left his vehicle.

Steve can still feel the heat from the engine through the hood he shoves the man’s face against; hears the faint ticking as it tries to cool. Ice creeps through his fingers and wraps around the startled car owner’s throat, swiftly choking off any protest he might have made. As much as he enjoys the thrill of the hunt, this kill is not destined to be a prolonged event.

The rear compartment space is limited, but still ample enough for the body he shoves inside. He fishes the keys out of the dead man’s pocket before shutting the trunk and unlocking the driver’s side door. Power locks. A nice upgrade. He slides behind the wheel, glancing appreciatively over the dark leather interior. He leans over to open the glove compartment, unsurprised to find a gun inside. He has no need of weapons, but sometimes they’re fun to use. He prefers instruments that lean more towards torture, though; the sound of prolonged agony is the sweetest melody there is. He decides to leave the firearm where it is for now, shutting the compartment door and starting the engine. The instrument panel emits a soothing blue glow. A lot more options than what the old sedan has, that’s for certain. He can explore those later. For now, he wants to see what kind of speed this automobile is capable of outside of town, away from authorities that wouldn’t allow it. He lowers the front windows and then shifts gears, smiling the second his foot touches the pedal. Powerful. He likes it already.

The killer takes a quick drag of the cigarette he’s nearly forgotten, flicking the ash outside before guiding the sports coupe back to the road. Weekend traffic restrains his speed as much as his own self control. He rifles through the radio stations while he’s waiting, thinking that lake he’d discovered while walking the woods the other day might be a good resting place for that carcass in the trunk. There’s a thick layer of algae on that stagnant water. No one’s going to be swimming or fishing in that any time soon. It‘s a suitable location.

Once he’s cleared the city streets, the murderer finally shoves down on the gas pedal, the nonskid soled black shoes that are required by his employer pressing until the engine hums at a higher and higher pitch, automatically shifting gears. The evening breeze stirs his hair and he smiles, enjoying the sensation. The vehicle was worth acquiring. He won’t use it all the time, but when he does…

His eyes flick from the windshield to the vacant passenger seat. He thinks you might enjoy the car, too. A little drive at night. How much he’d enjoyed that visit in his office the other day. Your heart pounding. The throbbing elsewhere. He’d felt it humming through him, too. Something there. A wicked chemistry. You’re forbidden to him; at least, that’s what that tiresome academy would dictate. And he’s agreed to play by the rules, for now. But not forever. You’re already keeping secrets for him.

Surely you’ll keep one more.

***

Retail therapy always elevates your mood.

You’re not a shopaholic by any means, but you like to treat yourself every once in a while. There’s a pair of boots that you’d had your eye on for weeks now, often stopping by after work to gaze at them. Impractical. Not the kind of thing you’d have much occassion to wear. But they’d been stuck in your mind and on Saturday night you find yourself going back to purchase those thigh high lace up black suede boots. Just carrying them out of the mall makes you feel naughty.

As you walk through the crowded mall parking lot, still a little conflicted over your purchase, you notice the car parked at the far end of the row you’re crossing. You don’t know much about automobiles, but this one stands out. Muscle car. Mustang. Newer. Pale green, like faded spearmint. Hood vents. The driver’s side window is rolled down and a trail of smoke escapes through it. You recognize the man behind the wheel.

Steve Raglan. That odd school counselor and security guard. He’s not wearing the uniform tonight, clad instead in a gray shirt. Your eyes meet through the windshield.

Your steps slow as you reach the open window. He smirks around the cigarette slotted between his lips and you feel that warm little hum in your core again.

“Hi,” you say, readjusting your grip on the plastic handles of your shopping bag. They’re starting to dig into your skin. The boots are heavy.

“Hi,” he returns, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. “Doing some shopping, I see.” His gaze doesn’t linger on the bag, tracking back quickly to your face.

“Yeah.” You shuffle your feet. Why does he always make you feel so awkward, like you should be the one leading the conversation? “No work tonight?”

“No. I’m off.” He takes a drag and you sidestep to avoid the cloud he exhales.

“You here to shop?”

“That, and…people watch.” The smirk is back.

“Find anything? See anyone interesting?”

“One thing. Anyone…maybe.” He hangs his arm out the window and flicks some ash to the ground. “Do you need a ride? I’m guessing you don’t have a car. And judging by the location of that bus stop behind me…”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do on a Saturday night.”

“Sometimes. Not tonight. Hop in.”

You hesitate, looking at the leather interior. Thinking about being in such close quarters. That cologne you know he’s wearing. That scent of smoke. Another thrill vibrates through you. You find yourself walking around the car, lifting the door handle and settling inside, the bag tucked between your legs.

“Didn’t have you pegged for a goth girl,” he murmurs.

You’re decked out entirely in black: combat boots, jeans with rivets and chains, a snug top with lace sleeves, and a choker with a tiny metal bat dangling from the center. “You know today’s youth. Rebelling against societal norms.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to be a lemming and follow what others are doing.”

“I’m not, you’re right. I just really like the aesthetic,” you concede. “Gothic and horror stuff in general. I cut my teeth on slasher movies.”

“A girl after my own heart. If I had one, that is,” he winks cheekily at you and tosses the remains of his cigarette onto the pavement.

You’re not sure how to respond to that. To any of this. The attention. The…borderline inappropriate flirting? Or maybe you’re just that needy. Seeing things that aren’t there.

“So what did you buy?” He nods to the shopping bag.

“You first.”

Steve reaches between the seats, handing you a tiny paper bag.

“What did you get, a greeting card?”

“Something better.”

You reach inside and feel something glossy. A bumper sticker emerges, clutched between your fingers. There’s a chibi version of a grim reaper, and the letters printed in dripping crimson mimicking blood read Spoiler Alert: Everyone Dies.

“You’ve got a dark sense of humor, don’t you?”

“It was a toss up between that or Last Responder.”

“That’s…wow.” You glance at the driver.

“Think the school would protest if I decorated my office with that?”

“Uh, yeah,” you reply. “Just a tad inappropriate.”

“I’ll save it for my other vehicle. It’ll spice it up a bit.”

“You have two cars?”

The bearded man nods. “One I use for work, everyday things. This one…I reserve for special occassions.”

“So what’s the ocassion tonight?”

He grins but doesn’t answer. “What’s in your bag?”

You return the sticker inside the paper bag and hand it to Steve, who sets it back where he’d retrieved it, then lift your own into your lap, withdrawing the shoebox and cracking the lid. There’s a layer of tissue paper around the footwear that the older man shifts, poking to reveal what’s nestled underneath. One eyebrow quirks up and he makes a little humming sound.

“They’re boots,” you murmur, feeling yourself blushing.

“I can see that. Ever watch Pretty Woman?

“They’re not hooker boots,” you protest immediately, your face growing hotter.

“I never said they were. They’re very attractive. Where are you planning on wearing those?”

“I don’t know. I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about them. They’re so…”

“Slutty?” He supplies, seeing your mouth drop and chuckling, a gentle rasp of sound. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

“I’m not…like that. I’ve never even…” You let your voice trail off. It’s too embarrassing to admit out loud. “I just liked them.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“You make me feel like I should return them.”

“Don’t,” he says quickly, and your eyes latch onto his. “You should keep them. You coveted them.” He flicks the tissue back into place and leans to start the engine. As expected, it’s a deep purr. “That’s the reason I got this car. Not because I needed it. Because I wanted it,” he says.

“It’s pretty. I don’t know anything about cars, but…”

“Neither do I. I wanted it. I acquired it. That’s all there is to it. Enjoy those,” he says, nodding towards the box. “Well, I suppose I should get you home. Where do you live?”

You blink at the sudden shift in conversation but tell him your address, then close the lid of the box and shove it back into the bag, deciding to keep it on your lap this time.

“Seatbelt,” he says, thumbing the power button for the CD player before shifting gears. You hastily comply, struggling to balance the bag until Steve lifts it and sets it on the back seat.

“Thanks. Wait. Is this Nine Inch Nails?” You recognize the beginning of the song Terrible Lie.

“It is indeed. Mix tape. I guess you kids don’t call them that anymore, though. I burned a CD with a bunch of favorites.”

“You make yourself sound ancient.”

“That’s because I am.”

You consider the counselor, with his graying hair, noting again how near flawless his skin looks. The hands gripping the steering wheel don’t look old, either. The skin is pure milky white. There’s a branching vein near the knuckle of his index finger that you find yourself entranced by as Trent Reznor laments about his crisis of faith over the speakers.

“Did you hear me?”

“Hmmm? Oh, sorry. What did you say?”

“I asked how the assignment I gave you is coming along.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, oh, that. Have you given it any consideration?”

“No,” you reply honestly. “I had a lot of tests this week. And a paper due last Thursday.”

“Excuses,” he says, glancing over at you with a frown. The aviators reflect the red stoplight as he brakes the car, shifting his denim clad thighs. His legs are so long, wedged snugly beneath the wheel and against the sides of the center console and door. “Don’t procrastinate.”

“I’ll get to it eventually.”

“See that you do. It’s important.”

The easy banter you’d been enjoying earlier seems to have faded. He’s reminding you of your position. What your roles are. Anything else is certainly all in your own mind.

Depeche Mode’s Rush is the next track that plays. You try to imagine Steve seated at his PC, rifling through his collection of albums, deciding which songs are worthy of making the final cut. Scowling as he rearranges the order, exchanging this one for that. Maybe sipping a glass of whiskey while he’s doing it. Tie loosened. Removing his glasses to rub at the indents on the bridge of his nose. A stack of folders nearby. Bringing work home. Was he there alone?

“You’re daydreaming,” Steve observes, bringing you back from your reverie to realize a new song is playing. “Anything good?”

“Not really. Who’s this?” You ask quickly, pointing to the radio to cover for your awkwardness.

“Gary Numan. Dark.”

I've been waiting here Waiting for faith And the word to fall. Now the darkness comes And I'll pray for The end of us all

“I like it,” you decide.

