#by which i mean like.. if you look at what black authors and playwrights we have stuff by in the broader library system

[loki-zen]

I have a sort-of new job! I’m going to a new library and it will be my library (just me! the librarian!) and this is Exciting

also a bit weird given that i’ve been with the organisation a hot minute and don’t technically have a permanent contract yet but Oh Well

also it looks like it’s all very STEMmy, which is a bit out of my comfort zone. we adapt ^-^

so anyway, i know you guys are nerds, can anyone think of any notable figures in STEMmy subjects I can highlight for black history month? preferably British, but doesn’t have to be - not American though if i can help it

edit: duh mary seacole im an idiot

[sor-jimena-idar]

The Unfinished Dialogues of Smith and Doe

Act One, Scene One

[Setting: A desk and typewriter take center stage alongside two chairs: a desk chair and a dining room chair. There are several reams of paper in a stack beside the desk, novels next to said papers in a stack. They are the novels of the two authors sitting in the chairs, although the names of the authors on the books are different. The trash basket is overflowing with crumpled and ripped sheets of paper stained with ink. The two authors sit in silence staring at the typewriter.]

Smith: We have to write something

Doe: But what?

Smith: Something.

[Doe starts to type]

Smith: No.

Doe: Why not?

Smith: Not enough depth.

Doe: Perhaps.

Smith: What about us?

Doe: What?

Smith: What if we wrote about us?

Doe: I suppose.

[Doe rips the paper from the typewriter and insert a clean sheet and types for a moment]

Doe: How does this work?

Smith: Not terribly hard.

Doe: How should we continue?

Smith: We can just talk until we think of something. Let’s just give it a rest for a moment.

[Beat]

[Doe starts to type again]

Doe: Why haven't we tried technical writing?

Smith: It's inherently boring, besides we’re paperback writers, not academics.

Doe: Right but-

Smith: But what?

Doe: Couldn't we do some technical writing about writing? Like how to write a book or something?

Smith: Like a guide?

Doe: Something like that, yes.

Smith: Pass.

Doe: Why?

Smith: I hated them in school.

Doe: Like you even read them.

Smith: I did read them, I just, never got it.

Doe: Got what?

Smith: I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to tell someone how to write?

[Doe sighs and looks at Smith with annoyance]

Doe: We’ll talk about this later.

[the scene goes dark and the sound of the typewriter keys fills the air]

Act One, Scene Two

[The lights turn back on, Doe and Smith are sweaty and disheveled. Ink smears both of their palms from mishandled ink ribbons]

Doe: Perhaps we could take a break?

Smith: No.

Doe: Please?

Smith: We said we would work on something until we made something.

Doe: Could we not write half of something down and call it a day?

Smith: You would write ‘something’ and leave.

Doe: Not true! We just need to put anything on this paper and we can leave, right?

[Smith sighs.]

Smith: Yes.

[Doe puts a clean sheet into the typewriter and types “anything”; they then look at each other and laugh after a comedic pause]

[Some time passes; this is marked by the clock in the room speeding up and the sound of a grandfather clock chiming]

Doe: Why did we become authors in the first place?

Smith: We had a good idea for a book.

Doe: Ideas, you mean.

Smith: Well, idea. Singular.

Doe: We have a few good books, don’t lie to the audience.

[Doe gestures to the right wall]

Smith: Our first was the only good one.

Doe: They all sold well! We even got that big newspaper to promote us several times!

Smith: You know our publicist bought that endorsement, right? Besides, how can you trust the invisible hand to pick a decent apple?

Doe: Why are you so cynical?

Smith: That’s just how I was raised!

Doe: That's a lazy reason, you know. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but it doesn’t have to try and grow the same branches.

Smith: Oh, fuck off.

Doe: Just think about it!

Smith: It’s because my life was shitty growing up.

Doe: You can tell me about it.

Smith: Choke on your tongue.

[They take turns typing some more, the lights turn off and on shortly afterwards to indicate the passage of time.]

Doe: Is there any future in fictional writing?

Smith: Probably not.

Doe: Why do you say that?

Smith: You tell me a good plot for a fictional story that’s worth reading. I mean realistic fiction, not some high fantasy shit like we watched in college while we were stoned out of our minds.

Doe: Alright.

[Doe pauses]

Doe: The internet is rather new, what if we wrote a book that takes place entirely over AOL instant messaging?

Smith: AIM? Jesus Christ, you’re out of touch.

[They both look at the typewriter, and give a comedic pauses as if to make a joke that would not land]

Doe: You’re no help, give me a plot then.

Smith: I don’t have one! That’s why I’m asking you.

Doe: Fine, fine… What about: two people. And they do nothing but talk for the entire time.

Smith: Isn’t that “Waiting for Godot”?

Doe: Perhaps.

Smith: We aren’t playwrights.

Doe: I know that! You asked for a plot and I gave you one.

Smith: And it’s a shitty one at that.

Doe: Hey! It’s not that bad!

Smith: You call this good writing then?

[Smith gestures to their dialogue.]

[They give each other a look, as if they understand they are actors.]

Doe: Anyway.

Smith: Have we discussed philosophy yet?

Doe: Probably not. We save that for last when we’re bored.

Smith: Then what should we talk about

Doe: The philosophy of language?

Smith: Why?

Doe: We’re authors.

[Both of them glance at the back wall, where both of their diplomas hang in frames.]

Smith: Oh. right.

[Scene fades to black]

Act One, Scene Three

[Scene lights turn on]

Doe: Should we quit at this point?

Smith: No.

Doe: Why?

Smith: We’re writing something.

Doe: But shouldn't we quit being authors?

Smith: Are we really authors?

Doe: Explain.

Smith: How can someone really write for a living?

Doe: Isn't that what we’re doing? I mean, look at this office we have!

[Doe gestures to the stage setting. A ceiling tile comedically falls onto the stage from the rafters. Neither of them acknowledge it.]

Smith: We have it for a month. Besides a well-selling novel doesn’t mean they’re any good, and it doesn’t make us good authors either.

Doe: Stop being a pedant, let’s just write this book.

[Some time passes]

Doe: Why did we become authors?

