I assume you’ve probably answered this before, but what exactly is the underlying politics of this blog? I don’t quite understand the connection between neoliberal capitalism and pictures of desolate housing listings.
Thanks if you take the time to reply! -anon
We live in a bizarre intermediate period where capitalism appears to be eating itself. I originally came across the Gramsci quote in the header via Noam Chomsky in 2015/2016, when he was using it to refer to the pre-Trump lunacy that was taking over the Republican Party. In the US, this seems to have been a sort of cancerous outgrowth of decades of austerity and privatisation and deregulation that began with the end of Bretton Woods and took off in earnest in the 80s under Reagan. Similar processes have been at work to varying degrees across much of the world, throbbing occasionally with particular enthusiasm depending on the elected government, abating temporarily during other periods of Third Way-ite labour stagnation.
Housing is at the core of these recent historical trends, and of the relationship between the government and its citizens. I don't know if it could exactly be called the main driving factor, but it plays an enormous role in how we work, how we form relationships, and how we interface with society generally. I remember reading a quote from a conservative politician in the UK in the 80s, responding to a question about why they didn't build more public housing to address the growing homelessness problem; he said something to the effect of 'that would just breed another generation of Labour voters.' I think the cannier politicians (and business leaders) are very aware of their capacity to shape our lives through housing like this.
A similar process has been at work in my country since World War II. We had a succession of two very good Labor Prime Ministers during the 1940s: John Curtin and Ben Chifley. They developed our version of the vast postwar public housing programs that most Western countries had. This provided stable, affordable (or often just free) housing for a huge chunk of the population who wouldn't have had access to it before the war. After Chifley, a conservative government under Robert Menzies came to power in a wave of anti-communist hysteria. Menzies appealed directly to a class of the population which he called the 'forgotten people': people in the middle strata of society who, in his characterisation, didn't get involved in trade unions or radical political organisations, didn't protest, and just wanted to get on with their lives in an apolitical solitude. In reality, this was less of a class of people that already existed and more one he set out to proactively create. He did this, in part, by altering the public housing scheme to give the baby boomers the right to buy the property the government had given them. This entrenched home ownership and, arguably, introduced a level of scarcity to the public housing stock in the long-run, and set the groundwork for later government support of housing as a financial asset, guaranteed to appreciate. It also, in a way, helped create that class of 'quiet' Australian: a solid middle 75-80% of the population that could be guaranteed a comfortable, suburban lifestyle, within an apolitical bubble quietly guaranteed by interventions into the economy by the government and regulation of the housing market in their favour. Over the years, this proportion of the population has gradually decreased, more markedly so since the overt financialisation of housing under John Howard in the early 2000s, and it's fallen off a cliff since COVID.
There's a tradition in art that I've been interested in for a while which involves broadening creative fields (in artmaking or criticism) through direct engagement with fields of work, of machine production, of lived experience or other symptoms of the oppressive political reality we live under (realism in the Linda Nochlin sense). You see it in the controversy around Courbet's paintings of manual workers, much of Andy Warhol's work and general contempt for the art world (his silkscreens of graphic photos of car crashes he found in the newspaper stand out to me), or more recently some of the controversy that came from Tracey Emin's installations. More broadly, there's something to be said about the conscious effort to make transparent and use aesthetically the machine behind the reproduction, or distribution, or amplification, etc., of art. The use of feedback in music seem to me to be an example of this. To use a couple of examples of a period of music I'm particularly interested in, grunge is one example, but so are reggae sound systems which use custom-made valve amps that give an enormous low-end to vinyls they would play, to the point of using the records as instruments to create a sort of rumbling distortion (Jah Shaka's sessions seem to have premediated alternative rock, operating on parallel tracks). These forms of creative production seem to organically emerge from the detritus of industrialisation, and seem to respond to its alienation and atomisation of human relations.
I'm interested in breaking the functionality of illegitimate systems. At uni I took a series of photographs of the backs of shops. There was something comforting in identifying how a commercial entity wanted to be presented visually, and then representing it in the exact opposite way. Similarly, though I don't know if this could be considered an art project, I like an incompetent realtor. The aesthetic qualities of a real estate listing that completely fails in its intended purpose can be quite rich, in some ways liberating. An enormous amount of imagery is generated by the institutional machinery of commercial institutions, much of it ephemeral. If you rescue some visual artifacts from this increasingly engorged flood and look at them against their intended purpose you get a little window into the broader world, where advertising agencies and algorithms and real estate agents and SEI specialists, etc., aren't constantly grabbing your face and forcing you to look at the most boring and monetisable parts of the visual world. You have the opportunity to experience fear, hate, genuine nostalgia and melancholy, various other complex passionate experiences inaccessible in the neoliberal digital machine perversion of visual culture and creative experience.
This is a kind of a roundabout way of answering your question. Maybe part of my motivation has something to do with the relationship between art and work. If you reject the art as some higher, privileged category interpretation (i.e. this is just a photograph, but this other photograph is Art), then the boundaries of what constitutes art, or what can be read as art, are pretty porous. The machinery of industrialisation and capitalism took away the ability of people working in home workshops to have some control and creative involvement in their own working lives and turned them into atomised, specialised machine parts at the mercy of their employers and the market. The parts of work that could be considered contiguous with what we call art have been severed. Art and artists have suffered the same effects; contemporary artists seem to me not that different from other independent professionals. If you go to a dentist's office on Cambridge Street in Perth they'll often have a brochure with a blurb about their history and their mission as medical professionals, etc., on the front counter, and by the same token every artist in an exhibition is taught to provide their own little didactic overview of their niche interests, mostly independent from deeper, shared commitments (lumped together like a sack of potatoes, per Marx). I feel it makes sense to reach back out into other parts of the economy force art into them.
Hey saw you're doing a writing prompt game so how abouuuut
31 megarod but megatron is the prostitute bc I never see their dynamic reversed and I'm curious
Please and thank you 💞
THANK YOU FOR THIS I LOVE IT AAAAH
Okay, so this is what I came up with! It could definitely turn into something longer and way more tragic, but for now I think it works as a little experiment ahah
I stopped before che smut because I’m not sure if you can still post that here? 👀
I really hope I didn’t go too OOC and that I got their dynamic right aaaahh
Also, I couldn’t decide whether to write Megatron as a power bottom or a super dom top, so I’ll just leave that up to your imagination ahaha
—-
The Velvet Current was one of the clubs Rodimus frequented most often since arriving in Iacon.
He knew no one, and he had far more in common with outcasts, prostitutes, and shady mechs than with the city’s polished upper class. So, the Velvet Current had quickly become his go-to place.
It was a brothel, but it was also the only place that would let him drink himself into oblivion at the bar without kicking him out at closing time.
More than once, he had been woken by the pleasure mechs finishing their shifts, the first rays of dawn filtering through the tinted windows behind them.
In short, the engex was cheap, the bartenders were permissive, and Rodimus didn’t mind being greeted by designation -or by a wink- from attractive mechs who would joke that he probably couldn’t afford to buy them a drink, let alone a full night-cycle.
Not that Rodimus was the kind to pay for interfacing; far from it.
He was attractive enough, bold enough, that he had never needed to.