“You in a rush to go home, or do you want to go for a little joyride? She’s pretty fun outside of town,” he says, shoving his gold framed glasses further back up the bridge of his nose.

“Uh…I guess,” you reply hesitantly. You’re having a hard time tracking what the man’s real intentions are. One minute he was formal; the next, anything but.

Don't let the light shine on me I am the poison that feeds life to you Don't let the light shine on me I am the demon that waits inside you

“You don’t know what to make of me, do you?”

The accuracy of that statement, so close to the thoughts you’d been having, disarms you. You stare at the bearded man and his gaze meets yours, and for the briefest sliver of a moment you swear you see something glowing behind those powder blue irises, making your breath hitch.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” you finally manage, gasping after the statement, suddenly greedy for air.

“Of course you haven’t.” He grins at you before returning his attention to the road. A modern acoustic cover of Don’t Fear the Reaper is playing now, the woman’s breathy vocals crooning over the speakers.

All our times have come Here but now they're gone Seasons don't fear the reaper Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain We can be like they are

You don’t recognize the road you’re on. Dark. Few streetlights. The breeze from the open window stirs your hair. The car accelerates. Where is he taking you?

Come on, baby (don't fear the reaper) Baby, take my hand (don't fear the reaper) We'll be able to fly (don't fear the reaper) Baby, I'm your man

“Mr. Raglan…”

“Steve,” he corrects. “You don’t need to cling to the door handle like that. You’re perfectly safe.”

You hadn’t even realized it, but your grip is indeed white knuckled. You can’t quite see the speedometer, the steering wheel is blocking your view, but you know he’s speeding. “I think you should slow down.”

“Hmmm,” he hums, the sound disapproving, but you feel the car decelerating and you exhale in relief. “You don’t trust me.”

“I do, I just…I think you should be careful.”

“Careful,” he repeats, the word carrying disdain with it.

“I mean…don’t you? It’s not worth wrecking the car. Or getting hurt. Or worse.”

“Hmph.” Another disgruntled noise, but he slows until he can make a u turn, reversing direction and returning to the town at a more reasonable pace.

You remain silent for the remainder of the ride. Your neck actually aches with how tense you’re holding yourself, your eyes locked onto the windshield.

Steve pulls along the curb outside your house. “This you?”

“Yes,” you reply stiffly.

“I…apologize if I frightened you. I thought you would enjoy…”

“It’s a nice car, and I’m grateful for the ride home. I just…I’m not used to this,” you finish, finally meeting his gaze.

“Alright.”

You release the seatbelt and accept the shopping bag back he retrieves back into your lap. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says.

You rest a hand on the door handle, feeling like you should say something else. Now you’re feeling guilty. He’d just wanted to show off the car. What was wrong with that? You’re the one making it weird.

“You want to borrow this?” He hits the eject button and offers you the CD that had been playing, its surface blank and unlabeled.

“You don’t mind?”

“No. I can just make another, I have the playlist saved on my computer. Enjoy it.”

“Thanks.” You slip it inside your bag, then push the door open.

“Don’t forget that assignment.” His tone almost sounds normal now.

“I won’t.”

You watch the car depart, staring for a few moments before you turn to walk down the driveway.

Another surreal, bizarre encounter with Steve Raglan.

***

U.S. History just isn’t your thing.

You suppose you should know about what came before, what’s brought your country to the present, but your mind begins wandering several minutes into the lecture. It doesn’t help that your instructor is an elderly nun with a soft, creaky voice that reminds you of a rocking chair moving back and forth over a loose floorboard on an old farmhouse porch. You’re doodling, intending initially to get some work done on that career planning assignment, but instead you find yourself sketching random images. The entrance gate of the abandoned cemetery. The crow perched on that branch. Steve, leaning back against the crumbling stone wall, a wispy stream of cigarette smoke rising beside his features. A side profile of his Mustang. A close up of his intense eyes.

Too late, you realize your work has been discovered. Not by the instructor, but by that cheerleader that had gotten in trouble that day you’d had your first meeting with Steve. She cups her hand over her mouth and whispers to the girl seated beside her, and you quickly turn to a blank page, dropping your pen onto that lined surface. You hunch down further in your seat, hoping this will be the end of your shame.

Of course it isn’t.

Your notebook is snatched from your fingers just as the bell rings, signaling the end of class.

“Please give that back,” you say as you anxiously exit the classroom behind the group of cheerleaders, hoping a direct approach will be enough.

“Someone’s got a crush. A little old for you, isn’t he? Do you even know what to do with it? Or are you expecting daddy to teach you?”

“What’s going on here?”

Steve is approaching, threading through the students congregating outside the hallway of lockers, and you don’t know whether you’re relieved or not. This might only add fuel to the fire. Speaking of which; your cheeks are so hot you think you might combust.

“Nothing,” the girl says in a singsong voice. “We were just admiring the artwork. Have you seen it yet? Well, of course you haven’t. She just did it during class.” She hands the open notebook to the counselor, waiting for his response, a sickeningly sweet smile on her features.

His pale eyes flick briefly over the page, and then he shuts the book, handing it back to you.

“I would think that someone with your grades would be just a bit more concerned about your own coursework. Especially now that your position on the team hangs in the balance. It would be a shame if you didn’t have that to fall back on, wouldn’t it?” It’s the older man’s turn to smile, and it’s full of mockery. The girl grumbles but turns away, drawing her band of followers with her.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble once they depart.

“You should be paying attention in class, too.”

“I was going to start my assignment. The one you gave me. I got distracted.”

His stern expression softens slightly. “Pay attention. That’s for after school, okay? And you lied. You draw well.”

You clutch the spiral bound book to your chest. “It’s just amateur stuff. You know, she’s never going to let me live this down. She’ll be relentless now.”

“No, she won’t. She’s going to have her hands full with other things,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just…do your schoolwork like a good girl,” he says, his voice low and hushed.

You feel your blush returning. “Okay.”

He nods, brushing past you. You catch a whiff of his cologne and your grip on the notebook tightens.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to turn and follow him.

***

He hadn’t expected that little display earlier.

Steve kicks at the body at his feet, eliciting a muffled plea behind the gag stuffed in the student’s mouth. One of his ties. Not his favorite, so no loss there. Neither is the one wrapped around the cheerleader’s eyes.

He glares at the captive young woman. The temptation to just end her existence is strong. But that would be foolish. Brash. He can still exact some revenge without going to those extremes. She has no idea who’s taken her. Doesn’t understand the cold sensation that suddenly grips her from deep within. A frost coats the floorboards of the gymnasium. Not the one in the school she’s currently attending; this is another one clear across town. Another abandoned venue. There are many of those kinds of places here. There has been a lot of struggle. Fluctuations in commerce and prosperity. A rise and fall in census. This old school was testament to that.

Death Incarnate carries the girl in the middle of the night, dumping her back where he’d taken her from, the lookout point that was a popular make out spot for local teenagers. It’s empty now, save for that ambassador of extermination and his victim. The high school senior is passed out now, making her body limp like a sack of potatoes. Easier to manage overall. He cuts through her bonds and drags his ties free. Those will be burned later, leaving no evidence behind. There are no fingerprints. No marks from the shoes he’s wearing. No evidence of any crime. Just this little decay that’s been seeded inside. She’ll dismiss it, at first. Play it off. But eventually it will catch up to her. And anything she might have done to reverse its course will be rendered long since useless. A slow revenge, but certain. He smiles bitterly before turning away.

The guidance counselor takes a long shower after he returns home, using the old sedan for transportation once more. For tonight, the new horse slumbers in the garage. He sinks into the couch across from the hearth once he’s finished bathing and watches the flames dance as he slowly consumes a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid reflecting the firelight.

He wonders what you are doing tonight.

***

There’s a birthday party being held at the local nightclub.

Nothing official, of course; all of the students are underage. But you hear the excited whispers. Talk of fake ID’s. You don’t want to go on the night that they’re planning on attending. You have no intention of celebrating the birth of someone who’s a virtual stranger. But the idea of getting into the club is one that festers in your mind. Reckless. But maybe that’s what you want. Maybe you want to do something unexpected for a change.

You don’t know what’s got into you, lately. Ever since you’d met Steve Raglan…

You’re fairly certain you’ve been overcharged for the false driver’s license card, but it does look convincing, you have to admit. Not that you’re an expert in such things, of course; but you think it might get you inside. Your parents are going away for a weekend. It’s the perfect time to go. You’ve been looking for an excuse to wear those new boots, anyway.

So that’s how it happens. You, standing at the bar with a vodka and Sprite, looking out over the crowd of dancers. The music is so loud it hurts. Like being at a concert, almost. You’re still not sure what you’re doing here. You’re not brave enough to dance with strangers. That’s why you’re trying out some liquid courage. You haven’t sampled alcohol that many times. Just at a holiday party here and there. Always under adult supervision. This was new. All of this.

You feel someone watching you. Your eyes slide to the side. It’s him. The career counselor. Nursing a drink of his own. Wearing dark rinse jeans and a black v neck tee, leaning languidly against the counter, one foot resting on the lower rung of the unused stool beside him.

You find yourself walking towards him. Careful, there. That drink is hitting hard already. You hadn’t eaten much today, too nervous to do more than nibble. The high heeled boots make you feel tall, elegant. They bring you level with the older man’s shoulders now.

“Well, look who’s here.”

“Hi,” you greet him. You don’t miss the quick beat of his eyes tracking down and then back up, admiring your appearance.

“You’re not allowed in. Fake ID? Naughty,” he hums, leaning close so you can hear him above the music.

“I felt like I deserved a night out.” You take another healthy swallow from your drink. It’s making you so warm all over.

“That’s not the only reason though, is it?”

You look at him sharply. “How did you…”

Steve grins. “You know, that gift of mine…”

“Reading people.” The song comes to an end and the DJ announces he’ll be taking a brief break between sets. Your ears are definitely ringing.

“Yes, that one.” He’s still leaning close even though he doesn’t need to speak as loudly to be heard.