Smith: We went over this already.

Doe: I meant why did we, as two people become authors.

Smith: Why do you ask?

Doe: I thought we hated each other!

Smith: So do other people.

Doe: Does everyone hate everyone, too?

Smith: Maybe, I’m not a psychologist.

Doe: So we do hate each other, then?

[The scene fades to black; when the lights turn on they are wearing different clothes and the trash is mostly cleaned up.]

Doe: It's been three weeks.

Smith: So?

Doe: All of our other books took days.

Smith: We can take our time.

Doe: Aren't we on the clock?

Smith: That would be a terrible foundation.

[Neither of them laugh]

[Beat]

Doe: I need a smoke.

Smith: You never smoke.

Doe: Like you even know me.

Smith: I do. I know how you smell, too.

Doe: We don't even like each other.

Smith: I never said that!

Doe: You never not said it!

[Doe looks at the shortened stack of reams]

Doe: We've gone through too much paper.

Smith: Not true.

Doe: It's a lot of reams to go through in a few days.

Smith: I think that’s a bit subjective.

Doe: There's nothing on these sheets anyway.

Smith: You just don't see it, that’s all. We just have to write it.

Doe: Is this your philosophy minor bullshit?

[A moment of silence]

Doe: I hate you. You are killing me.

[Doe puts in a clean sheet of paper.]

Doe: Could we write about language?

Smith: We did this bit already.

Doe: Why?

Smith: We’re not linguists.

Doe: We’re authors though.

Smith: Like that gives us authority over language.

Doe: It could.

Smith: Like hell it ‘could’.

[Smith quiets down as Doe tries to write. Smith wipes their eyes with their sleeve.]

Doe: Your eyes are bloodshot.

Smith: I'm tired.

Doe: You're crying, what's wrong?

Smith: Fuck off.

Doe: Please.

Smith: Fuck off please.

Doe: You know what I meant.

Smith: I'm a failed author.

Doe: You're not.

Smith: I've never written anything good.

Doe: Yes we have.

Smith: Just keep writing.

[Beat]

Doe: Propose...

Smith: Yes?

Doe: Propose we actually make it with this story. Like ‘own a beach house on a Caribbean island’ make it.

Smith: Okay.

Doe: What would we do afterwards?

Smith: Besides being modern-day colonists, we would continue writing.

Doe: But why?

Smith: We're authors.

Doe: But isn't there more to than just being authors?

Smith: Is there?

Doe: I'm not sure.

[Beat]

Doe: So letter and letter.

Smith: Yes?

Doe: There is a letter as in one you send to a friend and a letter that makes up words.

Smith: Okay.

Doe: Isn't it funny how one letter is necessary for the other.

Smith: Explain.

Doe: The letter for the mail is a collection of words which in itself is a collection of letters.

Smith: Huh.

Doe: Language is a strange thing.

Smith: What if I sent a letter consisting only of punctuation.

Doe: I suppose it is still a letter.

Smith: But you said letters necessitate the use of letters.

Doe: How can something necessitate itself?

[Smith sighs out of frustration]

Doe: You’re no fun.

Act One, Scene Four

[It is a different day. Today is the day they will finish their book. Smith and Doe are in different clothes. Two coats hang on the coat rack by the door. There is a brown bottle, a whisky tumbler, and a tall glass beside the typewriter. Throughout the scene, Smith and Doe drink from these containers and alternate between them.]

Smith: Hmm…

Doe: Yes?

Smith: Is it moral of me to have published work that I was not proud of?

Doe: Why wouldn't it be?

Smith: Is it not immoral to be disingenuous to yourself and your readers?

Doe: Yourself, yes.

Smith: But the readers?

Doe: It is neither moral nor immoral.

Smith: How so?

Doe: Just because you cannot be proud of something, does not mean others cannot enjoy it.

Smith: Yes but-

Doe: There is a distinction between the artist and his viewers, the author and her readers.

Smith: I suppose.

Doe: Therefore it cannot be a dilemma of morals of others just because you face one yourself. [Doe shows Smith the other a small pile of typed papers; they take a minute to read it]

Doe: Well?

Smith: Your character...

Doe: What about my character?

Smith: They're too rational.

Doe: Are we not rational beings?

Smith: We are irrational beings.

Doe: But it is ideal to be rational.

Smith: Yes.

Doe: Then why is being too rational a bad character trait?

Smith: Because art imitates life.

Doe: So shouldn't ideal art imitate ideal life?

Smith: Yes.

Doe: Then why not write ideal people?

Smith: Doesn’t sell well.

Doe: But I mean, is it not our duty as authors to display morality in its best, to write story arcs and characters that show the best that humanity has to offer?

Smith: You sound like that German philosopher.

Doe: There’s a few, which?

Smith: I don’t know, the one with nationalist and racist ideals.

Doe: That could be any of them!

[Pause for comedic effect, but don’t laugh]

Smith: Anyway…

Doe: Yes?

Smith: Maybe we should scrap this? Start over?

Doe: What are you talking about! We’re almost done with this!

Smith: I know, I know.

[Beat]

Smith: I like it here, you know.

Doe: You could move here.

Smith: Yeah but… It wouldn’t be the same.

Doe: The same? The same as what? You hate the city, you always complain about it.

Smith: Well, you wouldn’t be here.

[Doe smiles at them]

Doe: Let’s just finish then, we’ll talk about it on the train back.

Smith: Let’s talk about it now.

Doe: Smith…

Smith: It would be nice here, both of us. We could be neighbors!

Doe: I don’t know. I have roots back home.

Smith: You mean your family? You talk so much about how much they hate you.

Doe: I know, but I just… can’t leave them.

Smith: Yes, you can.

Doe: I can’t.

[Beat]

Doe: You wouldn’t understand.

Smith: Perhaps. But you would be happier outside of the house, wouldn’t you?

Doe: I guess, yeah.

Smith: You can move them here. You can spend all your time at my place.

Doe: I’ll think about it, alright?

Smith: Fine with me.

Doe: Let’s just finish this.

[The authors take turns on the typewriter for a moment. The church bells ring out twice. The clock on the wall shows an improbable time.]