So going with a pleasure bot was something he had never experienced, and something he wasn’t particularly interested in.
Also, Rodimus respected them. In fact, his relationship with the mechs working at the Velvet Current had grown close enough that they would sometimes turn to him when a client got a little too drunk or a little too rough.
One evening, Rodimus was sitting at the bar with a colorful cocktail in front of him, a straw between his dermas, one audial half-tuned to the conversation of two mechs nearby.
Then he turned, and something caught his attention. Or rather, someone.
A mech was moving through the room, tall and imposing, his perfectly polished gray plating catching the dim light. His optics burned a deep, vivid red, scanning the crowd like a predator searching for prey.
And suddenly, something tightened in Rodimus’s gut.
Oh. Oh.
Tall. Imposing. That faceplate that practically said I could deactivate you if I wanted.
Yeah.
Definitely his type.
“Hey.” Rodimus said, stopping a passing mech, Turbine; small, cute, all blue and black plating, with big bright optics and a very obvious soft spot for him.
“I know you’re working and all… but would it be a problem if I bought the big guy over there a drink?”
It wasn’t exactly proper etiquette to hunt where the pleasure mechs worked, but Turbine glanced from Rodimus to the stranger, then back again, his expression doing something suspicious, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Oh no.” Turbine said with a smirk that only raised more questions. “Go ahead, Roddy.”
A beat. “He’s all yours.”
The words were almost whispered before he slipped away toward another client.
Rodimus watched him go, one optic ridge lifting slightly, but he decided not to overthink it.
With a smooth motion, he rose from his seat and made his way toward the stranger.
The mech was leaning against the far wall, posture relaxed, gaze sweeping the room with bored authority, as if the entire place belonged to him.
Rodimus’s spark kicked.
Oh, he was so his type.
Rodimus stopped in front of him, and the stranger’s gaze dragged over him slowly, deliberately, as if assessing him for weaknesses.
A shiver ran down Rodimus’s back strut, as though that look had stripped him bare, exposing every circuit.
“Good evening.” He said at last, offering the most confident smile he could muster. “What does a mech like you drink?”
Definitely not his most brilliant move, but he dared anyone to come up with a better opening line for a bot like that.
The stranger studied him for a moment, as if deciding whether Rodimus was serious.
Then he spoke.
His voice was a low, controlled rumble, thick with authority, and it sent another shiver racing down Rodimus’s back strut.
“Nothing you can afford, I’m afraid.”
“I really doubt that,” Rodimus shot back quickly, tilting his helm toward the bar. “I know the bartenders.”
For a brief moment, he could’ve sworn the other’s dermas twitched, as if suppressing a smile.
“So,” Rodimus continued, leaning in just slightly, “how strong do you want your engex?”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
The mech leaned closer, just enough to suggest confidence rather than invitation. Rodimus found himself completely caught in the pull of those crimson optics.
“I’m working.”
Rodimus blinked, confusion flickering across his face, then realization hit.
“Oh. Oh, I see.” He straightened slightly. “You must be the new security guard. Well, I’m Rodimus. You’ll be seeing me around, I come here often.”
With a frame like that, it made sense. About time they hired someone, honestly. Rodimus had been starting to-
A low chuckle interrupted his thoughts.
Calm. Controlled. Resonant.
“I’m not a security guard.”
The mech leaned in again, closer this time, too close. The space between them shrank to almost nothing. Rodimus’s vents stuttered under the weight of that gaze, pinned in place by something he couldn’t quite name.
Then, suddenly, it clicked.
Oh.
Oh-
“The designation is Megatron.” The other continued, his voice dropping into something almost velvety. “And I believe I am well beyond your budget.”
The words were murmured directly into Rodimus’s audial.
Rodimus froze; dermas parting, systems stalling in one of the rare moments of his life where he had absolutely nothing to say.
Megatron straightened again, giving him space; giving him air.
And Rodimus, circuits still clouded by the sheer force of his presence, made what was undoubtedly one of the worst decisions of his life: he decided to spend months of savings on a single night-cycle with a luxury pleasure mech.
*
“You seemed so confident a moment ago. Did finding out I’m a pleasure bot make you lose your gift of the gab?” Megatron asked, leading the way through the upper corridors of the Velvet Current, his voice laced with quiet amusement.
As they walked, muffled sounds drifted from behind the doors they passed; moans, gasps, all-too-familiar noises.
With every step, Rodimus felt his embarrassment deepen.
Primus. This had been a terrible idea.
“Oh no,” the speedster replied, forcing the same confident stride he’d had earlier. “My charm is impossible to suppress.”
Megatron glanced at him, clearly entertained; the kind of look only someone completely in control of the situation could afford.
Then they reached the room.
The walls were dark, the curtains drawn, and a soft, low light made the massive berth at the center seem even larger. Rodimus stepped inside, looking around, shifting his weight from one pede to the other.
“So, mister charm.” Megatron’s voice came from behind him, making him turn. “You look like someone who doesn’t actually want to be here. So, let’s make one thing clear: you don’t have to do it.”
Rodimus stared at him, surprised.
He could swear he had read that exact line a hundred times in cheap datapads about forbidden romances between clients and pleasure mechs; a classic trope. Except usually, it was the client saying it.
How was the prostitute saying it to him?
Rodimus looked away, heat rising to his faceplate.
“I want to.” He said.
Megatron closed the distance between them slowly, placing both servos on his hips.
The contact alone made Rodimus’s vents stutter. Primus, where had all his confidence gone now that he actually needed it?
“It’s just…” Rodimus hesitated, the words suddenly feeling awkward, almost childish. “It’s my first time with a pleasure mech, and-”
The rest of the sentence dissolved.
Megatron’s thumbs began tracing slow, deliberate circles along his hips, and just like that, Rodimus forgot how to think.
“Then I’ll do my best to make it unforgettable, alright?”
The words were whispered directly into Rodimus’s audial, the warm breath from Megatron’s vents brushing against him in controlled bursts. The sensation alone was enough to make Rodimus lift both servos to the other’s forearms, more for support than anything else, as if the intensity of it all was short-circuiting him.
“You can pretend I’m someone you love,” Megatron murmured, his dermas grazing along Rodimus’s neck cables, drawing a soft sigh from him. “Someone you like; whoever you want. I can be that for you tonight.”
His voice was low, smooth, and beneath it, Rodimus sensed something no performance could truly replicate.
Desire. Real, immediate, hungry.
Megatron wanted him. Just as much as he wanted Megatron.
Rodimus’s spark pounded wildly in his chassis, his vents kicking into overdrive in a futile attempt to cool the heat building under his plating.
One of Megatron’s servos left his side, tracing slowly along the line of his back -agonizingly slow- until Rodimus instinctively leaned into the touch.
“No.” Rodimus said, breath catching.
Megatron stilled, pulling back just enough to look at him.
“Tonight…” Rodimus swallowed, his voice softer now, but certain. “I just want you.”
For a brief moment, something shifted in Megatron’s expression -his optics softening- before it gave way once more to that same controlled desire, edged with quiet amusement.
“Then come here, mister charm.”
This time, Megatron closed the remaining distance between them.
Their dermas met; hot, immediate, unrestrained.
The kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission.