“Alright, fine. There were a group of girls partying here for a birthday last weekend, and I was tired of feeling left out. But I didn’t want to spend time with them. I just wanted to experience it for myself. On my own terms.”

“By hiding at the bar?”

“I’m not hiding,” you protest, signaling for another drink. That one had emptied very fast. “I’m just getting acclimated.”

“Acclimated, huh?” Steve smirks, finishing his own drink.

“So, what do you think of my outfit? You like the boots?”

“They’re sinful,” he says, his eyes sparkling behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Yes, but do you like them?”

“Yes. Very much. I’m surprised your parents let you out of the house like that, though.”

You brush your fingers against the clinging black knit dress you’re wearing that ends just above where your boots begin. “They’re not home. Went away for the weekend.”

“How interesting.”

You grin around the mouth of your glass. “Why interesting?”

“Want to dance? I see the DJ coming back.”

You laugh a little at the idea. You’ve been doing a lot of that during this conversation so far. You find your lips constantly wanting to curve, the carbonation in your drink making you feel bubbly, the alcohol loosening your inhibitions.

“That’s scandalous, isn’t it? What would people say?” You inquire, feigning a shocked expression.

“They’re all strangers here. No one knows us.”

“How can you be sure, though?”

“Come with me,” he says, holding out a hand.

You hesitate, then reach for his fingers. They’re cool to the touch. Maybe from the glass he’d been holding. He leads you to a vacant spot on the outskirts of the crowd.

The stage lights shift patterns and the room darkens. You glance around nervously.

“Look at me,” your partner commands, and you find yourself gazing at the older man once again.

Your limbs feel stiff and awkward at first as you try to find the rhythm. Steve doesn’t seem to share your problem. Everything about him is fluid. Slinky. You try to match that grace. He captures your hand again and turns you around, bringing your back flush with his chest.

“Relax. Let yourself go.” His warm breath huffs beside your ear.

He smells heavenly. No smoke today. Just that fragrance you find intoxicating. You’re drunk off it. Off the music and the lights and the warm press of his body against yours. Somehow you’ve got more alcohol slotted in one of your hands. It goes down smooth. You’re liquid like that, now. Weightless. Floating.

Then anchored back to the ground. Leaning against the counter. The bartender looks slightly concerned but you wave a hand at him to indicate you’re okay. Steve is quiet beside you. Just looking. You like how he looks at you. Hungry. Hollowing you out. Carving a space for himself.

You don’t care about the other people in the club. You don’t really care what song is playing, either. You just know that you want to dance with Steve again. You face him the next time you venture back onto the dance floor. His hands are still cold. You feel like you’re on fire. You rest your palms on his chest, looking up at him through mascara coated lashes. His mouth is so close. Those full lips just waiting. What would it feel like, brushing against that facial hair? What would his lips taste like?

He leans close to your ear and you shiver in anticipation. ”I think it’s time we left.”

”Already? I was having fun.”

”I know. But it’s getting late. And you’ve had more than enough to drink.”

You grumble but acquiesce, allowing the older man to lead you away from the dance floor. “Sexy car tonight,” you murmur when you finally emerge outdoors, sucking in a lungful of fresh air and clinging heavily to your escort.

“Mmm-hmm.”

You watch him unlock the passenger door with hooded eyes, leaning against the side of the sports coupe. “Where are you taking me, Mr. Raglan?”

“Don’t call me that. Steve is fine. I’m taking you home.”

“Aw,” you pout. “I was really having fun.”

“I know. But you’re not going to have fun if you keep going like this. Lightweight,” he says, but there’s affection in his tone as he guides you to sit inside the car, helping you tuck your legs over the door frame.

You let your head rock aback against the cradle of the cushioned headrest. You feel like you’re spinning even though you’re just sitting still, and it’s fun. Steve glances at you after he slides behind the wheel, then shakes his head. “You’re lucky I was there. What if someone had taken advantage of you?”

“I’ve got that nail polish on that changes color when someone spikes your drinks. And no one wants me anyway,” you mutter.

“You’re wrong about that.”

“Oh yeah? You know something I don’t?”

He doesn’t answer, apparently focused on exiting the parking garage. You glance at the digital clock display on the dashboard, surprised by how many hours have passed.

“You’re not going to lecture me about this later on, are you?”

“No, I think your body is going to do that for you. Hangovers are miserable. You’re going to have a splitting headache at the very least.”

“I don’t want to go home. Can’t we go somewhere else?” You hear the slight whine in your tone and wince.

“Like where? It’s late. Not many places are open.”

“You could let me crash at your place.” Surprising, how casually those words escape your lips.

“You thought dancing with me was scandalous earlier. Now you want to spend the night at my house?” He doesn’t sound entirely displeased by the concept.

“Blame it on the liquor,” you mumble, letting your head flop to the side to regard the counselor.

“So much for keeping a low profile.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You realize you’re leaving the busier downtown area and are being brought into the suburbs. No, even past that. There are more trees than houses, now. He’s not speeding this time, you notice. He looks very solemn, concentrating on driving.

“You go to that club a lot?”

“Never. It was my first time.”

“You trying to score?”

His lips twist in a wry smile. “I told you before. I like people watching.”

You grunt, shifting the position of your feet. The boots might be stylish, but they definitely weren’t comfortable.

“Feet bothering you?”

“How can you tell?”

“You’ve been wriggling like a worm on a hook ever since you sat down.”

“They’re alright,” you mumble.

“New shoes are always a pain to break in. They do suit you, though,” he adds.

The car leaves the paved road and travels along a dirt one. You can just make out the house nestled between the trees from the beam of the headlights.

“You live in the middle of nowhere.”

“I like my privacy.” He thumbs a remote tucked into the sun visor and one of the garage doors lifts. He parks beside his other car, the vintage sedan he’d previously mentioned, then kills the engine. The garage door finished closing with a resounding thud after he hits the remote switch and the older man’s eyes meet yours.

“You really brought me to your house,” you murmur in disbelief.

“That’s where you said you wanted to go. Would you rather I bring you home?”

You should say yes. This was escalating far past any casual flirting you might have done previously.

Instead you shake your head. He exits the car and you follow, groaning when you put weight on the heels again. There’s a short flight of steps nearby that leads to the interior of the house, depositing you into a hallway. Steve begins turning on light switches, then points to an open doorway further down the hall. “Bathroom. Which I’m sure you’re going to want.”

You did need to go. Bad. The alcohol had gone right through you. You brush past him and struggle to get your panties down, managing to sit on the toilet in the nick of time. You sigh with relief, glancing around the room. It’s a half bath, just the toilet and the sink. It all looks very ordinary so far. You’re not sure what you’d been expecting.

You finish voiding, the toilet still flushing as you begin washing your hands. You look at your reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. What the hell are you doing, exactly? First the fake ID, then the drinking, dancing with a member of the school faculty that’s old enough to be your dad, now this?

“You fall in?” Steve’s voice sounds from outside the door.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

“I’m getting you a big glass of water. You need to drink all of it.”

“Great, I’ll be living in the bathroom then,” you mutter as you open the door, flipping the lightswitch off again.

“Come sit down. Get comfortable.” He guides you to the living room and you sink down into the couch, not even bothering to straighten your dress beneath you. You’re starting to feel a little less pleasant than you had earlier. Not quite as buoyant.

“Here you go.”

You accept the glass of water he hands you, watching as he settles a respectful distance away at the other end of the couch.

“I’m gonna be honest, I thought your place would look different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Like more modern, maybe? Very monochromatic.”

“So you’re disappointed.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t even know what I’m saying,” you admit, taking another gulp of water.

“I tend to move around a lot. I don’t get too attached to personal possessions. Furniture and the like means very little to me.”

“Why do you move around so much?”

He shrugs. “It’s in my nature. Nomadic.”

“Doesn’t that ever get tiresome? Don’t you ever want to put roots down and just settle?”

“I haven’t found anywhere I felt tempted to do that yet.”

“So you’re gonna up and leave again, huh? Make me do that stupid assignment and then bail on me.”

His lips twitch in amusement. “I’m not leaving that quickly. I haven’t been here long. So yes, you are going to do the assignment, and yes, I will see the fruits of my labors.”

“My labors,” you correct.

“Our labors,” he amends.

You smirk before you drain the rest of your glass. “So what now?”

“Now you go to bed and sleep this off.”

“You’re no fun.”

“No? Not entertaining in the slightest?”

“Nope.” You lean forward and set the glass down on the coffee table, then recline back more slowly. You still feel lightheaded.

“Alright. Time to get you to bed. You can sleep in one of my shirts.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“There’s a second bedroom.”

“Hmph.” You allow him to steady you as you rise. “Your hands are so cold.”

“So many complaints,” he observes, pointing to the staircase. He waits for you to step in front of him, poised to catch you if you stumble. You manage the stairs even intoxicated and wearing the ridiculous boots and you swirl around triumphantly, finally losing your balance and falling against his chest.

His hands might be icy, but his body is warm. You find yourself staring at his mouth again. Wishing it was on yours. If only you were a little braver, you’d reach for it yourself. Stand on tiptoes and tug on the nape of his neck and bring it crashing down. But you’re not quite that confident yet.

“Let’s go,” he says, gently pushing against you. You huff but allow it, finding yourself in a room that’s more like what you’d been imagining. Black bed linens. Glass and chrome nightstands. Marbled lamps.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, not even bothering to move the comforter. You’re exhausted all of a sudden. Your energy is just sapped.

Steve kneels down and begins working on unlacing your boots.

“You don’t have to do that. But thank you.”

He doesn’t reply, continuing to tug on the laces until you feel the suede material give a little, releasing its tight clutch of your thigh and calf. You sigh rapturously when that first piece of footwear is pulled free. The other soon joins it, folded and tucked neatly underneath the glass topped nightstand.

You kind of wish he hadn’t been so businesslike about it; your heart is pounding, both fearing and hoping he’ll cross a line he shouldn’t. But he merely rises and retrieves a tshirt from the dresser and sets it beside you before moving towards the doorway.