Doe: I think that’s it.

Smith: Yeah?

Doe: Yeah.

Smith: We need a title, though.

Doe: Oh yes, hm…

Smith: ‘The Dialogues’

Doe: What, like Plato?

Smith: I guess, yeah.

Doe: Fine with me.

[Doe puts a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and types the title onto it.]

Doe: What will our names be this time?

Smith: What about-

[Behind stage, there will be a brief moment of static, so the audience cannot hear what

Smith chooses to be their names.]

Doe: Alright.

[Doe types their names onto the cover page.]

Doe: That’s it. We’re done.

[Both authors get up and begin to pack. Doe collects a stack of papers, the manuscript, and places it into a briefcase. Smith puts the typewriter inside its case. Both walk to the door and put their coats on and look around the office.]

Smith: I don’t really know what to say.

Doe: Don’t say anything then.

Smith: Alright.

[Both exit stage right and the lights turn off. End scene.]

[lastsonlost]

BECAUSE THE CORONAVIRUS IS JUST HURTING FEMINIST AND ONLY FEMINISTS AND ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ELSE...

..........

Enough already. When people try to be cheerful about social distancing and working from home, noting that William Shakespeare and Isaac Newton did some of their best work while England was ravaged by the plague, there is an obvious response: Neither of them had child-care responsibilities.

Shakespeare spent most of his career in London, where the theaters were, while his family lived in Stratford-upon-Avon. During the plague of 1606, the playwright was lucky to be spared from the epidemic—his landlady died at the height of the outbreak—and his wife and two adult daughters stayed safely in the Warwickshire countryside. Newton, meanwhile, never married or had children. He saw out the Great Plague of 1665–6 on his family’s estate in the east of England, and spent most of his adult life as a fellow at Cambridge University, where his meals and housekeeping were provided by the college.

For those with caring responsibilities, an infectious-disease outbreak is unlikely to give them time to write King Lear or develop a theory of optics. A pandemic magnifies all existing inequalities (even as politicians insist this is not the time to talk about anything other than the immediate crisis). Working from home in a white-collar job is easier; employees with salaries and benefits will be better protected; self-isolation is less taxing in a spacious house than a cramped apartment. But one of the most striking effects of the coronavirus will be to send many couples back to the 1950s.

Across the world, women’s independence will be a silent victim of the pandemic.

Purely as a physical illness, the coronavirus appears to affect women less severely. But in the past few days, the conversation about the pandemic has broadened: We are not just living through a public-health crisis, but an economic one. As much of normal life is suspended for three months or more, job losses are inevitable. At the same time, school closures and household isolation are moving the work of caring for children from the paid economy—nurseries, schools, babysitters—to the unpaid one. The coronavirus smashes up the bargain that so many dual-earner couples have made in the developed world: We can both work, because someone else is looking after our children. Instead, couples will have to decide which one of them takes the hit.

Many stories of arrogance are related to this pandemic. Among the most exasperating is the West’s failure to learn from history: the Ebola crisis in three African countries in 2014; Zika in 2015–6; and recent outbreaks of SARS, swine flu, and bird flu. Academics who studied these episodes found that they had deep, long-lasting effects on gender equality. “Everybody’s income was affected by the Ebola outbreak in West Africa,” Julia Smith, a health-policy researcher at Simon Fraser University, told The New York Times this month, but “men’s income returned to what they had made pre-outbreak faster than women’s income.” The distorting effects of an epidemic can last for years, Clare Wenham, an assistant professor of global-health policy at the London School of Economics, told me. “We also saw declining rates of childhood vaccination [during Ebola].” Later, when these children contracted preventable diseases, their mothers had to take time off work.

At an individual level, the choices of many couples over the next few months will make perfect economic sense. What do pandemic patients need? Looking after. What do self-isolating older people need? Looking after. What do children kept home from school need? Looking after. All this looking after—this unpaid caring labor—will fall more heavily on women, because of the existing structure of the workforce. “It’s not just about social norms of women performing care roles; it’s also about practicalities,” Wenham added. “Who is paid less? Who has the flexibility?”

According to the British government’s figures, 40 percent of employed women work part-time, compared with only 13 percent of men. In heterosexual relationships, women are more likely to be the lower earners, meaning their jobs are considered a lower priority when disruptions come along. And this particular disruption could last months, rather than weeks. Some women’s lifetime earnings will never recover. With the schools closed, many fathers will undoubtedly step up, but that won’t be universal.

Despite the mass entry of women into the workforce during the 20th century, the phenomenon of the “second shift” still exists. Across the world, women—including those with jobs—do more housework and have less leisure time than their male partners. Even memes about panic-buying acknowledge that household tasks such as food shopping are primarily shouldered by women. “I’m not afraid of COVID-19 but what is scary, is the lack of common sense people have,” reads one of the most popular tweets about the coronavirus crisis. “I’m scared for people who actually need to go to the store & feed their fams but Susan and Karen stocked up for 30 years.” The joke only works because “Susan” and “Karen”—stand-in names for suburban moms—are understood to be responsible for household management, rather than, say, Mike and Steve.

Look around and you can see couples already making tough decisions on how to divide up this extra unpaid labor. When I called Wenham, she was self-isolating with two small children; she and her husband were alternating between two-hour shifts of child care and paid work. That is one solution; for others, the division will run along older lines. Dual-income couples might suddenly find themselves living like their grandparents, one homemaker and one breadwinner. “My spouse is a physician in the emergency dept, and is actively treating #coronavirus patients. We just made the difficult decision for him to isolate & move into our garage apartment for the foreseeable future as he continues to treat patients,” wrote the Emory University epidemiologist Rachel Patzer, who has a three-week-old baby and two young children. “As I attempt to home school my kids (alone) with a new baby who screams if she isn’t held, I am worried about the health of my spouse and my family.”

Single parents face even harder decisions: While schools are closed, how do they juggle earning and caring? No one should be nostalgic for the “1950s ideal” of Dad returning to a freshly baked dinner and freshly washed children, when so many families were excluded from it, even then. And in Britain today, a quarter of families are headed by a single parent, more than 90 percent of whom are women. Closed schools make their life even harder.