The kind that didn’t pretend.
The kind that made it painfully clear that, after this, nothing would ever be the same.
Are there any fun relationship facts/moments between Ayla and Lavient? :3 I'm curious to know how these two would be when the Shepherd inner circle develops into that really tight friendship between everyone :)
(These are just my random musings) I feel like if Ayla hadn’t gone on the mission to Lockwood, and had just been at home base when the others showed up with Lavinet, she would have hated Lavinet on sight. New Shepherd recruit who’s a beautiful, wealthy, privileged, sheltered Norm noblewoman? Ayla would have immediately made all of these assumptions about Lavinet and how she (Lavinet) would look down on her (Ayla) and feel yucky and threatened about everything because this new unknown variable’s coming in and she’s going to change everything and switch up the whole dynamic of things, and that would make Ayla anxious and stressed. It’s not like Briony, who’s this Diminished amnesiac weirdo who talks to her sword--it’s a noble. That's a whole different vibe, at least to Ayla. So I feel like she would have been hostile to Lavinet right off the bat , and they probably would have never gotten along.
But since Ayla was on that mission, she was able to meet Lavinet in a less threatening environment: Lavinet is someone who needs Ayla’s help and is asking for her expertise and skills, and is thereby in a humbler, less threatening position than someone who’s just randomly joined the Shepherds without warning. They are interfacing as client asking for help and officer sworn to provide that help, not just randomly as "equals" or rivals/competitors. And so they were able to form a strong bond with each other and interact in a more intimate, focused way beforehand, without all the pressure of "i am now evaluating you because you are coming to live with me and will be a part of my social circle for the foreseeable future". And Ayla got to see Lavinet in her home territory and was like, hey, you’re actually hella chill for a noble, you are nice and courteous to me and a badass at standing up to dickheads like Auberon and a kickass fighter and impressive in your own right! And I see the struggles you’re privately going through and understand how it could suck to be in your position, and therefore see you in a new light! And also you feed me and share your hospitality with me and don’t look down on me even though I showed up to your house all ragged and scruffy! I like you!
...And now she would punch someone’s lights out for Lavinet lol!
I also think there’s something personal and special to Ayla about getting to be friends with Lavinet first, like she and the other girls had a strong bonding experience on that mission that no one else got to have, so now she can be a bit lordly and show Lavinet off to everyone back home and show her around because Ayla’s the veteran and an old hand at this by now, and Lavinet needs her help again, which she’s happy to do! I don’t know if that makes any sense? It’s sort of like the difference between being threatened when a new foreign exchange student shows up to class, versus being excited because the foreign exchange student is actually your friend you met in France over the summer lol, and you can give them the grand tour because you already have an "in" with them and are automatically friends when no one else is — I hope that makes some sense!
Before Briony's entrance, I did have some trouble imagining how Ayla and Lavinet (let alone Shery and Lavinet or Tallys and Lavinet) could feasibly become close friends and get along, purely because Ayla and Lavinet have almost nothing in common in terms of interests or life experiences, and Ayla can be a bit rough-and-tumble and blunt, while Lavinet strives for coyness and tact and--of course--enjoys very feminine hobbies and activities. So on paper, it was hard for me to imagine how these two would seek each other out, but I think as a trio, Briony brings some balance because she's "jocky" like Ayla but also a bit girly like Lavinet, and she's a huge fan of both of them and is so over-the-top enthusiastic that it's hard to have one's walls up around her, which both Lavinet and Ayla tend to default to at first. I think there are groups like that, where hanging out with a mutual friend is sometimes needed to solidify a bond between two people, but once they get settled in and comfortable with each other, they become very sisterly towards each other! Ayla is very protective of Lavinet and probably "listens" to her more than most other people in the Order--mostly because Lavinet is good at getting her point across without sounding snooty or bossy, unless it's needed--and Lavinet is very grateful to Ayla for treating her normally and with warmth rather than resenting her for her status!
Mods (my sense of dignity) are asleep, time to post "Minthara/Tav as vintage romance covers" edits.
I spent my teenage years pilfering books from my older cousin's huge collection of romance paperbacks, so this is a hit of nostalgic, self-indulgent silliness (nothing but the best for MY romance hero, the centuries-old paladin of vengeance). Thank you to @aristenfromwarsaw for the beautiful screenshots I used in these!
To match the edit, there are some fun and fluffy headcanons about Minthara and my Tav below the cut.
Tav's name is Hasdrubal. She and Minthara do not have a portmanteau, but these are their relationship monikers in my head:
H&M: for when I think I'm being funny
Vengeance and Devotion: because Hasdrubal is a paladin of devotion
Nemesis ad portas ("Vengeance at the gates"): Nemesis is the embodiment of vengeance in Graeco-Roman mythology, and Hannibal ad portas ("Hannibal at the gates") is a phrase used in Roman writing to signify imminent danger. For context, Hasdrubal is, historically speaking, the brother of that same Hannibal, the Carthaginian general who fought against Rome in the Second Punic War (a.k.a. the guy who crossed the Alps with elephants).
They are both exactly 5'2". If there's any height difference between them, they had to go to the effort of putting it there. Someone has to be standing on a crate.
They aren't overly affectionate in public, but they do things like helping each other buckle on their armor, using each other's weaponry, and sharing food at taverns. Hasdrubal in particular eats anything that Minthara puts in front of her, and Minthara lets her order her drinks. Everyone else soon realizes this is sappier than any display of PDA.
They love a sparring match. They love a brawl. They love to recreationally duke it out and pull in the other melee fighters in the party, either to referee or to make it a full bracket. They are single-handedly keeping the potions stores in Baldur's Gate afloat.
Hasdrubal is as much of an idealist as it is physically possible for her to be, and Minthara is deeply pragmatic and focused on outcomes rather than means. There are some things about which they will argue until the heat death of the universe. And alongside this, they share fundamental beliefs in duty, responsibility, and the importance of community—which lets them build a foundation of mutual respect, even when they deeply disagree.
For the timeline that is my tactician run, they both multiclassed into other charisma casting classes. Minthara tapped into sorcerous arcana that she could only access after leaving Lolth’s direct control and being freed of the Absolute, and Hasdrubal pacted to a general of Asmodeus as a way of interfacing with her own Infernal heritage. However, they are still first and foremost paladins, and their relationship is deeply and paradigmatically paladin4paladin. In all things, there is reciprocity.
Hasdrubal is in her 30s, a third of the way into her lifespan. I like to headcanon that Minthara is about halfway through her lifespan, which for drow is about 350, equivalent to ~50 for a human or tiefling. A fantasy lifespan difference is always bittersweet, but the bright point for the two of them is gleefully speculating on what it’ll be like in a few decades, when Hasdrubal starts to go gray and look older than Minthara. Once again, in all things, there is reciprocity.
Hasdrubal is trying to learn Undercommon in the most careful and universally respectful way possible, which Minthara has a hard time reconciling with the customs of Menzoberranzan. Minthara is learning Infernal, but she gravitates towards high religious and philosophical texts which Hasdrubal is unfamiliar with (she and her family are second and third generation Baldurians; she has spoken fluency in Infernal but not reading fluency). They spend a lot of time talking about the features of language and what language means to them.