“What if I need more help undressing?”

“I think you can manage.”

“I can sleep in the other bedroom, you know. You don’t have to surrender yours.”

“Figure it’d be better if you’re closer to the bathroom. It’s through that door,” he points.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Are you gonna come back after?”

“Why? Do you want me to tuck you in? Tell you a bedtime story?”

You bite your bottom lip. “Yes.”

Steve smirks. “I’ll think about it. Go get changed.”

The upstairs bathroom is far more luxurious than its first floor counterpart. There’s a walk in shower and a tub. You’re tempted to sample one of them, but you also kind of just want to rest.

Steve’s shirt is black, blank, a basic tee that hits you mid thigh and clings to your curves. You find a washcloth in the linen closet and scrub your makeup off. Deciding you’re ready, you return to your school counselor’s master bedroom.

You find him waiting for you, sitting in the spot you’d previously occupied.

“I used a washcloth to take my makeup off. I hope that’s ok. I put it in the hamper. And I just left my clothes on the edge of the tub for now.”

“That’s fine.” His features look more solemn now. No longer teasing. You move closer and he stands, flipping the comforter and top sheet back.

You hesitate, your fingers twisting, wanting to be filled. “You didn't get changed yet.”

“No.”

“I wanted to see your pajamas.”

“I sleep in boxers and tshirt. Nothing exciting.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Get into bed.”

“What if I say no?”

Steve regards you for a few moments, then grabs your wrists and pushes you onto the bed.

You squeak in protest, startled to feel the older man pressing you down into the mattress. His fingers are still freezing.

“Steve,” you say a little breathlessly.

“You’ve been a very bad girl tonight.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” You challenge.

“Nothing. You’re technically an adult. And I’m not your parent.”

“You’re supposed to set a good example.”

“Is that what you want?”

You stare into his eyes. The pupils are blown, twin raven dark circles of desire. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” He grins and then releases you, climbing back off the bed.

You scowl, shifting until you’re lying properly, slipping your legs beneath the covers. “I didn’t get my bedtime story.”

“It’s late. You should sleep. You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Was worth it though.”

“You say that now.” He reaches to draw the blankets over you and you grasp his forearm, halting him.

“I had fun tonight,” you say quietly.

“Yeah. Me too. Go to sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.” His voice sounds raspy. He switches the lamp off and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

You’d thought earlier that you’d conk right out once your head hit the pillow, but now sleep evades you. You stare into the void above your head, and you think about Steve’s dark, wanting eyes.

Those cold hands, gripping you so tightly.

[kcscribbler]

WIP Wednesday

No dialogue this week. Gasps all around.

Background: After the events of Act One, they are hiding out on a timeline branch, and have assumed/stolen the identities of a (straight) married couple, who were "Snapped" by Thanos (hence Loki's pronoun switch).

Mobius finally starts sleeping well enough to be completely worthless before his third cup of coffee in the morning, and Loki has finally stopped teasing him about it. She has learned how to do everyday tasks such as dish-washing without reliance on magic, and he has figured out how to use a cellular phone. Mobius has learned (or possibly remembered) how to drive an automobile, and Loki has discovered the paramount importance of seatbelts. And good brake pads. And not holding an open can of lukewarm and very sub-par soda at the time said brake pads are pushed to their limit. Mobius gets reading glasses. Loki walks into a wall the first time she sees them. And so it goes, calm and mundane and almost...boring. Until it isn’t.

No-pressure tagging @strangenewwords to start the ST chain, and @lokimobius @natendo-art @elodiah @loki-is-my-kink-awakening

@in-my-loki-feels @asoeiki and @peppermintkamz @stillwanderingflame to start the Loki avalanche and pass it on. Whatcha workin' on this week?

[crystaldust]

Highlights from "The key to constant happiness"

[session 14 of "Keys to the ultimate freedom" by Lester Levenson ]

You can do anything and everything that you want. You can have, be, or do whatever you will or desire.

The key is knowing what happiness is, so that you can go directly for it. Not recognizing what happiness is makes it difficult to establish permanently. So when you get to see what this happiness really is, then when you become miserable you'll move in the right direction and establish that happiness.

All right. what is happiness?

Most people call it pleasure but what it actually is, is escape from pain! What most people call happiness is their getting away from their pain through socializing and entertainment. It is really an escape! They cannot stand being by themselves, with their own thoughts. When their mind is taken away from their own thoughts, they feel better, and then call that pleasure and happiness. All entertainment is actually that! A happy man needs no entertainment and no socializing. He is content.

The happiness that I'm going to talk about now is not the escape-from-misery kind. It is really the only happiness. It's the joy that results from being your own real Self. The more we are our real Self, the more we feel joyous. Sense-joy of the world is accomplished not because of the thing or the person out there with whom we associate it. It's accomplished by satisfying and stilling the thoughts of wanting to acquire that person or thing. When we quiet those thoughts, we feel our Self more so and are happier. The quieter the mind is, the more we just be, the more we abide as our real Self and the more joyous we feel! But this is something you've got to see for yourself, that the quieter you get your mind, the happier you are. 

Seeing this, you will begin to let go of attaching happiness to people and things. You will begin to see that the joy is only in you abiding as your very own Self. Then, when you discover this, you're not going to look for joy where it isn't. You will immediately let go and just be. And finally, you reach the place where you need no one and no thing to be happy, you just are happy, all the time!

Whether you see it through your own mind's eye or not, you should have it intellectually at first, then experiment with it, test it out, and you'll discover that this is so, that every time you feel happy, your mind is quiet and at ease, and that what you attributed to the person or thing outside of you is something going on within you. It is a quieting of your mind so that you abide more as your Self.

the moment you become unhappy, you'll know just where to look to re-establish the happiness!

it's first recognizing that the happiness is not the external person or the thing, but the quieting of the thoughts of desire for the person or thing, which allows you to go within and just be your Self, i.e., just be.

When your mind is on things out there, you're not just being, you're being involved with externals. But I say the key is seeing just that point, that your happiness is the quieting of your mind through the satisfying of the desire, which stills the hunger thoughts for the thing and allows you to just be. When you actually see that in your own mind, you can do it directly. (You can let go of those thoughts without achieving the person or the thing and immediately you're happy!) The prime overall thing is that you move toward happiness in the direction of where it really is, in you, not in the externals. In that way you establish a state of happiness that is continuous.

Question: It sounds as though you're saying we should not desire automobiles, we should not desire homes, we should not desire wives or sweethearts, we should not desire anything, but become nothing.

Lester: Everything was right but the last part of your sentence. You become everything instead of nothing. Become everything and you need nothing. Desire is lack and the consciousness of separation, the source of all trouble. If you are everything, the All, you need nothing. 

Question: Instead of separating ourselves, we become the other one.

Lester: And that is the greatest of all feelings! That's the highest love, -when you become the other one. That identity is love in its highest form. In other words, you think that she didn't break the dish, we broke the dish; she didn't spend money on a dress, we spent the money. This is the highest love.

You are going to have to realize that when you become everything and feel that you need nothing, then the slightest thought for something will bring it to you immediately.

Question: The desire is, “I haven't got.”

Lester: Yes! You create an artificial lack, you create a lie when you say, “I haven't got.” Desire, causing you to feel “I have not,” will cause you to have not! Let go of desire and you feel “I have.” This causes things to come to you.

Question: If I look at the world as though I'm writing a novel and say I am the characters, I'm all these creatures that I create in my story. And yet this is what I'm living today, aren't I? I create my difficulties; I'm writing this story. Instead of doing that, I should say I am the power, and why bother creating limitations? I don't need to. So, I stop it. But what do I have when I don't create?

Lester: What do you have when you don't create? Everything that you really want, our pure Beingness.

Q: I have peace.

Lester: Yes. You are the All, everything is in you. Feeling that way puts you completely at peace.

There's no happiness in people or things. Happiness is our basic nature. Happiness is our very own beingness. And when we are only being, we are infinitely happy.

The greater the attachment the greater the unhappiness. (Likewise, the greater the aversion, the greater the unhappiness.) It's unfree to be attached to anything. You can’t have things and not be attached to them. Be attached to them and you are necessarily putting yourself through unhappiness.

Question: Now, when you're in a state of beingness, that does not mean that you 're an ethereal being who floats from spot to spot. That means that you are in that state where you know the Truth and thereby don’t have to go through all the habits that have been piled upon you by your ego.

Lester: It's knowing your infinite Beingness that is eternal and never changes. Then this world cannot touch you. You see it as a fiction, a dream. You witness it. You move through life with no attachments and no aversions. Then no one and no thing can disturb you, and you have the infinite peace and joy that is constant.

The only difference between a fully realized individual living in the world and one who is not is his point of view of everything. An unrealized person identifies with a single limited body-mind. A realized person identifies with everything, every being, every atom and sees them as his Self. He sees the beingness in everything as his beingness.

Your very nature is joy. You don't get it out of everything that happens, your basic nature is unlimited joy. That is your natural state! No need to get it!

As long as you don't lock it onto a person or thing, it's there all the time. But if you say you can't have joy unless you do or have something, you limit your joy. The natural state is unlimited joy. This is the real natural state. The natural state is being infinite, but we superimpose over that all these ideas of limitation, of needs, attachments and aversions that block out this infinite joy that is natural. If a being would do absolutely nothing, he would be this infinite Being. He would then be only a witness.

Question: But you can still put in a hard day's work.

Lester: Oh, yes. You go through life like everyone else.

Question: But it's your attitude.

Lester: Right, you see things differently. You see yourself as a witness rather than a doer.

All your difficulty is keeping yourself limited. You have compounded limitations on top of limitations and are holding onto them in your thoughts. Therein lies your difficulty. You must let go of all your thoughts. Every thought has limitation in it. Drop all your thoughts and what is left over is you in your infinite happiness, your Beingness. Then you will realize that it is as easy for you to discover that you are an infinite Being with infinite happiness as it is for you to discover that you are a male or a female!