Other lessons from the Ebola epidemic were just as stark—and similar, if perhaps smaller, effects will be seen during this crisis in the developed world. School closures affected girls’ life chances, because many dropped out of education. (A rise in teenage-pregnancy rates exacerbated this trend.) Domestic and sexual violence rose. And more women died in childbirth because resources were diverted elsewhere. “There’s a distortion of health systems, everything goes towards the outbreak,” said Wenham, who traveled to west Africa as a researcher during the Ebola crisis. “Things that aren’t priorities get canceled. That can have an effect on maternal mortality, or access to contraception.” The United States already has appalling statistics in this area compared with other rich countries, and black women there are twice as likely to die in childbirth as white women.

For Wenham, the most striking statistic from Sierra Leone, one of the countries worst affected by Ebola, was that from 2013 to 2016, during the outbreak, more women died of obstetric complications than the infectious disease itself. But these deaths, like the unnoticed caring labor on which the modern economy runs, attract less attention than the immediate problems generated by an epidemic. These deaths are taken for granted. In her book Invisible Women, Caroline Criado Perez notes that 29 million papers were published in more than 15,000 peer-reviewed titles around the time of the Zika and Ebola epidemics, but less than 1 percent explored the gendered impact of the outbreaks. Wenham has found no gender analysis of the coronavirus outbreak so far; she and two co-authors have stepped into the gap to research the issue.

The evidence we do have from the Ebola and Zika outbreaks should inform the current response. In both rich and poor countries, campaigners expect domestic-violence rates to rise during lockdown periods. Stress, alcohol consumption, and financial difficulties are all considered triggers for violence in the home, and the quarantine measures being imposed around the world will increase all three. The British charity Women’s Aid said in a statement that it was “concerned that social distancing and self-isolation will be used as a tool of coercive and controlling behaviour by perpetrators, and will shut down routes to safety and support.”

Researchers, including those I spoke with, are frustrated that findings like this have not made it through to policy makers, who still adopt a gender-neutral approach to pandemics. They also worry that opportunities to collect high-quality data which will be useful for the future are being missed. For example, we have little information on how viruses similar to the coronavirus affect pregnant women—hence the conflicting advice during the current crisis—or, according to Susannah Hares, a senior policy fellow at the Center for Global Development, sufficient data to build a model for when schools should reopen.

We shouldn’t make that mistake again. Grim as it is to imagine now, further epidemics are inevitable, and the temptation to argue that gender is a side issue, a distraction from the real crisis, must be resisted. What we do now will affect the lives of millions of women and girls in future outbreaks.

The coronavirus crisis will be global and long-lasting, economic as well as medical. However, it also offers an opportunity. This could be the first outbreak where gender and sex differences are recorded, and taken into account by researchers and policy makers. For too long, politicians have assumed that child care and elderly care can be “soaked up” by private citizens—mostly women—effectively providing a huge subsidy to the paid economy. This pandemic should remind us of the true scale of that distortion.

Wenham supports emergency child-care provision, economic security for small-business owners, and a financial stimulus paid directly to families. But she isn’t hopeful, because her experience suggests that governments are too short-termist and reactive. “Everything that's happened has been predicted, right?” she told me. “As a collective academic group, we knew there would be an outbreak that came out of China, that shows you how globalization spreads disease, that’s going to paralyze financial systems, and there was no pot of money ready to go, no governance plan … We knew all this, and they didn't listen. So why would they listen to something about women?”

Remember this article the next time a politician brings up the draft again...

because I remember the last reaction.

[adeliaharris]

My Favorite Books...

1. Harper Lee "To kill a Mockingbird"

The story of a small sleepy town in the South of America told by a little girl. The story of her brother Jim, dill's friend and her father - the honest principled lawyer Atticus Finch one of the last and best representatives of the old "southern aristocracy". The story of the trial of a black guy accused of rape a white girl. But first of all it is the story of a turning era when xenophobia, racism, intolerance and bigotry inherent in the American South are warming to the past. The "wind of change" has just begun to blow over America. What will it bring?

- This is probably one of my favorite books.The book captured from the very first pages and did not let go for a long time after reading. You can say a lot of things but better read it.

2. Khaled Hosseini "The Kite Runner"

A heartfelt story of friendship and fidelity, betrayal and redemption, penetrating to the very core. Delicate, ironic and sentimental in a good way, Khaled Hosseini's novel resembles a painting that can be looked at endlessly set in pre-war Kabul in the 1970s. In this magical city shimmering with all shades of gold and azure two weather boys Amir and Hasan live. One belonged to the local aristocracy the other to a despised minority. One's father was handsome and important the other was lame and pathetic. Master and servant, prince and beggar, handsome and crippled. But there were no people in the world closer than these two boys. Soon the Kabul idyll will be replaced by formidable storms. And the boys, like two kites, will be picked up by this storm and scattered in different directions. Each has its own destiny its own tragedy but they like in childhood are tied by the strongest bonds. You run after the kite and the wind as you run after your destiny, trying to catch it. But she will catch you.

- Psychological novel on the theme of "crime and punishment". Deeply elaborated images, convincing children's characters, a remarkably built plot - everything speaks of a great master. For me it is "heavy" literature but it has the right to be because it calls things by their proper names. And most importantly there is light in the stories of Hosseini! The light of true human feelings.

3. F. Scott Fitzgerald "The Great Gatsby"

A jubilant, sparkling thirst for life, a desire for love, alluring and elusive, exciting pursuit of wealth - but now the dream breaks to the sound of jazz and the eternal holiday turns into a tragedy. "The Great Gatsby" is a novel about "how illusions are wasted which make the world so colorful that  having experienced this magic, a person becomes indifferent to the concept of true and false." F. S. Fitzgerald

- I read it and was not at all disappointed! Elegant presentation with high meaning - everything in this life is done for the sake of love. And no amount of money can replace the woman you love... And even if she is stupid, frivolous and idly living her life. I have great respect for Gatsby and contempt for Daisy. There are a lot of wonderful quotes, phrases in the book, it's worth thinking about. I didn’t expect to literally fall in love with this piece! In the future I will definitely re-read it more than once!