Minthara plays the spider lyre, but most of the songs she knows are hymns to Lolth. She’s too proud of her past life in Menzoberranzan to let them go, but she hates the thought of singing praises to the Spider Queen. Through talking about the hymns and what they mean to her with Hasdrubal, she finds a way to sing them on her own terms.
Hasdrubal gets Minthara to do the fantasy equivalent of a stand-up open mic. Minthara is, against her own better judgement, very, very good at it.
"God Created Aircraft Mechanics So That Pilots Can Have Heroes Too."
Professions that rely on operating highly complex equipment have a unique relationship between those that operate the equipment and those that maintain and repair it. The former’s life depends on the latter’s performance, accuracy, diligence, and attention to detail. Accordingly and as you’d imagine, Naval Aviators have a VERY close relationship with the maintainers that keep them flying and flying safely.
As a group, Naval Aviators are hard to impress. We work with some of the best and brightest this country has to offer, up and especially down the chain of command, doing the most challenging and amazing things.
PAO: “Hey man! You wanna meet [insert some ‘famous person’ here]?!?”
Aviator: “Nah, I’d rather spend time with a 2nd Class Mech that smells like JP5.”
So that opening quote really hits the mark on how Aviators feel about OUR Maintainers. My Dad taught me a deep and abiding respect for Sailors from a very young age having started as one himself. “They work four times as hard as you do, get paid a fourth as much as you, and your life depends on ‘em.” He also taught me that all a hard-charging Sailor wants is the mission, the tools, some top cover, and then get out of their way. My time in the Navy revealed this to be the truth.
Our culture talks a lot about “heroes” and tends to overuse that word all too frequently. What our fellow civilian citizens consider a hero and what we in the military do are very different. My heroes? Every Sailor I’ve ever worked with that fought through 18 hour days, endless bloodshot eyes and exhaustion. Then got up after 4 hours of sleep and did it all over again. Through months of deployment. One of the most grueling lifestyles imaginable that would bring most Americans to their knees in a day, but our Sailors kept at it with energy, drive, and dedication (and bitching and griping but that’s to be expected!).
So here’s a couple of my heroes from back in the day. I could probably write about hundreds of them, but these two represent all those heroes I had chance to work with.
While In the VF-24 Renegades at Miramar, we had a Sailor named AMH1 Brown. “Charlie Brown” we called him. He was an Aviation Structural Mechanic (Hydraulics). Really tall dude (6’5”) that had a tough time when deployed (had to duck a LOT while walking around the boat). At any rate, he was a combination of Yoda and Gandalf. A walking encyclopedia with the ability to repair a Tomcat just by laying hand on it.
If you had a hydraulic issue on the jet (there were a lot of them), the Maintainers would hook up a Jenny (energizes the hydraulics without starting the jet) and Charlie Brown would start his walk around the jet. He’d just walk around looking at it, listening. He’d tell the Sailor in the cockpit during the maintenance turn to move the controls, and he’d keep walking, listening.
Then he’d zero in on an area of the jet, walk over and lay hands on it, signaling for another control wipe out. Nine times out of ten, he’d nod his head and signal to cut off the Jenny. He’d found it. “Yup, number four spoiler actuator on the left wing” or whatever. Amazing. Not surprisingly, he eventually made Master Chief, the highest Enlisted rank you can achieve.
Later, I was the Maintenance Officer in the VF-154 Black Knights in Atsugi, Japan. On one occasion, a new Sailor was checking in at the Maintenance Desk (after traveling for about 18 hours) and overheard me talking to the Maintenance Master Chief about a specific problem with a jet that was being worked on in the hangar.
Missile station 1B, the left lower shoulder station, wouldn’t properly interface with a Phoenix. This was a problem because for our combat load-out we’d carry the LANTIRN Pod on 8B on the right, LBGs in the belly, and single Phoenie-Bomb on 1B. We were deploying in a month or so and it was important to get this problem fixed.
Our guys had been working on it for weeks no one could figure it out. He walked over (in civilian clothes still) and said he’d recently had a similar gripe on a jet at VX-9 in Pt. Mugu and asked if he could take a look. I told him to take a couple days to rest up after travel and we can check it out then. He said “I’m fine, Sir. Had plenty of sleep on the plane. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look.”
30 minutes later he’s on top of the jet, still in civilian clothes, mind you. They’d cracked open some access panels on top of the wing/shoulder station and this dude was literally upside down and diving into the area over the station with his legs sticking out. After 15 minutes of grunts and groans, he emerges and say’s “Got it!”
Turns out the same gripe involved a little-known (and impossible to see) cannon plug that had to be found “blind” (by feel). Sure enough, he’d fixed it.
So are my heroes football players, musicians, movie stars, politicians? Hardly. I’d trade ‘em all for one hard-charging Mark 1/Mod 0 United States Navy Sailor. Any day of the week.
***See the Aircraft Mechanics Creed in the first Comment***
OK, IWTV fandom, I have been made aware that some (many) of you are genuinely not aware of some of the anti sex work implications of your statements around Louis and pimping, so -
First of all, some ground level assumptions: I am assuming we are all pro sex workers here. Which means that we all believe in the right for adults to consent to commercial sexualised labour, and to demand ethical working conditions just like any other worker. Sex work is work etc.
Now, that stance can and must coexist with the acknowledgement that sex work has both historically and currently been coerced from marginalised communities. In my part of the world, hereditary caste based sexual enslavement is an on-going atrocity, and similarly, in the United States Black enslaved people was disproportionatey victims of commercialised sexual abuse. (This is RELEVENT to Armand and Louis so it behoves everyone to inform themselves about these realities.)
What I'm saying now comes from the scholarship and testimonies of sex workers themselves, who have always been at the forefront of advocating for themselves as communities and unions. You can and should read through the publications of the Global Network of Sex Work Projects to ground yourself in these perspectives.
The idea that its ok to be a sex worker, but that a client or a pimp or a brothel owner deserves contempt, shaming or derison is an old one, associated with the dichotomy of pitable fallen women vs dispicable emasculated men (emasculated because of the patriarchal shame of a) paying for sex and b) living off of a woman's labour). This has manifested in what is known as the Nordic model (or, hypocritically, the Equality Model) of Prostitution, where sex workers themselves are deemed nominally free to practise their trade, but clients and third parties (pimps, managers, brothel owners) are criminalised. There is unambiguous peer-reviewed data showing the failure of this approach to protecting sex workers from harm, and almost every sex worker union has denounced it.
So now let's talk about this cultural and legal contempt and criminalisation of the third party, and specifically, the pimp figure. Unlike the brothel owner, the pimp is more often from a similar class and identity as the sex worker, often sharing the same living and working spaces. Pimps are often sex workers allies and collegeaues. They provide an interface between the client and the sex worker that can help screen them for safety and security, and the remove the additional burden of soliciting and marketing from the sex worker's labour.