[cartermagazine]

Today In History

Dr. George Washington Carver was an agricultural scientist and inventor who developed hundreds of products using peanuts, sweet potatoes and soybeans. He is believed to have been born the month of January in 1864.

Dr. Carver discovered over 300 products from peanuts, soybeans and sweet potatoes, which aided nutrition for farm families.

Dr. Carver wanted to improve the lot of “the man farthest down,” the poor, one-horse farmer at the mercy of the market and chained to land exhausted by cotton.

Unlike other agricultural researchers of his time, Dr. Carver saw the need to devise practical farming methods for this kind of farmer. He wanted to coax them away from cotton to such soil-enhancing, protein-rich crops as soybeans and peanuts and to teach them self-sufficiency and conservation.

He achieved this through an innovative series of free, simply-written brochures that included information on crops, cultivation techniques, and recipes for nutritious meals. He also urged the farmers to submit samples of their soil and water for analysis and taught them livestock care and food preservation techniques.

Dr. Carver took a holistic approach to knowledge, which embraced faith and inquiry in a unified quest for truth. Carver also believed that commitment to a larger reality is necessary if science and technology are to serve human needs rather than the egos of the powerful.

His belief in service was a direct outgrowth and expression of his wedding of inquiry and commitment.

One of his favorite sayings was:

“It is not the style of clothes one wears, neither the kind of automobile one drives, nor the amount of money one has in the bank, that counts. These mean nothing. It is simply service that measures success.”

CARTER™️ Magazine

[musewrangler]

For the five fun facts prompt game:

The Skywalker family (optional bonus Han Solo and/or assorted Imperials) in the plot of The Mummy? (I had to sit and think for a minute to come up with an AU you hadn't already done, actually.)

LOL. I have covered a fair gamut of AU ideas. Thank you for this friend!

Leia loves being a librarian and weaponizing this knowledge at exceedingly boring upper crust parties. She's rubbish with a pistol but incredible with a sword and loves her brother even when he's a fathead.

Luke crashes his cars on a regular basis, not because he isn't good at driving but because technology in the 1920s is not able to give him the speeds he'd like to go. It's frankly miraculous he's not been more seriously injured. Given that Anakin Skywalker disappeared years ago during the Great War and is presumed dead, Luke honors him by continuing the passion for automobiles and driving.

Han Solo REALLY didn't want to go with the crazy Brits on this dumb ass mission to Hamunaptra, but hey it got him out of prison and being hanged. He has to unfortunately travel with Warden Jabba who wants his share of this spectacular treasure, but Han figures he can give Jabba the slip when this is over. Besides, the insane librarian is sort of cute in an obsessive, bossy way.

This mysterious Darth Vader who leads the Medjai is eventually recognized by Luke and Leia as their long lost father. His memory was affected and he joined the Medjai shortly after his medical release from the military in 1916. He and his band must now help to defeat the horrific power of Palpatine, the High Priest, whom Leia accidentally resurrected. Somehow, he returned after all. ;D

It's a narrowly won fight and the Skywalkers and Solo are glad of the help of the Medjai. Luke discovers that his insane driving instincts translate well to sprinting through tunnels ahead of mummy zombies, while Leia discovers that certain Americans are quite charming when they're fighting back to back for their lives. Anakin decides to stay with his band in Egypt, among whom are some very competent fighters named Firmus and Max, but he promises to visit his children in England soon.

[ralfmaximus]

Visited the Savoy Automobile Museum in Cartersville, Georgia.

The museum shows cars of every vintage and manufacturer, not just Savoy. So why is it named Savoy?

Because when the museum founders were trying to come up with a name for the place, they discovered this abandoned 1954 Savoy on the future museum site, complete with a tree growing through the wreck.

So they built the museum around that car and borrowed its name.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

You're Not - (Steve Harrington x Reader)

You're Not (Rated T)

Request?: No

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k (Hell yeah, we back, baby!)

Warnings: Slight language, Jason Carver being a bit of an ass, Steve being hard on himself, Reader could be implied Hopper if you squint but up to you!

Summary: Inspired by an episode of Love Daily on Netflix (episode: Hit); The year is 1985, you're on a school field trip to cheer on Hawkins High at the championship game before spring break. When the game doesn't pan out as expected, you're even more surprised to discover the one and only Steve Harrington in only his underwear at your hotel room after being locked out by his teammates. What happens when the two of you have a little heart to heart? (reposting because Tumblr ate it)

You hummed to yourself as you walked through the halls of the hotel. Your Walkman was secured at your hip and the well-worn pads were adjusted against your ears. The soft tones of Cyndi Lauper filled your senses, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. Chicago was always a bustling city, people pushing past each other in the streets, cars honking aggressively at the chaotic levels of traffic. It was quite the adjustment from your home in small-town Hawkins. All the hustle and bustle made you glad you were only in the city for one more night. 

Yet as you looked through the window of the eighth floor, it just seemed…different. Magical, even. From here, the pedestrians and automobiles were tiny, merely blinking lights and waves of brightly coloured clothing. Their presence seemed almost meaningless as you watched them navigate through the streets and sidewalks with a rhythmic pace. 

Why your school had decided to turn the basketball team’s championship journey into a field trip, you had no idea. Something about school spirit, supporting physical education, rah rah sis boom bah. The game itself had really been a bit of a let down, but that wasn’t saying much since you spent most of it reading. The cheers and groans from the crowd were enough of an indication for you of the team’s current status. You had only looked up from your fantasy world one time- the minute Steve “the Hair” Harrington had attempted to make one final shot for the team…

…and missed. 

It had been a quiet rest of the day after that. There were no parties, no celebrations which would consist of unsupervised teenagers getting stupid drunk regardless of the chaperones on the trip. Everyone had been so sure that 1985 was going to be the year, the time small-town Hawkins would be put on the map for something positive. But it didn’t happen. After the last two years, nothing seemed to go right for your hometown. A kid disappearing, dying, then coming back to life….one of your best friends mysteriously dying from a gas leak… now the town had lost its one shot of making a positive headline. 

A sigh escaped your lips as you fumbled with the room key in your front pocket. You knew you had jammed it into your pants earlier, but it now seemed to have disappeared. There was a thud to your side as another room door slammed. You turned to look and see King Steve himself talking with a few of his teammates. The music coming from your Walkman made it difficult to make out what they were saying, but judging from Steve’s lack of pajamas and frantic hands, it wasn’t the greatest conversation. 

Your fingers came into contact with cold metal in your pocket and you grinned as your room key was secure in your palm. You unlocked the door without hesitation and immediately began your nightly routine. As you were preparing to change, you realized you had forgotten to place the room service tray you had requested that morning back outside to be picked up. When you opened the door to set it aside, you were surprised to come face to hand with Steve Harrington. 

The boy before you held a sheepish grin on his face, the surprise evident in his eyes. “Oh, uh,” he said, hand awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. “My uh, my teammates thought it would be a great idea to lock me out. Would I be able to borrow a towel or something?”

It took a few minutes to realize Steve was actually talking to you. “Sorry, what?”

Steve sighed, a few stray pieces of hair falling into his eyes. “My teammates locked me out of our room,” he explained again. “Do you have a towel I can borrow so I don’t break any laws here?”

You glanced behind you into your room. Your roommate had yet to come back in for the night; they had mentioned trying a new fake id at the bar down the street. Whether or not they’d be successful was yet to be seen, but as long as you weren’t on the hook for it, it wasn’t your problem to worry about. They had invited you to tag along, but you had declined in favor of taking in the city sights from your room. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a large t-shirt stuck out of their duffle bag – presumably their boyfriend, who was also on the team. 

“How about I do you one better?” you asked as you swiped the fabric and held it out to him.

There was a fleeting appearance of relief etched across Steve’s features as he grasped the shirt from your hands. In the process, you also managed to pick up one of your old zip-up hoodies for him as well. Your fingers touched for a moment in the process and you tried to ignore the slight tingle as it wormed its way under your nails. The two of you had hardly spoken over the last four years – why you would even want to try and start a conversation didn’t make much sense to you either. Yet here you were, standing in your hotel room with Steve Harrington tugging on an old band t-shirt of your roommate’s. 

“So, uh,” he said as he looked around your room. “You usually have your own room on these types of field trips?”

You scoffed. “Oh yeah. I always make sure to reserve my room in advance. Drives the chaperones insane,” you said with a shake of your head. “No, I, uh, I always seem to end up with roommates that think it’s cooler to go get drunk than stay in and read.”

Steve quirked an eyebrow, obviously amused. You could practically feel the flush as it crept its way up your neck onto your cheeks. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” You tried to hide your embarrassment by flopping on your bed and grabbing a pillow. “I hear it now, Snoresville.”

“No, no. I think it’s…cute.” 

“Uh, thanks?” Cute. Did Steve Harrington– King Steve– just call you cute? You had to be hearing things at this point. In an attempt to cause a distraction, you stood up and adjusted the dial on the small television positioned in the hotel room. Your hand nervously reached to the back of your neck to scratch away the awkward sensation prickling through you. “Make yourself comfortable, seeing as your roommates probably aren’t going to let you back in.”

“What about your roommate?” Steve gently perched on the edge of the other bed. He seemed nervous, something you’ve never seen him be throughout your time in high school. In fact, everything about this version of Steve seemed different compared to the King Steve everyone used to worship. The roles were reversed now. Instead of being cocky and confident as all hell, this Steve was…almost shy and didn’t know how to approach you. 

“They probably won’t be coming back tonight,” you said with a wave of your hand, pulling the blankets on your mattress around your form. “They don’t really care what I do anyway.”

“We could give ‘em something to talk about. Ya know, like, putting something on the doorknob…” Steve’s toothy grin sent butterflies shooting around your stomach. 

You shook your head. “As tempting as that offer is, they’ll probably be way too invested in what’s-his-face…uh, Walter? Yeah, I think his name was Walter-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Walter Conners?” Steve actually let out a sound of disgust when you nodded. “God, that jackass? Jesus, people’s standards have really gone down.”