4. Daniel Keyes "Flowers for Algernon"

Forty years ago it was considered a fantasy. Forty years ago it read like fantasy. Exploring and expanding the boundaries of the genre eagerly absorbing all sorts of newest trends trying on a common human face bravely ignoring the Cain's stamp of the "genre ghetto". Now it is perceived as one of the most humane works of modern times as a novel of piercing psychological power, as a filigree development of the theme of love and responsibility. It is not for nothing that Keyes called his book of memoirs published in the 1990s "Algernon, Charlie and Me."

- The book is an emotion that will not make you think about something particularly difficult. All the thoughts that it generates are very simple and understandable. Without revelations, of course, but not bad either. The assessment will, rather, depend on the degree of personal sensitivity because the author often uses the concept of "naive hero-evil reality-collision-squeezing out sympathy" during the work.

5. Agatha Christie  "Murder on the Orient Express"

The great detective Hercule Poirot who was in Istanbul returns to England on the famous "Orient Express" in which it seems, representatives of all possible nationalities travel with him. One of the passengers an unpleasant American named Ratchett offers Poirot to become his bodyguard since he believes that he could be killed. The famous Belgian brushes off this absurd request. And the next day the American is found dead in his compartment with the doors closed and the window open. Poirot immediately takes up the investigation - and finds out that the compartment is full of all sorts of evidence pointing... to almost all the passengers of the Orient Express. In addition the train gets stuck in snow drifts in a deserted place. Poirot needs to find the killer before the express can continue on its way...

- I liked the book. Pretty easy to read. The plot is "confused" from the very beginning but Mr. Poirot is yet  a world-famous detective. It is better to read about all the twists and turns of the investigation on your own, "immersion" is guaranteed.

6. Stieg Larsson "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo"

Forty years of the mystery of the disappearance of a young relative haunts the aging industrial tycoon and now he makes the last attempt in his life - entrusts his search to journalist Mikael Blomkvist. He takes on a hopeless business more in order to distract himself from his own troubles but soon realizes: the problem is even more complicated than it seems at first glance.

What is the connection between a long-standing incident on the territory with the use of mobile devices which happened in different years in different parts of Sweden? What does the quotation from the Third Book of Moses have to do with it? And who, after all, attempted on the life of Michael himself when he came too close to the solution?

- The whole trilogy left a deep impression. Such books appear very rarely. Out-of-the-box characters, amazing Sweden, dark atmosphere. I advise absolutely everyone!

7. Ray Bradbury "Fahrenheit 451"

Perhaps the best of Bradbury's writings. The story "Fahrenheit 451" depicts a dystopian society of the future but in fact - "our reality, reduced to absurdity." Bradbury invented a state where reading and keeping books is prohibited. For the sake of political correctness and general peace of mind the general level of spiritual and intellectual demands of citizens is artificially lowered. But there are rebels and fugitives.

This is one of Bradbury's rare sci-fi works. Very exciting touching and at the same time very lively and dynamic. With a relatively simple plot, it is full of allusions including biblical texts and complex symbolism.

- This is just a great book! I advise everyone to read it! Despite the fact that the author wrote it in 1953 this does not feel at all. A very interesting and poignant plot for our time.

8. Victor Hugo "Les Miserables"

All the works of the great French poet, novelist and playwright Victor Marie Hugo (1802-1885) are covered with a halo of romanticism. The idea of ​​life-giving love, mercy, the triumph of good over evil - this is the core of his novel "Les Miserables". Among the "outcasts" are Jean Valjean sentenced to 20 years for stealing bread for his starving family and the little dirty Cosette who turned into a charming girl and a child of the Parisian streets of Gavroche...

- Brilliant work! So thoughtful, so overwhelming and so humane. The inimitable Hugo put all his philanthropy into this magnificent novel!

9. Stephen King "The Green Mile"

Stephen King invites readers to the eerie world of the death row where they leave in order not to return, opens the door of the last refuge of those who have transgressed not only human but also God's law. There is no more deadly place on this side of the electric chair! Nothing you've read before beats Stephen King's most audacious horror experience - a story that begins on Death Road and goes deep into the deepest secrets of the human soul...

- I have been familiar with the work of S. King for a long time and have read more than a dozen of his books. The work "The Green Mile" is a story that will not let you go for a long time. She leaves a residue in her soul - mixed feelings and indescribable impressions from the story itself, unique and ingenious.

10. Gregory David Roberts "Shantaram"

This art-refracted confession of a man who managed to get out of the abyss and survive, has sold four million copies around the world and has earned rave comparisons with the works of the best writers of the modern era from Melville to Hemingway. Like the author the hero of this novel has been hiding from the law for many years. Deprived of parental rights after a divorce from his wife, he became addicted to drugs, committed a number of robberies and was sentenced by an Australian court to nineteen years in prison. Having escaped from a maximum security prison in his second year, he reached Bombay where he was a counterfeiter and smuggler, traded arms and participated in the showdown of the Indian mafia and also found his true love, to lose it again, to find it again...

- It is very difficult to somehow categorically evaluate this novel. There are many advantages here: a fascinating story of the wanderings of the protagonist in the world of a harsh exotic country. Together with him, the reader develops, absorbs the alien culture and energy of other people, people of another world to which we are not used to. However there is something ridiculous about this.  At times it seems that we are watching real Indian cinema - the brainchild of Bollywood naive and merciless. In general I liked the novel, it is interesting, bright, impetuous. During the period of reading this great story, I have never been bored. Despite some controversial points - I advise!

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 14

Happy Valentine's Day! I have been pushing myself to get this chapter out on the day of love! As always your playlist song:

Like A Prayer

❤TragedyBunny❤

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

Thunk. The dagger hits the target, perfectly dead center. I’m hanging upside down from a ceiling rafter, throwing at targets scattered around the room, concentrating despite the dizziness starting to make my head spin. Behind me, I hear the whine of the opening door. None of the servants would dare interrupt me, not even Gwen. “Kitten, are you still not talking to me?”