And because it is important to talk about specifics, a pimp in marginalised communities of sex workers is often a brother, a father, or a lover to the sex worker who faces the same casteism, racism and classism that she does. He is often the father of the sex worker's child. In India, for example, even though prostitution itself is not criminal, any adult male living with a prostitute is assumed to be guilty of being a pimp unless he can prove otherwise, and can face imprisonment of up to 2 years with a fine. One of the demands of unionised sex workers, including those in India, has been to decriminalised pimping along with sex work, not just because pimps make it safer and easier for sex workers to get clients without having to actively solicit, but also because such criminalisation actively harms family units.
Of course, there are pimps who can be abusive and exploitative. This is true of any professional relationship, and this is also true of people in romantic and sexual relationships (like marriage). But to deem a pimp inherently as an abuser carries a lot of anti sex work and racist and classist baggage with it.
Why racist (and classist and casteist etc)? Because the men with capital were (and are) not often pimps. They are landlords and investors, who ran brothels and saloons and massage parlours and dance bars and other sites where sexual labour was commercialised. To denigrate a man for being a pimp as somehow worse than being the owner of a sweatshop or farm is a way of jeering at the men who have not been able to buy themselves the luxury of distance from the exploitation they profit from. And the men of capital were and are, overwhelmingly, those from the dominant identity (White. Savarna. etc.)
So NOW, with all that necessary context in mind, let's talk about Louis and what it means when fandom firstly calls him a pimp, and then second sneers at him for his perceived behavior as one.
You know who first calls Louis a pimp?
Daniel Molloy, a white man being the brash, confrontational journalist that he has the luxury of being.
Louis accurately describes his profession managing and operating a diversified portfolio of entireprises. This translates to investing his family's sizeable trust into real estate (he owns 8 out of 24 buildings on Liberty Street) and running establishments that make money from selling liquor, organised gambling and sex work. Just as not many Black men would have been in a position of power to make a profit from a sugar plantation as Louis' great grandfather did, not many Black men would have had the capital (and the business acumen) to own and operate a series of businesses that included sex work. Infact we see him collecting his profits from a white man who was closer to the pimp role - Finn.
Reducing this to calling him a pimp is the first of many racist microaggressions we will watch Daniel make. As someone who indulged in some kind of sex work himself, one might say some of Daniel's hostility is self-loathing. Nonetheless, there is a racialised element in his contempt towards both Louis and Armand that, I would theorise, comes from the distinction made between a white, educated man choosing to recreationally whore himself for drugs, and a Black man who earned a living from other people's sex work, or a Brown man who is perceived as a rent boy.
We then get to the idea of denigrating Louis' pimp-like behavior. First of all, let's look at Louis as the employer and manager of sex workers. Everything we have seen about him shows him to be courteous, considerate, and professional. His guilt at the entire situation of how sex work operates aside (and we can agree that it must have been exploitative and even abusive in general, and that he was complicit in such a system, as any capitalist is) - MOST importantly, we never see Louis doing the thing that patriarchy really resents a pimp for - sampling the goods for free. We never see him use his power over the sex workers he employs to get favours.
In fact he makes it clear that he visits Miss Lily precisely because she is part of a different establishment, and that both of them being Black in a majority white situation places them on a more equal footing. Watching Louis with Miss Lily, both is how he is with her sexually as well as socially, gives you the clearest evidence of how he behaves around sex workers he is having a relationship with. (Contrast that to Lestat, who buys her time and body as an act of one-upmanship with no concern for her preference, and then who kills her out of jealousy.)
So - Was Louis a pimp? No. Was Louis an abusive pimp? Also No.
Then why does the fandom continue to deploy this term in relationship to him?
It's racism, your honour. (The answer is almost always racism.)
To unpack this, lets jump forward from the 1910s where, again I remind you - very very few Black men in the United States were in any position to operate as fashionable brother owners with wealth to spare.
We now move to the 1980s, when one (but not the only!) sub-genre of rap was evolving - gangsta rap. In this sub-genre, Black musical artists like Too Short and Ice T were creating and more pertinently making accessible to white America, the signifier of the Black pimp figure. This drew from 1960s Black culture-making around West Coast pimps like Iceberg Slim, but also from an older storytelling tradition that linked the figure of the pimp with the archetype of the trickster. I'm not going to cite the wealth of literature you can find that theorises this, (nor defensively provide the mass of nuanced critique that Black feminists have offered) because the limited point I wish to make is -
When white America began enjoying (and appropriating) rap and hip-hop culture, one of the tropes it started perpetuating with the shallowest of understanding of its origins, was that of the specifically Black pimp. A figure who displayed wealth, but without (white-signifying) class, who was sexually active in a racialised hypermasculine way, but both a threat to women and contemptibly a leech off them.
THIS is the pimp archetype that is being evoked when fandom talks about Louis's 'pimp'ness.
It is racist. It is ahistorical and canonically unfactual.
It is also needlessly contemptuous of the sex workers (labourers and third parties alike) who are part of the community here on tumblr, so often praised as one of the spaces that is friendly to them.
Maybe think about all of that the next time you choose to use the word 'pimp'.
To break out of the boring rhythm of your life, you enroll for a pottery class. The professor seems very enthusiastic... but something much uglier will soon rear its head.
Read on AO3.
CW: stalking, obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, dubcon/coercion, power imbalance, harassment/unwanted attention, isolation, sex used as a manipulation tactic, implicit threats, explicit bad sex, premature ejaculation. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT
It’s a charming set up, you have to admit. Your eyes dart over the various impressionist paintings hanging on walls, the glossy glint of the overhead warm lights on the leather of the armchairs. It’s almost clinical in its comfort—everything perfectly engineered and arranged to beguile those plagued by the lacklustre. A remedy to your quotidian rhythm, right by your house, and it had taken you all but a very enticing invite from your friend to finally indulge.
The woman with sandy blonde hair behind the desk beckons you over, and you straighten the linen of your trousers with chipped away nails before rising.
“How may I help you?”
She has a piercing blue gaze, deadpan in its nature, thin and pasty lips pursed as though she’s not interested in any revenue. Maybe that’s part of their business tactic, you think.
“Um, the… pottery lessons?” You had checked the address in your friend’s text at least a dozen times now. Even cross checked it a couple of times before leaving the house. Yet, you didn’t trust yourself for some reason. Like an earthquake about to erupt, you feel the tectonic plates of your being rumbling beneath your chilled facade. Like at any moment now, you’re going to disintegrate. Shredded apart by this nice enough woman telling you you’ve got the wrong place, in front of all these unassuming people who have their heads buried in more enthralling scenes.
Her face breaks in a soft smile, eyes lowering to the screen of her monitor as she nods. “Yes, we do offer those. What’s your proficiency level?”
“Beginner,” you reply meekly; then you add, just in case, “… first time.” She lifts her gaze towards you again, a knowing glance. Or perhaps, you were reading too much into it. There’s no reason for a kind stranger to psychoanalyse your motivations for taking up pottery—you wouldn’t be surprised to find out you’re the only adult enrolling for a novice class. Nor is there any suggestion from your side that you’re particularly artsy, what with your glasses perched atop on your head and your work shirt’s sleeves rolled up to your elbow haphazardly. Like you don’t know what it means to relax.