“What can we say, Harrington?” you teased. “The rest of the world didn’t know what to do with you off the market with that Wheeler chick last semester.”

The look on Steve’s face made you want to retract your comment immediately. It was almost as if grey storm clouds hung over his head. He shifted in his spot on the mattress and his mouth twitched into a deep seated frown. His shoulders slumped, causing his entire body to sag forward. “Yeah, well everyone seems to be singing a different tune nowadays after I got my ass dumped.”

You’re not sure what compelled you to do so, but you squirmed out of your makeshift blanket burrito to reach over and pat his leg gently. “Hey, Steve,” you tried. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Nobody deserves to be dumped. Unless you’re a self absorbed asshole, which honestly I kind of thought you were for a bit with all of the girls you dated early in high school…I’m really not helping, am I?”

“It’s fine,” Steve’s eyes locked onto your hand, which was still positioned on his leg. Your thumb was absentmindedly rubbing circles into his skin. What you didn’t know was how the two of you were both attempting to hide your nerves from the unexpected contact. “I’m used to it by now, everyone thinkin’ that I’m an asshole.”

You shook your head. “No, no, Steve, that’s not what I meant.” Your grip on his leg tightened gently. “It’s just– god, it’s kind of sad when you think about it– but now you kinda understand what it’s like to be invisible; to not have anyone see you or want to be around you.”

“Is that how you felt?” Steve’s chocolate brown eyes locked on yours. He looked as though he was searching for something in your gaze. His eyes were almost pleading, begging for your defenses to come down ever so slightly. “Did no one really ever see you?”

“...Maybe.” You tried your best to avoid his gaze, but Steve was relentless. He reached over and tilted your chin up with two of his fingers, forcing you to stare back at him.

“Hey,” he said softly, holding out his other hand. “My name’s Steve Harrington. I’m an idiot senior who doesn’t have the best observational skills and makes the absolute worst decisions about women. Who are you?”

You didn’t grasp his hand at first, but when you did, you couldn’t look at him directly as you spoke your name. “Everything else, though. That…that’s a little complicated, I guess.” A period of awkward silence hung in the air between you for a few moments. It wasn’t a stifling silence. In fact, it was almost comfortable sitting across from Steve in the hotel room. You didn’t feel the urge to hide behind something like you usually did when you saw him in the halls. It was…nice.

“Do you want to go get a milkshake?” you asked out of nowhere. “I saw a diner a couple streets over. Might give us a taste of home?”

“Uh,” Steve looked down pointedly at his attire. “I mean, I would. But I’m kind of in my underwear here.”

A smirk wormed its way against your lips. “I might have an idea.”

~   ~  ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

As your hand reached up to the wooden exterior of the hotel room door, Steve reached over to gently grip your wrist. A sigh escaped him and he shook his head. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered. “It’s not going to work.”

You rolled your eyes before using your other hand to loosen his grip. “Relax, Harrington,” you replied. “Everything is going to be fine.” Without another word, you shoved him out of sight and knocked on the door. 

Jason Carver, Hawkins High’s junior star player, answered the door. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants, the barely-there outline of abs visible. A suave grin practically split his face in two as he leaned forward. “Well, well, well,” he drawled out, eyes glancing up and down your form. “Look who we have here. Come to console us on our loss, sweetheart?”

As you pushed down the gag that threatened an encore of the night’s crappy Chinese takeout, you forced yourself to bat your eyelashes. “You’ll get ‘em next time, Tigers,” you attempted to alter your voice into a purr. Steve tried to muffle his choked laughter, but you heard him. Feeling a little daring, you raised your right arm and walked your fingers along Jason’s bare chest. “Do it for us little guys, yeah?”

“For you, sweetheart,” Jason said with a wink and a shiver, “anything.” He adjusted himself against the door. “How about I take you down the street to that pizza place? Grab a late night slice on me? It’s the least I can do for my, I mean our, biggest fan.”

“Oh, you see, I would, but I kind of already have plans.”

That seemed to ruffle the younger boy’s feathers. A frown tugged at his lips and he glanced at you in shock. “Oh really?” he asked. “With who?”

“Me, asshole.” Steve moved faster than you thought possible. He quickly shoved Jason out of the door frame before he raced toward his luggage in the back of the room, the young player on his tail. It was the last you saw of him for a few moments as the door slammed shut. You tapped your foot anxiously as you waited, hoping Steve hadn’t been right and he wouldn’t be murdered the second he stepped inside. The next time you saw him, he had grabbed your wrist and the two of you bolted down the hallway to the elevator. You didn’t stop to catch your breath until long after the elevator doors had shut and you were on your way to the lobby. 

“It’ll take ‘em a while to catch us,” Steve remarked, still panting from the run. “That is, if they even actually care.”

It was around this time you were able to take in Steve’s new attire. He was wearing a red sweater paired with a pair of Levi’s and some beat up converse. It was simple and far from the preppy school boy you had known since the start of senior year. Yet it just seemed so Steve. A smile flickered across your features, disappearing quickly as soon as you realized what you were doing. Unfortunately, it wasn’t fast enough to escape Steve’s surprisingly observant gaze. 

“What made you so happy?” he teased as you made your way out of the elevator and through the lobby. “Did seeing Jason Carver shirtless really get you hot and bothered?”

“What? No! Ew, god no,” you exclaimed far too quickly. “I just…can’t believe that actually worked.”

Steve smiled at you. It was all teeth, bright and shiny. The way his attention was solely on you sent a shiver down your spine. Sure, you’d been on dates with people before, but even those didn’t feel as intimate as walking through the streets of Chicago with Steve. It just felt normal, like this was just a typical instance to happen between the two of you. You had to admit it was nice. The thought of someone wanting to spend time with you was surprising, but not unwelcome. 

You had gotten so lost in thought, you didn’t see a car running a red light as the two of you crossed the street. In an instant, Steve had wrapped his arms around your waist and spun you so he was shielding you from any impact. The car swerved around him, shouting something out the window, but all you could focus on was the heavy thumping of Steve’s heart against your back. 

“You okay?” he breathed into your ear, tone a little shaky from the previous shock. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

“Steve,” you managed to choke out as you turned in his tight embrace to face him. “I’m okay. I promise.” You pressed a cold hand against his warm cheek to comfort him. “Thanks for the save there.”

That seemed to calm him down. The boy before you nodded and hesitated as he let you go, running his fingers through his hair as you finished crossing the street to the diner. “Jesus, I guess people don’t understand the importance of road signs here,” he remarked with a shake of his head. 

“Like you have any regard for those back in Hawkins.” You lifted an eyebrow in challenge. “I have it on good authority that you have accrued at least three speeding tickets in the last year.”

Steve stopped in his tracks. “And how do you know that?”

“My dad’s a cop at Hawkins PD.”

“Huh.” The boy reached over you to pull open the door to the diner. You both couldn’t help the smiles that plastered on your faces as you heard the bell signal your arrivals. It sounded like home. “Guess we’ll add that to the list of things I didn’t know about you.”

When you finally sat down and placed your order, Steve propped his elbows up onto the table, chin resting in his hands. His gaze was locked onto yours yet again, searching for something you couldn’t quite grasp. “So what’s your story?” his voice sounded muffled by his head position. 

“What’s yours?” You countered quickly, praying that he’d get too swept up in his own story and barely leave time for you to get into your own. 

The former highschool heartthrob shrugged nonchalantly. “No parents, big house,” he said. “Just a loser kid who thought he could take on the world but ended up screwing his chances at having a shot at doing some good out of Hawkins because he didn’t realize there’s more to life than parties and popularity.” 

You winced. “You’re not a loser, Steve.”

“Oh, really?” Steve stiffened at your words. “If I’m not a loser, then what do you call costing the team a championship game? Or completely missing out on hanging out with a really cool person during high school because I was too damn hung up on popularity contests and being accepted by assholes like Tommy and Carol?” 

“So what if you missed the shot, Steve? It’s just a basketball game-”

“Yeah, my last one at Hawkins.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I didn’t get accepted into college, not even tech. This was my last chance to really make something of myself before we moved onto real life with jobs and stuff.”

You chuckled. “Jobs and stuff…”

The two of you halted your conversation as the waitress delivered your milkshakes: chocolate for you, strawberry for Steve. As you began to slurp down the icy sweet treat, Steve lifted his index finger toward you. “You still never answered my question,” he said. “What’s your story?”

After taking a long sip of your shake, you pause to collect your thoughts. “Well, my dad and I moved to Hawkins a few years ago. He grew up here, actually. Was a Hawkins High grad back in the day.” You lifted your milkshake in the air as though in mock toast. “We lived in New York before that,” you explained. “It was nice. Just the four of us-”

“Four?” Steve interrupted, letting his curiosity get the better of him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You nodded with another sip of your milkshake. “It’s fine,” you replied with a shrug. “Yeah, four. My mom, my dad, my sister, and, well, me.”

“How come your mom and sister didn’t come to Hawkins?”

The straw in your milkshake began to hit the bottom of the glass in a familiar pattern as you stabbed it up and down. This was always the hard part. You never told anyone about it and the fact that you were telling Steve of all people was even more mind boggling. “After my sister died, my uh, my parents decided to split up,” you continued, a lump in your throat. “My mom offered to let me stay with her in New York, but…”

“But you came here,” Steve finished for you. His eyes softened as he took in your awkward adjustments in the seat. Without thinking, he placed his directly on yours. You glanced up at him in slight surprise. “Why?”

“Uh, honestly?” You shook your head. “I really don’t know. I think it was just the memories, you know? The thought of staying in that house after everything that happened, seeing my sister’s room so empty… I think I just needed to get away from it all, clear my head.”

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

You know Steve’s question was meant to be innocent enough, but you couldn’t help but tense at it. The truth was, you had considered going back to New York to continue your studies. You had even gone as far as to talk to your dad about the whole thing. When college applications rolled around, though, you found yourself staring blankly at the questions on the page. It was an endless cycle that lasted long after the application deadlines. 