I listen to his steps as he draws closer to me. I glance to my right and let a dagger fly in his direction. It buries itself in the wall next to him, he doesn’t flinch. “I’ll take that as yes.” We both know that I wasn’t actually aiming at him. He sighs, now the negotiating starts. “How about we go to the theatre tonight and then to that little cafe you like so much?” 

I throw a blade at another target and ignore him. I want to see what concessions he’s willing to make. “I’ll buy you something shiny.” Hmm, there are a few pieces at the jeweler’s that I’ve had my eye on.

I throw again, another perfect hit. “Fine, do whatever you want to do with the blasted garden.” He almost sounds pained saying it.  I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, I hadn’t expected to get exactly what I wanted. That’s what the whole argument had been about, he’d been staunchly against the expense. 

“All of the above.” I sit up onto the beam and drop down next to him. I almost let out a gasp when I get a good look at him, he looks so very tired and worn. He’d left before the sun was even up this morning. I’d barely fallen asleep after chasing a target most of the night when I’d felt him stir beside me. There’s been growing unrest in the south, sparking bands of rebels to spring up and need to be put down. I feel a bit guilty for all the theatrics just now. I lean up and brush my lips against his while wrapping my arms around his neck. “Darling, we don’t have to go out.” 

I watch his eyes stray to the now faded handprint on my wrist. The past couple of months since that terrible night he’s been overly indulgent, giving into nearly every request or whim of mine. It’s bittersweet, I no longer believe what we have means nothing to him, but he still will not tell me otherwise. Is it pride, fear, or am I imagining things? He leans his cheek on the top of my head. “No, it’s fine.” 

The way I’m pressed against his chest I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and reassuring. “I'll leave it up to you.” I feel his arms tighten around me. I’m tempted to say more, but it’d make him cross if I fussed over him. 

When we first started going to the theatre we were the subject of extreme interest. Those same whispers that followed us at the Solstice revels consumed the theatre crowd. Winter was fading away and we were falling back into a routine after what happened, he found me idly sketching and stated he was bored and we should go out. I told him he never wanted to go out, which earned an annoyed huff. I’d had to kiss away his irritation before he’d let me agree to his suggestion. It became a bit of a regular occurrence as spring arrived full force, the two of us, ensconced in his private box, bantering and debating in hushed whispers, trying to keep as quiet as possible. As if anyone would actually admonish the Grand General for not keeping quiet at the theatre. 

“You really are spoiling me.” I twirl and show off the latest of his gifts, black lace and tulle, voluminous skirt yet somehow very revealing. 

“I would say it’s worth it.” His gaze roves over me appreciatively before his hands close around my hips and he pulls me close. “You’re stunning.” The way his voice drops low and he whispers those words in my ear, I can almost feel my cheeks going crimson. I hate it when he does that. 

“We will be late if you continue this.”  I hesitate for a moment, we could just stay home. Eventually, I pull myself from his grasp and climb into the waiting carriage. “You may further compliment me when we return.” 

It’s opening night for some unheard of playwright who’s managed to get the backing of a noble family. These productions that buy their way into a theatre are usually vanity pieces for their patrons and almost always end in spectacular disaster. Tonight is no exception, an overwrought affair based on an old myth, with glaringly obvious current parallels. “Really? Comparing me to Mordekaiser. I’m not sure if I should be insulted or flattered.” 

“I would say flattered, but the dialogue is so insipid I’m going to go with insulted.” I make a mock gagging noise. 

“We could just leave. That would cause a bit of a stir, walk out right now.”

“Tempting but whoever bankrolled this would probably think that was a victory. Oh, I know, let’s ask to meet the author. I heard he’s here. That will terrify him.” 

“That is evil. How do I sleep next to you at night?” He puts his arm through my mine, bringing us closer. 

“I always assumed very lightly.” I lean my head on his shoulder, relishing the moment.

He laughs in that subdued manner that’s typical for him, control to him is everything, and then squeezes my hand ever so slightly. I’ve come to know that gesture for what it is, his way of asking for affection, even if it is more proof of that constant need for control. I tilt my head up and brush my lips against his cheek anyway, I’ll not deny him. “I’m glad we came out tonight.” I’m taken aback at the unexpected honesty. I return my head to his shoulder and feel him ever so lightly kiss the top of my head.

“Me too.” Some intuition grips me and I realize there’s something he’s not telling me. I can feel the tension in his body as I lean against him. Between that and the tiredness lingering in his eyes, I’m troubled. 

I don’t really pay attention to the remainder of the theatrical debacle playing out before us, instead, we whisper back and forth and exchange soft kisses when we run out of words. When the whole dreadful thing has finally concluded neither of us is invested in our malicious scheme from earlier. We attempt to slip out of the theatre quickly before any of the high society crowd can attempt to small talk to us. “Madame Katarina, Grand General!” Coming around a corner into an open foyer we almost run down the owner of the cultured, smooth voice. 

“Rowan!” We stop short and I lean in to give them a quick peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful surprise.” I hear Jericho very quietly huff behind me, he knows why I'm so elated at the coincidence.

“Am I missing something?” They clearly sense the opposing forces at work here.

I met Rowan at a gallery show for Alrich about a month ago, we ended up deep in conversation and kept in touch after. It was only after our first meeting that I realized they were, in fact, the newly elected Head of the Mage’s Council. Jericho referred to it as quite a fortuitous connection, always politics with him.  “Since you asked, there’s a small favor I need to beg of you.” Gardens don’t really grow in normal Noxian soil, you either import it or have it enchanted or better yet, both. “Could you recommend the best green mage of your acquaintance?” I give deep emphasis to best, the cost isn’t a concern. 

“Planning to play in your garden a bit?” They give me a wry smile, they’ve heard my ambitions on this subject before. “I’ll see to it as soon as possible my dear. I hope you'll forgive my haste but I'm late to an engagement." He inclines his head politely to Jericho. "Grand General,  always an honor, Sir. And do stop by sometime, the both of you, I owe you a tour.”

“We’ll look forward to it.” We kiss cheeks again, Jericho returns their nod, and they fade into the now pressing crowd. 

Pushing through to the exit we finally find ourselves out in the mild spring night. I take his arm as we walk the short distance from the theatre to the cafe. “What’s troubling you, and don’t tell me nothing, I know better.”