Work had been needlessly tiring lately—a dead-end job you aren’t particularly good at, colleagues you can’t even bring yourself to make small talk with anymore, and a boss who barely remembers your name on a good day. You haven’t been in a relationship in what feels like years, but more realistically it’d be months. Your friendly neighbour, Farrah had suggested you take up something at the rec centre nearby—friend might be a generosity she wouldn’t agree with, seeing as how the only conversation the two of you have consistently is about the state of your trash cans and the dogs in your community.
You’d logged onto their website the same night, glass of white wine in hand, the other mindlessly petting your cat. There was no straightforward enrollment button on the interface, rather an email address to direct your concerns towards. You’d sent a brief message mentioning your interest in their pottery lessons, and directly stating what time and day you’d be checking in for inquiry.
Driving directly here from work had seemed like a chore, feet dragging in your reluctance and tendency to fall back into your monotonous patterns. You regret it even more so now at the forefront of the rehearsed geniality the receptionist exhibits, which turns completely standoffish the moment her gaze is averted.
She signs you up for a free trial class, led by some man she calls Johnny. Funny name for an adult, much more if he’s to be your teacher, but you suppose that’s what she tells children to lower their inhibitions. Children, because that’s what you surmise is the target audience for this business model.
Five in the evening on the following Sunday creeps up on you unbidden. You almost flinch viscerally in your shock when you find that there’s only adults in the class, but it soon boils down to a sublime relief. If not dexterity, perhaps you could wring friendships out of this experiment.
The professor walks in exactly seventeen minutes past five, steady gait silencing the class’s chatter in near atomic waves. He wears an apron tainted with clay and splatters of paint, thrown over a fitting black tee. His jeans stretch over his legs cozily, highlighting every tendon and sinew for the hungry eyes beholding him. His face is rugged, untouched by comfort it seems. Scars run ragged over the sides of his cheeks, keloids and white scar tissue licking from below his neckline. His hair is a mess: what you conjecture is a mohawk falls unceremoniously on both unkempt and grown out sides. Weeds in a garden.
He pulls the chair from his desk, swivels it around, and sits facing his audience. He leans over the back of it almost boyishly. His eyes are of the most exquisite, vibrant lapis. The inked skin of his forearms flexes with his actions. He smiles, and every doubt fostering in your mind about his nurturing abilities fizzles away.
“Hello, there,” he starts, gaze roaming confident and strong over the near forty people in the classroom. From what you can catch, his teeth are creamy and jagged. Razor sharp. “Ah’m Professor MacTavish.” He has a strong accent—gritty and unruly, clipped with his words—rendering him more at home in a raucous rugby pub in Glasgow rather than a sanitised and meticulous rec centre like this one. A mouth that doesn’t just speak, it chews through. “If it’s yer first class here, please raise yer hand.”
You look around, sight landing on three other people who’ve raised their hand about immediately. Your hand lifts then, too; bashfully slow, as if you’re ashamed you haven’t done this before.
He nods, one resolute clap sounding out before he gets up. “Okay. Ah’ll keep my eye on ye,” he starts, glance faltering when it finds your side of the room. “Make sure ye dinnae get in tae too much trouble.” You find yourself imagining an almost deliberate electric sparkle in his eyes at the sight of your hand lowering slowly, catching onto the stuttered movements in your effort to be composed.
Over the internal roar of your uneasiness at being singled out—lonely still in your group of three more rookies—you hear the class laughing at his comment. You bring yourself to crack a disingenuous smile, sordid in your attempt at blending in.
Everyone soon becomes embroiled into a routine you’re not privy to, fiddling with and cleaning their stations. Your station is pristine, save for a wheel and an apron. Everyone’s moving around, grabbing supplies from the sides of the room. You stand there, utterly unaware.
“As usual,” the professor announces, words falling mostly on deaf ears, “yer aprons are tae the left hand side of yer bench. Make sure yer name tag is on right.” He directs a pointed gaze towards you, so obviously clueless, and uses his index finger to gesture towards the drawer. Just as he’d instructed, there’s a blank sticker and a permanent marker. You make quick haste of scribbling down your name, and stick it neatly without any creases or bubbles on the front of your apron. When you look up next, he’s smiling at you. Disarming in his warmth.
You slip the garment on, all your grunts and huffs lost in a flurry of work chatter. You attempt to tie the big knot at the back, unsuccessfully. Your gaze flounders around in search of a kind enough face to help, and as though a sufficient substitute, Professor MacTavish approaches you from behind. Hands held up in partial surrender, like he’s approaching a startled doe. That you were, perhaps, with your easily bristled demeanour.
“Need some help?”
You chuckle awkwardly. “Maybe.”
He gets closer, and his fingers deftly secure a knot in record time. He’s definitely closer than he needs to be, and his warm breath fans over the back of your neck—leaving a trail of raised gooseflesh in its wake. There’s something very inherently, almost carnally masculine to his scent: musk, sweat, leather. The artificial sting of clay and paint is almost drowned in what is so him.
His fingers splay over the small of your back, and close to your ear, his voice is a gravelly hum. “All good?”
You gulp, trying to snap yourself out of the heady daze he’s induced with this proximity. “Yes.”
He smiles, and you awkwardly crane your neck as little as possible. “Good.” His eyes lower to your chest, though you assume it must be for your name tag. What else? He carries your name on his tongue like a weight, heavy and honeyed in his accent. He’s butchering it, yet it draws a foreign longing out of you. You want to hear him say it like that, over and over again, until it sounds more correct like that than what it actually is.
Your connected gazes stay twinned for a few more moments, longer than what you deem is appropriate, and it only breaks when you look away, reticent.
Your hands are trailing over the circumference of the wheel when he finds himself at the front of the class again, apron now discarded. Maybe that was just part of the show.
“Alright, if ye have nae already—grab a bowl, fill it with water,” he commands, really only to you, seeing as you’re the sole one standing idle-faced at your station, “then grab a good lump of clay. We’re makin’ cups today.”
You do as he’d instructed, arms now carrying a filled-to-the-brim bowl, and a cling-wrapped lump of clay. You place it on your bench without much hassle, but the woman next to you stumbles a bit with her water. It spills over onto your station, and she rambles off a litany of apologies before you stop her.
Cropped black hair, tattoos covering her arms. “I’m Val,” she says, smiling. You’re about to introduce yourself when the booming Scotsman cuts through.
“So, tae make a cup,” he says, leaning against the front of his desk, “ye have tae treat the clay like a living thing. Cannae force it, cannae rush it. Ye guide it—firm, but gentle. If ye push too hard, it’ll collapse. Too soft, and it’ll slip through yer fingers.”
He holds the class’s gaze, but for a moment—just a flicker of time—his eyes settle on you again, something like amusement curving the corner of his lips.
“Sort o’ like people, aye?” he continues, eyes landing on you again. It isn’t even like he’s trying to hide it. The class snickers, and you find yourself wondering if they’re just humouring him.
Val nudges you with her elbow, murmuring under her breath, “I think he has a thing for you.”
You exhale a sharp breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. You almost choke, sputtering, “That’s— that’s not…”
“Attention on me, please,” he chides, playfulness still lingering in his tone, eyebrows quirked ever so slightly as the class directs their gazes towards you.
Your ears burn hot, white hot prickles all over your skin. You’ve never felt more at unease. Contention dies a bloody death in your mouth, because you decide you’d rather be let off on one mistake than be remembered as some feisty, question-authority type. “I wasn’t— sorry.”