“It, uh,” you stammered. “It was the plan. But, uh, life has a funny way of screwing with you, as I’m sure you know by now.”

“Oh.”

You nodded in agreement. “Guess we’re both stuck in the small town world for a bit longer, huh?”

Steve chuckled into his glass. “That might not be such a bad thing,” he murmured. “Especially now that we both have some pretty decent company.”

The two of you continued to make small talk for the rest of the evening. It was during this time you learned that you two had quite a few things in common. Steve’s always wanted to visit the beaches of California and you’ve wanted to travel via the cable cars in San Francisco. You both wanted to have a dog at some point when you moved out on your own, with another one later on down the road (“they’d get lonely!” Steve had argued). You had ordered refills of your shakes and a plate of fries to share to keep your energy up. Needless to say, Steve was rather appalled by your ingenious idea to replace ketchup for a much sweeter alternative. 

“How dare you commit such a sin to fried potatoes?” he exclaimed, hand clutched to his chest in mock betrayal. 

“Hey!!” You waved a chocolate ice cream coated fry in his direction. “I happen to know that this is a well respected delicacy in the streets of New York. So sorry your small town palate isn’t as refined. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Harrington.” 

Steve rolled his eyes and begrudgingly lifted one of his own fries up to your glass. “Well, if you insist I must partake in this blasphemy,” he replied as he gathered some of the shake on the potato, “then how can I refuse?”

You grinned as you watched his expression morph after taking a bite. A small smile threatened to spill out onto his lips, but you could tell he was fighting it. “See? Not that bad, is it, Hawkins?”

Steve sighed and tilted his head side to side. “Okay fine,” he relented. “Not too bad, New York.”

Just as you were about to respond, your eyes locked onto the clock on the wall. 8:45. Fifteen minutes until curfew. “Shit,” you swore under your breath, slamming down the money to cover the bill. “We gotta go.”

Steve followed your glance to the time and his eyes widened. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll race you back. Last one there has to pay for milkshakes back at Hawkins.”

The two of you practically skidded to a halt in the hotel lobby at precisely 8:56. As Steve guided you into the elevator, you were once again very much aware of both of your heavy breathing in the small enclosed space. Steve leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he tried to catch his breath. “You know, for what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m almost glad we lost that game. I had a really great time with you tonight.”

You smiled at him with a nod. “So did I. You’re not so bad, Harrington.”

The elevator chimed before Steve could respond, causing him to take your hand and lead you to your hotel room door like a proper gentleman. The comfortable, yet awkward, silence made its final return for the evening as the two of you locked eyes at the door frame. Steve opened his mouth to say something, but you were both startled by a raised voice echoing through the halls.

“HARRINGTON!” Coach Davis, who was also one of the chaperones, exclaimed as he neared the two of you in the hall. “Get back to your room immediately. Do you not know it’s past curfew?”

“Very well aware of it, Coach,” he responded coolly. “I’ll be right there.”  

As the Coach waited impatiently, Steve turned his attention back to you. He leaned closer to your ear before he whispered, “for the record, you were never fully invisible to me.” Without another word, he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek and made his way back to his room.

~   ~  ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~ 

The next morning, as you opened the door to your hotel room, you noticed a familiar yellow material hanging from the handle. It was the hoodie you had lended Steve the night before. A smile on your face, you slipped the garment over your shoulders and shoved your Walkman into one of the pockets before you began your trek through the hallway. You passed by Steve’s shared room with Jason, half-expecting to see him step out with his suitcase in tow. Yet, the room was empty, save for the strewn about bedsheets and pillows on the floor. 

A twinge of sadness tugged at your heart, but you did your best to pay it no mind as you made your way to the hotel lobby for breakfast. You couldn’t see Steve anywhere in the hotel that morning. He must have left with the rest of the team before the breakfast service. While you picked at your half-stale blueberry muffin, your mind wandered back to the boy you adventured with the previous evening. You could still feel the warm tingling sensation his surprisingly soft lips left against your cheek, even though it happened nearly twelve hours ago. Hawkins was a small town and there were still a few weeks left in the semester before graduation, so you knew there was a likely chance you’d bump into each other again. You were just surprised to find yourself hoping that things wouldn’t revert back to the way they were. 

After boarding the bus, you decided to reach into your pocket for your Walkman. As you pulled out the heavy device with its headphones, your fingers brushed up against something unfamiliar. It was soft, but it wasn’t the material of the pocket. Brow knit in confusion, you placed the Walkman to the side and reached back into the pocket to pull out a wadded up napkin. You carefully smoothed the paper out on your leg and were greeted by the logo of the diner from last night. There was a smudge of dark ink on one side, which, when you flipped it over, revealed the messy scrawling of a phone number alongside a message: 

If you ever want to stop feeling invisible, just give me a call. 555 7535 

Milkshakes are on me this time. 

-Steve

====================

Author's Note: Hello! Hello, hi, hey! I'm finally (mainly) back on Tumblr! This fic has taken me about a week to sit down and actually finish. It was a bit of a self indulgent task, but I enjoyed writing it so much once I finally got into the groove of things. Massive kudos to @bakerstreethound for cheering me on into the late hours of the morning today so I could finally have something new to post on my blog.

So how are we feeling about Steve Harrington making an appearance on the blog now? I promise I'll try my best to get back to my other fics, but this is apparently what my brain cell wanted to produce for you all to read. If you liked this fic, please make sure to leave a comment and reblog. Likes are amazing and warm my heart, but I really want to make sure Tumblr doesn't eat my posts after being away for so long. Anything I can get to keep this page afloat is much appreciated <3

Until next time, my lovely little sparks!

[psychedelic-charm]

This image was discovered by @s1ndle and @simnostalgia. It's a list of icons for "Interests" that EA was originally going to put into The Sims Online, but was unfortunately scrapped. The interests are as follows:

-Adult Entertainment (thank God this one was scrapped because it's too mature for a family MMO)

-Alternative Music

-Alt Lifestyles (in this context it's referring to LGBT relationships, but the phrase "alternative lifestyle" could mean anything)

-Anime (love the Sailor Moon icon!)

-Antiques

-Automobiles

-Beer (an explicit reference to alcohol)

-Board Games

-Books (I can see this interest giving Sims an advantage in building their Logic skill)

-Camping

-Children (I don't think you could even have children in TSO, so what would even be the point of this?)

-Cocktails (missed opportunity to introduce the Mixology skill before The Sims 3 came out)

-Collectables

-Comedy

-Comics

-Cooking (one of the iconic skills in the franchise)

-Costuming

-Creative Expression

-Crime (committing crimes or solving crimes?)

-Disco

-Documentary Film

-Entertainment News

-Excercise

-Film

-Finance

-Fine Art

-Fine Dining

-Flirting

-Gardening

-Golf

-Gossip

-Goth (wouldn't this count as an alt lifestyle?)

-Hip Hop

-Interior Decorating (ironic since one of the features in the Sims is building and customizing your own homes)

-Jazz music

-Meditation

-Medieval

-Moshpit (why?)

-Oldies

-Party Games

-Pets (The Sims Unleashed, which allows your sims to have pets, would not be released until a year after TSO)

-Photography

-Pro Wrestling

-Rap

-Religion

-Robotics

-School

-Skateboarding

-Skiing

-Soaps

-Sports Fan

-Stage Shows

-Theater

-Travel

-UFOs

-Vegitarianism

-Video Games

-Wine (Nectar in the Sims world)

-World News

-Writing

-Xtreme Sports

Which interests would you have chosen for your Sim?

[old-powwow-days]

Thunderbird Necklace

"For hundreds of years craftspeople at Santo Domingo Pueblo (now known by its traditional name, Kewa) were known for exquisite shell, turquoise, and jet jewelry that they made and traded throughout the Southwest. But by the 1920s these traditional materials were scarce. Motivated by circumstance, jewelers at Santo Domingo discovered an exciting new medium: abandoned automobile battery casings.

Manufactured from hard rubber, discarded car batteries made an admirable substitute for traditional jet, and with Route 66 bringing throngs of motorists into the West, they were abundant. Batteries were soon augmented with broken phonograph records and bright colored celluloid from combs and other household goods. By the 1930s Santo Domingo had developed a unique style of folk-art jewelry, made entirely of repurposed and found materials: sun-bleached animal bone, local gypsum, tiny chips of turquoise, and modern plastics.

Gathered in rangelands, trash dumps, salvage yards, and dime stores, these unlikely items formed the basis of a new economic enterprise for the pueblo. Whole families took part in the manufacture of whimsical, colorful necklaces whose signature motif was a Thunderbird with outstretched wings. Santa Fe’s art community dismissed these creations as “tourist junk,” but tourists couldn’t get enough. At roadside stands, on railroad platforms, and in curio shops, Thunderbird necklaces sold by the thousands.

-Wheelwright Museum

image source: x

[seat-safety-switch]

We all have a memory of the perfect junkyard run. Maybe for you, it was that afternoon you went with your dad’s parole officer to get a new intake pipe for the Cavalier. For me, it was a crisp winter morning, where I pulled a series of mint body panels off a Honda Civic that had just dropped on the lot, while a team of Filipino mechanics toiled around me, stripping RAV4s to the bone and extracting every Toyota 2GR they could find. The air vibrated with excitement, all of us delighted to be bringing our impossible hauls home for smoking deals.

Not every trip to the junkyard can live up to this ideal. For many years, I would get cranky when I’d turn up unannounced on a Saturday and not be able to find what I wanted. Even when I had a big list of broken-assed cars to pick up junk for, sometimes I would simply have to go home empty handed, which was an unpleasant experience for everyone within 20 meters.

Every single one of the checkout ladies had heard enough of me grumbling about neoliberalism, the collapse of the industrial state, and the inevitable decline of my proud old junk in return for a couple of cents per share dividend to absentee shareholders. Folks out in the parking lot would cuss and throw pockets full of stolen relays at me, citing that major economists were right about the inefficient allocation of scarce resources captured by a field full of shit-box automobiles. It took a friend, and a heart-to-heart, to set me right.