“You are spending too much time with me. I had planned on having a discussion with you shortly. But first, other pressing matters. You are aware there is an intelligence briefing tomorrow, correct?” 

“Yes.” This again, I keep my tone purposefully terse. 

“And you know what time it is set to begin at?” I nod silently. “Then don’t be late again. Veera already thinks your position should be rescinded, stop giving her excuses. And please actually try to be in uniform.”

“She’s never going to like my being there anyway.” This is really the last thing I want to talk about. 

“I’d imagine that has something to do with you breaking her nose up north.” His tone is flat. 

I pull away from him to gesture wildly. “You know what she said! How was I supposed to know she was Intelligence.” 

“You could’ve not let her bait you like that. However, she’s your Superior and you will have to deal with her for now.”

“Until I’m promoted. That’s what you’re planning on, isn’t it?” Thinking of fucking Veera and High Command has me silently seething. I didn’t even want this position in Intelligence, it was regretfully forced on me as soon as I became Guild Commander. “Remember when she had the nerve to ask if I could even read High Noxian like I’m some sort of uneducated child. The Grand Whore apparently can't understand our official language."

He surprisingly chuckles quietly. “You spent a whole meeting only speaking to her in Old Noxian. It was quite impressive actually, I didn’t even know you spoke it.” Now he finds it amusing, he was irritated at the time. 

“I suppose it’s typical. People usually think killing is all I’m good for.” With that thought, melancholy starts to bleed into my rage. I trudge on in silence but he catches up and takes my arm again. He doesn’t speak though, giving me a moment until we reach our destination on the edge of an open plaza. There are a few cafes scattered amongst the now darkened shops that remain open for the crowds coming from the theatres, opera house, and galleries, but there’s one in particular I favor. 

We’d started coming here shortly after we began having theatre nights. I’d frequented it before on my own, but one night we’d both needed sobering up and weren’t ready to go home. There had been a painfully boring diplomatic dinner that had impelled us both to decimate our host’s wine cellar. Well, impelled me anyway, I may have drug him along with it. It makes me smile a little to think of myself being a bad influence on the Grand General. We’d scared the owner Tavi, a Shuriman immigrant, half to death. He had no idea what to do with Jericho seated at one of his outdoor tables, sipping coffee with his mistress. He has since thankfully calmed down a bit when we show up. 

We find our usual table, tucked into a darker corner of the veranda, affording us at least some privacy, as Jericho prefers. Sahar, one of Tavi’s daughters brings out coffee with a polite greeting before we even ask. They always have the best Shuriman brew here. You can tell by the number of Tavi’s fellow immigrants clustered inside, looking for a taste of home. Moments later Sahar reappears with a smile and one of Tavi’s famous flaky crusted pastries. “I saved one just for you, Madame, I know you are fond of them.” She’s a flatterer, but that’s what I pay for. 

“Many thanks, Sahar. ” The scent of strawberries and roasted nuts wafts up to me and as soon as she’s out of sight I ravenously stuff a large forkful in my mouth. 

Jericho smirks at me from across the table. “If only I knew before that all it took to mollify you was a decent pastry.” 

I feign being indignant “It’s the strawberries, they’re my favorite, and someone wouldn’t let me have them all winter.” 

“No, he said stop spending a fortune on them when they have to be imported.” He pretends to be stern with me. 

I play the brat and pout. “You were mean about it and I didn’t get any.”

“My poor Kitten, that must have been torture. Although I know full well you had Cress buying them and hiding the cost. How many bottles of wine did it cost me for you to bribe him?” He sits back looking triumphant, he’s won our little back and forth.”

“No fair, you always know everything.” I blow him a kiss and finish enjoying my pastry. With the last bite dispatched I turn my attention back to what’s bothering him. The silence that’s stretched between us seems to be alive with whatever it is, it’s heavy and oppressive, erasing the pleasantness of a few moments ago.  “So.”

“I suppose I owe you that discussion about what’s been on my mind.” I nod, hoping to just get it over with. My every sense is telling me to dread his words. “You know there’s been unrest in the south. Thus far the forces sent have failed to stamp it out entirely.” He pauses and once again tension fills the space between us. “I intend to go settle it myself.”

My heart freezes, I forget to breathe. He’s going to war. Part of me cries out to beg him not to, but that’s not the Noxian way and he’d despise it. Instead, I steady myself and bury that impulse. “Do you want me to go with?” That would be acceptable, I could make myself of use, like in the North.

He shakes his head. Of course, he won’t want it construed that he needs to take his little pet everywhere with him. “No, but the situation has given me much to consider and there is something I need to ask of you.” Another moment of terrible silence. I stare down at the cup in my hands that I hadn’t realized I was clutching tightly. Will he just get this over with? “It occurs to me I could use someone to watch over my interests while I’m away. Not with official power, of course, but to keep my allegiances strong and prevent my enemies from growing too bold.”

“And?” I urge him on, gesturing impatiently. 

“I would want you to have the respect due to you while acting on my behalf. And I’d like to make it clear in that case that anyone acting against you is acting against me as well.” I take a sip of coffee, completely lost. “All this is to say, I think we should get married.” 

A raspy cough escapes me as I choke on my coffee. “What!?”

“You and I, we should get married.” He says a bit more slowly as if it somehow makes it any less absurd. 

“Honestly, I’m a little surprised you’re even bothering to ask and not just ordering.” The shock leaves me defensive and lashing out. Get married, be his wife, this is lunacy.

Now he’s the one who turns his eyes away and contemplates his cup. “Fair enough. Although I would argue things have changed over time.” He reaches out to take my hand, thumb running along my knuckles. His voice drops into that soft tone that always persuades me to his point. “You would agree, right?”

Damn him for being charming. “I suppose they have a bit.” I give his hand a soft squeeze. 

“You have to admit it is a solid notion. I know Darius can be depended upon and Argos is very capable but has not been in his position long.  And soon enough we’ll have a new Commander of the Capitol Guard.” 

“I didn’t realize she was finally retiring.” I interrupt. 