Your fingers flex consciously on the wheel as he lets the class begin. You keep your head low, not wanting to gather any more attention than you had already. This is exactly what you had been so afraid of.
You take a quick look around, to spot people dipping their hands in the water before placing the clay on the wheel. You mimic their actions, tense and stiff in your posture. Your muscles coil rigid in their disuse, and you roll your shoulders back in a grating creak of joints.
“Ye have tae loosen up,” a voice mutters from behind you, hands pawing around unencumbered by invitation in your space. Professor MacTavish’s calloused palms dip in your water bowl, and his beefy arms snake around your waist. He starts your wheel, a soft whirring drowning out all other sensations in your ears.
“I am loose,” you mutter in your indignity.
He guffaws, quiet and all too nigh to you. His hands envelop yours, coaxing you to soften the clay. “Yer too tight,” he says, and the implied vulgarity of it should squick you. But he says it so casually, so offhandedly. “See,” only under his hold does the clay succumb to you, moulding and shaping to your tastes, “like this.”
It’s difficult to focus; even once he’s lifted his hands off yours, you feel the weight of them. He remains practically pressed up against you—divided by the splinter of a hair, you’re sure—when he continues the lesson.
“When ye centre the clay,” the heat of what seems like a thousand gazes turn in your direction, all absorbing his familiarity with you, “it’s goin’ tae be the hardest part of the process. But once ye get it right, everythin’ else falls into place.” He lowers his voice now, cadence more relaxed, “yer daen’ well.” Only reserved for you. Something you feel you haven’t quite earned yet, as you stare down upon your amorphous lump.
You clear your throat, and he steps away. You allow yourself a shaky breath, lips pursed as you turn towards Val. She has a knowing smirk plastered on her face.
“It’s nothing,” you confirm. More like, plead. To no avail, clearly.
“Man, if he came close to me like that,” she purrs, eyes following him ravenously as he walks around the room, “there’s no telling what I’d do in front of all these people.”
You chortle, first real smile making its way onto your face in days.
You suppose you should count yourself lucky to have garnered his attention so easily. He’s an attractive guy. But there’s just something, prodding and poking at your gut, that washes over you in waves of unease. You think it best to brush it off as your anxiety—small fish in a big pond.
The class continues, and you seem to have created a structure somewhat resembling a hollow vessel. You’re not quite sure what addition would classify it as a cup, but as long as it fulfils the general purpose: you’re satisfied.
He continues distributing instructions throughout the lesson, small jabs at students he probably knows sprinkled here and there.
“And tae the new students,” you don’t even have to look up to feel the heaviness of his glance directed towards you, “if ye think ah’m ramblin’ a lot, feel free tae throw a cup at me.” This time, you do giggle along with the others. “Just make sure it’s one ye made yerself.” You hear the hint of a laugh in his voice, and you steel yourself to meet his gaze. Smiling placidly at you, like a puppy at the known prospect of a walk.
Class ends as abruptly as it had started; on time, though. You stare wistfully at your unfinished cup, to which Val tells you that you’ll have time to come back to it in the next class. You wash your hands with her at the basin, making plans to walk out together.
When you grab your coat and purse, you hear your name being called out from behind. You mutter a small wait for me to Val, and head towards the table where Professor MacTavish sits. His hands rest on the sides of him, holding himself up on the wooden threshold. Under his weight, you’re almost afraid it will collapse.
“How’d ye like it?”
Your eyes widen imperceptibly, unsure of what he’s getting at. “The… lesson?”
“No, my jokes.” His deadpan look warms into a smile again, shaking his head as he laughs. “Yes, the lesson. How was it?”
You let out an awkward huff of laughter, crossing your arms across your chest. “Both were good. I had a nice time.”
He nods, smile widening, all teeth now. The apples of his cheeks catch the dusky sunlight now filtering in through the cracked open windows. “Ah’m glad. Was this yer free trial?”
You nod.
“Ah, in that case—I hope ye decide tae come back. Ah see potential in ye.”
Your eyebrows quirk in amusement, a little in incredulity. “Really?” you breathe, looking around at the other well-developed cups your fellow classmates had made. “I don’t think I’m very good.”
His features soften. “Dinnae say that. Ye did good for a beginner. Ah’m sure yer a quick learner, eh?”
You narrow your eyes slightly, a little lost as to why he was so hellbent on getting you to admit some secret ambition to become the next Michelangelo. You want to make this quick and get back home, so you respond as cheerfully as you can muster, “absolutely.”
He pats his thigh then. “Good girl.” He goes to the back of his desk, shuffling through some documents—leaving you to stand there wondering if you’d heard him right. That’s… weird, right? Maybe you’ll bring it up with Val.
Although, you doubt she’d understand the perturbing tenacity he’d said it with. Like dust rumbling over a grave. Disconcerting, but it leaves you wondering if you’re making it out to be more than what it is.
You leave without so much as a goodbye.
As you put in Val’s phone number, your phone pings with a text from your friend.
Farrah Karim: hey how was it ?
You: good
You contemplate adding, but the teacher was a little weird lol. Instead, you settle for:
Just in case you guys don't know about the terms used for the intended audience:
M4F = male for female | M4M = male for male | M4A = male for anyone | M4TM = male for trans male | M4TF = male for trans female
Word count: 1,939
Tags: So voice acting, just general +18 content, Caleb being a bit of a freakazoid but what's new?, some shame, nothing too explicit, just mentions of fluff, smut, crack, little bit of parasocial relationships at the end.
Social media handles
Youtube
Started as CaptainAppleAsmr later rebranded into yourfriendlyneighborhoodva.
Instagram
Captaincaleb – private account, only the people closest to him have access. That's where he posts about his friends, selfies and other more personal things.
CaptainApple – secondary account, a bit messy but very him. Random pictures and videos of him (without his face in them) doing random shit, planes and beautiful skies, just little things that he likes. Gideon and Zayne sometimes make a bit of an appearance via body parts or voices.
Twitter
Captainappleasmr – the other one had too many letters, so he couldn't rebrand it like he wanted to. Interacts a lot, like, it looks like he doesn't sleep (he does, he just sleeps like shit) because he does it at random hours of the day.
How it started
He started earlier than Zayne and it was a completely impulsive decision. He was bored when he stumbled into boyfriend asmr one day and listened out of pure curiosity, only to fall into a rabbit hole and decide to make an incredibly stereotypical boyfriend crack audio and post it for fun. The audio quality was shit, he kept breaking and laughing too much, you could even hear the contained laughter in his voice as he tried to get through the lines.
— It took him a few days between classes to finish editing and, at some point, Zayne even looked at him like he was considering taking him to the hospital because he kept giggling like a maniac.
— The audio was fairly short– barely made it to 8 minutes– so he decided to add the blooper reels at the end. It was mostly him bursting out with laughter and going:
“I'm crazy, this is crazy– no, this is downright psychotic”
“Why am I doing this? Who gave me this idea?”