Old, One-Eyed Dave (who was actually zero-eyed, due to two freak angle-grinder incidents, about five years apart, but “one-eyed” sounds much better) told me that I should appreciate every visit to the junkyard as an opportunity to discover more about our past. Archeologists don’t get hyper-mad and record a little tantrum for TikTok in their GMC 610s whenever they can’t find a dinosaur bone. They keep looking, and maybe they find an old fossilized plant or something.

Ever since then, I’ve tried to find the good in the junkyard. Make do with what you have. Appreciate every moment. For instance, there are lots of like-new cars – only about twenty years old! – and I can look at them to see if there’s any nice seats inside that I can take. It’s a bit of a struggle ratchet-strapping them onto the roof of my car for the ride home, but I must admit that it is nice to have a heated seat that isn’t being caused entirely by an exhaust fire for once.

[handeaux]

Cincinnati’s Kit Kapp Mapped Uncharted Waters, Popularized Indigenous Art & Was Forgotten By His Hometown

When Amor Smith “Kit” Kapp Jr. died in Florida at the age of 86 in 2013, not a single Cincinnati news outlet carried an obituary or, in fact, any mention at all. The oversight was remarkable since Kit Kapp had been featured in more than 60 Cincinnati news stories between the 1940s and the 1970s.

Almost every day of Kit Kapp’s long life was worthy of a news story somewhere. He was born in 1926 to Loretta and Amor Smith Kapp Sr. in Walnut Hills. His father was a lumber dealer and the marriage was rocky. Loretta sued for divorce twice. The second time, it took. Throughout high school and college, Kit lived with his father.

As a youngster, Kit was bedridden with scarlet fever. He told his father he wanted to build a boat, so Amor Kapp Sr. drove down to the Ohio River and took photos of a towboat. Dad told the Cincinnati Post [18 December 1955]:

“I put those pictures on a drafting board and we started to build. That darn boat took nine months to make, but Kit still has it. It has 144 miniature lights that work and a miniature paddle wheel.”

Inspired by the towboat project, Kit launched his own business, the American Model Company, to sell model boat kits to hobbyists while still a student at Anderson High School.

While living in Mount Washington, Kit walked down to Coney Island and pestered the concessionaires into letting him exercise their ponies and horses. He was just 15 when he signed up to work on a dude ranch in Oklahoma. The next summer found him at a “real” ranch in Arizona. Diving into the cowboy culture, Kit became fascinated by the guns of the Old West and managed to become, at age 17, the youngest person licensed as a firearms dealer by the U.S. government. He boasted that he owned more Smith & Wesson sidearms than any collector in the country.

Kit enrolled at the University of Cincinnati in 1944 but was almost immediately drafted into the Army. He served as a paratrooper in an airborne division based in Japan during the post-war occupation. While overseas, he discovered two new passions: mountain climbing and the Ainu, an indigenous people found in the far northern reaches of the Japanese archipelago. Typically, Kit located every book published on the Ainu – 15 in total, all in Japanese – and hired Japanese students to translate them. He amassed a significant collection of Ainu artifacts and set about connecting Japanese scholars at Hokkaido Imperial University with anthropology faculty at UC.

Returning to UC after his discharge as a sergeant, Kit convinced the Lambda Chi Alpha fraternity to climb Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. But, when the time came for the expedition to depart, Kit found himself alone. He told the Cincinnati Post [24 June 1947]:

“A couple of my fraternity brothers were going along, too, but they apparently thought it was just a lot of talk and made other plans for the summer. So I’m going alone.”

On his way west, Kit climbed Signal Peak in Utah and El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. He summited Mount Whitney, hauling a 63-pound pack, and then climbed nearby Mount Muir, not as tall but treacherously steep. According to the Post [29 December 1952]:

“He reached the peak, then gazed down on 1200 feet of sheer precipice. The descent was more a rock-grasping operation than anything else. Kit’s foot slipped and he went tumbling. The whole slope seemed to slide with him. In the best mountain-climbing manner, he stuck out his arms and spread his legs to provide the best brakeage possible.”

Kit ended up with a twisted right leg, a heel pried from one boot, and a determination to find another mountain to climb. Instead, he bought a cheap automobile and drove it through Central America. He blamed it on Burton Holmes.

Almost forgotten today, Burton Holmes was something like a Depression-era globe-trotting Rick Steves. Holmes filmed exotic locales and traveled the country narrating his movies in very popular and remunerative lectures. In April 1946, Holmes presented a filmed tour of Mexico at UC’s Wilson Auditorium, extolling the fine automotive route along the new Pan-American Highway, but warning his audience not to attempt driving further into Central America, because it couldn’t be done.

That sounded like a dare to Kit Kapp. Boasting, as he put it, a bankroll “just thick enough to see through,” Kapp bought a 1929 Model-A Ford for $64 in 1948 and drove it all the way to Costa Rica. As a friend later wrote:

“Claiming to be a journalism student, Kit succeeded in meeting and interviewing the presidents of both Nicaragua and Guatemala during his trip. His car survived the journey back to the US, despite suffering 18 bullet holes passing through a small revolution in Nicaragua.”

Kit changed 51 flat tires and somehow made it back to Cincinnati without the benefit of second gear just in time to enroll for his junior year at UC’s College of Business Administration. Soon after graduation in 1950, Kit sold his model boat company and his firearm collection and bought a 41-foot ketch he named Fairwinds and sailed for the Caribbean. The original Fairwinds was wrecked in a gale, so Kit acquired a 50-foot “bugeye” ketch and christened it Fairwinds II.

With St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands as a base, Kit launched a charter company, hauling tourists around the area, eventually wandering farther and farther afield. Along the way, he met and married his first wife, the former Lois Fatzinger of Palmerton, Pennsylvania. After a decade running charters, that marriage dissolved, and Kit decided that he would rather go exploring than stick to a charter’s set schedule. He told the Post [18 December 1965]:

“I decided to get out of the high rent district. Running a charter boat is like running a sea-going taxi.”

Instead, he offered expeditions to crew members who paid him for the privilege of exploring rarely visited islands and coasts.

“I make plans ahead of time and if anyone wants to go along they pay $200 for two weeks. They work, but not hard. They help clean up, aid in survey work, help carry equipment on the island beaches. We work about five hours a day, then we swim or loaf.”

Many of those expeditions were sponsored officially by the Explorer’s Club of New York. That organization designated Kit as a fellow of the society. Among his regular customers was physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer. Kit’s travels took him into previously uncharted waters near the coast of Panama, and it was here that he generated his most culturally impactful discovery.

Kit’s efforts to survey the San Blas Islands off the north coast of Panama led to a lifelong interest in the Guna tribespeople who lived there. The Guna (or Kuna) produced unique fabric designs known as mola, vibrantly colored and intricately layered fabric pieces worn by the Guna women. The process involved in creating molas is often described as “reverse appliqué,” in which pieces of fabric are cut away to reveal layers underneath. Kit was among the first outsiders to appreciate and study these dynamic artworks and to bring them to the attention of scholars worldwide. His self-published 1972 monograph, “Mola art from the San Blas Islands” remains the definitive introduction to the art form.

During dozens of voyages around the San Blas Islands, Kit’s quest for reliable charts inspired him to seek out, collect, study and sell antique maps. Some of the maps he found were quite valuable. One sold at auction for $34,000. By 1967, Kit had accumulated a substantial inventory, enough to mount an exhibition in Jamaica. During the opening reception for that exhibit, Kit met his second wife, Valerie, born on the Isle of Wight, who helped coordinate his buying and selling trips to England and the Continent.

As Kit and Valerie shared their discoveries in Guna art, their travels brought them to Cincinnati, where they coordinated a landmark exhibition of molas and ritual Guna statuary at the Studio San Guiseppe at the College of Mount St. Joseph in 1972. Enquirer [13 February 1972] art critic Owen Findsen was impressed:

“Leaving the ethnology to Captain Kapp, the Mola can be seen as a pure art form. One must be taken by the intense coloring of many of them which can set up visual vibrations to compete with the Op artists. And the designs are clever in the same way that the pseudo-primitive art of Paul Klee is clever, by its directness and its innocence.”

The colors and patterns of mola fabric art filtered into popular fashions throughout the 1970s. Women around the world wore clothing and carried handbags replicating Guna mola designs, usually with no awareness of the original source.

As a dealer in antique maps, Kit built a reputation as a discerning connoisseur and befriended several other influential collectors. British map dealer Simon Hunter was one such colleague. He recalled:

“Kit was a very astute buyer, but he was also a most entertaining character whose good humor and traveler’s tales made it impossible to resent the large discounts he invariably managed to obtain on his many purchases.”

All the while he was buying and selling maps, Kit earned acclaim as a formidable scholar who also had the expertise to create his own maps. His many academic publications include analyses of maps, inventories of known charts and monographs on native peoples. Worldcat lists more than 40 publications under his name, with at least a dozen publications being maps of previously unfathomed waters.

After 25 years devoted to collecting and selling maps, Kit and Valerie decided that their business, no matter how successful, was detracting from the time available for exploring their beloved Caribbean. They pivoted toward selling by consignment through other dealers, rather than issuing their own catalogs. The sheer volume of their collections necessitated buying a house with a large garage on land, and they settled in Nokomis, Florida.

Over the years, significant honors accrued. In addition to the prestigious Explorers’ Club, Kit was awarded a permanent card for the British Museum Reading Room and memberships in the Royal Geographical Society, the Adventurers' Club of New York, the Archaeological Institute of America and the American Geographical Society.

After Kit’s death in 2013, his widow discovered more than 60 cartons of uncatalogued Guna art that he had packed away since the early 1970s. While itemizing that substantial collection, she discovered a room covered by a false wall in the garage with even more fabrics and statuary. Much of this new inventory is now available through various auction houses.