“Am I okay? I don't think I am”
“I might've lost my remaining sanity… this is so fun though”
"Oh god, this is horrible, I love it”
"For anyone wondering: no, I'm not on drugs, I'm on haribo gummy bears and an apple soda”
— Everyone loved it and because he had a blast, he kept doing it and eventually stuck with it as a hobby. It was scripts that would play too much into the stereotypes of the different boyfriends (toxic, macho, brooding, all that shit) just pure crack and cringe one liners that would make him lose it.
— Eventually, as he bought better equipment and wrote more scripts, he slowly started getting more serious and writing really good scripts that didn't play too much into things.
— A year and a half into voice acting, he started doing collabs with other people. It started with bribing Zayne into one of his videos only for it to snowball into him doing more collabs with other people. It's the reason why he rebranded into yourfriendlyneighborhoodva. Sometimes he even organizes collab events.
— Gideon didn't become his editor until he interrupted Caleb while in the middle of filming an audio. At the time, they were only roommates, close enough to talk about chores, food and expenses but not close enough to be friends. Gideon used to be an editor for a different voice actor before they stopped doing audios altogether and left the community, and said voice actor had made a collab with Caleb once. So, when they had the whole “I'm a va but you gotta keep it a secret” conversation, Gideon offered to be his editor, using the past va as a way to show his editing. That's how their friendship started.
Channel
— Kind of tech/summer theme. The thumbnails look like a little interface with pops of color and his intros always have those satisfying little spaceship sounds. (What a fucking nerd and loser).
— His videos come out on saturdays, it took him a while to get into that schedule. He used to do it on tuesdays but then he missed one too many posts and kept moving the posting schedule along the week until it stopped at saturday.
— The videos are captioned, the subtitles are right in the center of the screen and big enough to be read from a safe distance. When asked, he said he just felt like doing that.
— All of them, M4A, M4F, M4M, M4TM, M4TF, it's like he's catering to the people. The nicknames he uses are pip-squeak, short stack, baby, pretty baby (mostly, but also girl, boy, lady), honey, cupcake, sunshine and many more.
— The fans begged and pleaded with him to do a Spiderman audio and, boy, did it go crazy. So that was the start of him adding non-human characters into the list of roles he played.
— Did an android boyfriend once, went great, found a way to make a series based on being a robot and now it's one of his most famous characters. The other one's that he's played are: pirates (space and sea), werewolves, angels and demons, knights, and a noble once (didn't really like it).
— Has two famous series: X-02 (a story about two kids running away from a scientist facility) Into Farspace (a space colonel and a stow away falling in love).
— He lost a dare and his punishment was doing a puppy hybrid audio. It backfired horrendously, because 1) he enjoyed it, and 2) the fans loved it. It became a recurring character and his third most famous one.
His sfw content
— Enemies to lovers– proper enemies to lovers, not the bully bulshit (he hates it)– friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, neighbors to lovers, strangers to lovers. Every single "___ to lovers" under the sun, he has done it.
— The most dynamic: boy next door, classmate, work colleague, childhood friend. He's played barista, jock, baker, gardener, he's played adorkable nerd with his knowledge from planes. Very playful and teasing, great at playing a himbo, also alternates between playing the older and younger friend. He shifts through character tags like they're clothes and wears them like a pro.
— Sometimes he does elaborate fantasy-action related audios and let me tell you, his pained grunts and screams are so incredibly realistic that hearing it the first time will shock you. I don't know how he does it.
— The softer stuff is just as all over the place as his character tags; cute cooking at home dates, road trips, cuddle scenes, play fights, calming you during a thunderstorm audios, getting stranded, the one bed scenario and many other ways of forced proximity that lead to romance.
— Will play a yandere from time to time. He does them in different levels of danger and different sub-types. You have the sweet harmless ones, the possessive or obsessive ones. He's a huge fucking nerd in that area because he did a lot of research. He prefers doing yandere x yandere audios or yandere listener audios, it gives him the heebie jeebies to be the only yandere (His words in the Q&A).
— Blooper reels, the fans love it so much that he saves the bloopers from every video and compiles them into 10 minute videos. The same words or lines said repeatedly with different tones and fluctuations, clumsy moments where he bonks the mic or anything close to him, random noises outside followed by little crash outs, “Wait- what am I saying?” or “No- hold on- damn it” whenever he mispronounces a word or says the words in the wrong order. Moments where he breaks character, Gideon's voice making an appearance whenever he interrupts in the middle of filming, being a meme lord and humming any random melodies. Just… mundane things that make him more human and “just a guy” to his audience.
His nsfw content
He wasn't really comfortable with it at the beginning. He’d get hard while saying the lines and the fake moaning made him feel so much shame he wanted to drop dead. He questioned his life choices multiple times, re-did the takes and stressed over the script even more. And there’s only so much shame you can feel while getting hard before it comes full circle and starts turning you on instead.
— That being said, the first audio was filled with so much shame fuelled horniness that it turned into a ramblefap. He got too lost in the character and when he revised the audio, he decided to turn that mishap into a phone sex audio and leave the original script for another day. From then on, a light dose of self-degradation made its way into the list of kinks he does.
— His first few ramblefaps were times where he got too horny to be able to continue the script properly. He got a lot of encouragement on the first one, so he alternates between posting the derailed moments and recording when he gets horny.
— He's done first times on both sides– speaker and listener– has done one night stands that ended in more and “one thing led to another” sex between friends. But when it comes to established relationships, he's a bit more loose.
— Free use for both him and the listener, same with somnophilia and choking. It took him a while to do a bottoming audio– mans was flustered as fuck– but it became another thing he did occasionally in his audios once he got the hang of it.
— That boy begs to be ordered around, he's eager and needy and just ready to please. He tried the mommy kink once and refuses to do it again, he can't admit to himself that he has a mommy kink. He'll call you master or mistress without even thinking about it, but mommy? Nope, he'll turn into the biggest brat there ever was. Which is worse, cause that's the reason he enjoys doing the bratty-sub audios.
— He doesn't do many dom audios, but when he does get in the headspace to write a dom script, he's a lot more stern and assertive. He still focuses on the listeners pleasure and brat tames from time to time, but it's a rare treat. On those there's orgasm control, multiple orgasms for the listener, rough sex with some spanking and slight condescension.
— He has two events that remind the fans of how much of a freakazoid he is; No Nut November (NNN) and the whole month of october. Both of those months go into the more slight dub-con and cnc route of things. This routine started because of a fan showing him a script that entailed some scream themed predator/prey consensual non-consent play in the woods. After that, October and November became the established months for more hard kink/taboo related stuff.
— His nsfw audios are the longest because he does aftercare at the end of them. Even for his porn without plot audios, the last 5 to 10 minutes will be dedicated to the aftercare.
Extra things
— Gideon only gets access to the audios that didn't end with Caleb jerking off. It's one thing to fake moans, it's another for your homie to hear you actually masturbate and as much as he has a thrill for danger, he's not about to play that game with his friend.
— No face reveal, he likes teasing (and distracting) the fans with hand pics and little clips of him exercising. All of the va's he's met in person always mention his muscles and height.
— Interacts a lot with his fans but makes sure to keep boundaries. Sometimes he'll do a live on instagram where they get to accompany him while he edits because having his phone occupied helps him from getting distracted. He tends to wear a mask and glasses in those situations.