“Not quite.” The insinuation is unmistakable. “I’ll need you to see to it personally. Back to the point, I’ll get what I need while I’m gone and if I should not return, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.” 

I roll my eyes at that last bit. “Don’t be ridiculous, something’s far more likely to befall me than you.”

He looks up brows furrowed. “Don’t say that.”

“Can I think about this whole thing?” I’m at a loss. All my work to accept the way things are between us, and he wants to complicate it all over again. 

“If you insist, my Warbands have been summoned though, and I plan to leave within the week.” Why am I the last to know about this whole thing? “Keep in mind, we can always get divorced if you find it disagreeable. In fact, since you have no assets of your own, I’m technically the only one at risk.”

It’s such a clerical way of looking at it, just what I’d expect from him. I almost wish it hurt, but I’m too used to how he is. So instead I simply rise and stretch. “I’m ready to go home.” I start walking away before he’s even out of his seat. 

“Right.” He leaves some coin on the table and hurries to catch up with me. I feel the weight of his coat drop around my shoulders and inhale the scent of him that clings to it, leather and parchment and that cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear. “There’s a chill in the air.” There’s not but it’s an unusually soft gesture so I let his little lie slide.

“Still trying to persuade me?” I slow my pace a bit so that we fall into step with each other. 

“Perhaps.” He takes my hand. “Is it working?” I only roll my eyes at him again, this time with a smile though. 

Thankfully he lets the subject drop the rest of the way home. Once Gwen has helped me out of my dress, I slip on my robe and take a precious few moments to think while running a brush through my hair. How can I even begin to contemplate marrying him? It’s absolutely absurd, and he’s arranged it all with the same cool detachment of ordering his soldiers into formation. And yet he asked, admitting when he did that things are not as they once were between us. With that admission comes the stinging awareness that for whatever his reason, he’d rather it remain unacknowledged. As usual, I’m expected to obey his wishes and follow along with his silence. But isn’t that what I’ve accepted time and again?

Nothing is clarified by the time I slip next door to find him hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Are you seriously working right now?”

He puts a hand up. “I’ll only be a moment.” 

I stalk over and drop myself into his lap, he doesn’t get to propose to me and then spend the rest of the night obsessing over the Empire. “No.” He tries to write around me. “I want your attention.” 

I lean in and kiss his jaw just where it meets his neck, he shudders. My lips travel upward, I nip and pull his earlobe between my teeth, sucking for a moment. He gasps, pen clattering down onto the desk. “You are insistent on making a nuisance of yourself, aren’t you?” He wraps his hands around my hips.

“If that’s what it takes to get what I want.” I can feel that tension in him again and I’m reminded of the reason for his proposal. There must be some concern about this rebellion within High Command if he’s going to take on the task himself. He still hasn’t rooted out the conspiracy he knows is working in the shadows, no doubt that weighs on him as well. I kiss his neck and let my teeth graze it, he digs his fingers into my hips and thrusts lightly against me. I feel the heat of desire build inside me. “You’re so tense though, let me take care of you.”

I push his hands away and slide down to the floor between his legs. I trace my fingers along the growing bulge in his pants, causing more small noises from him, before opening them. He sighs when I grasp him and work my hand up and down his length. I feel his fingers dig into my shoulders when I run my tongue over his head and take him into my mouth. His hand grips my hair, pushing me forward, urging me to take all of him. Tongue pressed against him, lips tight, I move up and down, listening to his soft moans. When he can no longer stand my deliberately slow pace, he holds me still and drives into me, relentlessly using me. 

I hear his rapid breathing and know he’s taken himself close to the edge. I break away, clambering back into his lap, straddling his hips. I let my robe fall to the floor and lean down for a rough kiss, my hand once again wrapped around his cock. “Don’t tease me.” He growls. 

“Never.” Wet and aching for him, I impale myself on him and moan as his hips buck up to meet me. Again I start slow, rocking my hips against him, taking him as deep as possible. His hands hold me loosely, a sign he's given over control to me.  “You feel so good inside me.” I quicken, moving with urgency, breath coming rapidly, feeling the bliss of being filled with him. I feel myself tighten around him,  pleasure exploding inside me, crying out as I’m spent. I’m pliant as a moment later he pulls me down roughly, taking back that control, and finishing with a few deep thrusts. 

I lean my head onto his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, and feel his arms wrap around me. He means so much to me, will I lose him if I don’t do what he asks? Will he find someone else to play the part? I’m out of choices again it would seem. “You’re right, it’s a good idea.”

I leave it at that and wait for him to respond. “Look me in the eyes and tell me yes, if that’s your answer, Kat.” 

I oblige and sit up, staring into those unyielding dark pools. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” I brush my lips lightly against his to seal my promise. 

[yellowreeds-writer]

Gambit Games chapter 1

(Hey guys, new project, its mostly smut and violence, you’ve been warned. this first chapter is just a bit of set up)

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Marlow spoke, his voice low trying to emulate a creepy voice. The flashlight pointed up at his face illuminating the old Elton john poster behind him. Yvette and Annie giggle at the cliché opening line and Smith gives a big huff.

Marlow grabs a pillow from my twin bed beside him and throws it at him. “Shut it, downer, I’m trying to set the mood.”

“Last time you did that it took you two hours just to tell us an “original story” that turned out just to be an alternative version of Animal Farm.” Smith catches the pillow and swiftly throws it back hitting the shorter boy right it the throat.

“Alright, fuck you!” Marlow chuckles playfully and tosses the red pillow at me.

I catch it easily, Marlow’s never been a good shot, it’s a surprise it even made it into my hands.

“Come on guys I kind of want to hear Mar’s little story.” Annie said between soft chuckles.

“Little?!” Marlow fakes a loud gasp, “I’ll have you know I’m this generation’s next great author!”

Smith moves to sit on the bed and throws my second pillow at him, “Sure, when whatever perv website you use to post your one-direction fanfiction I’ll believe you.”

Marlow shifts back, a blush coming across his face. I lean over him from my spot on Claude’s bed to ruffle his wavy hair. We haven’t stop teasing him about his written erotica since Smith saw his latest creation when he left his laptop open. We’ve known since day one that he was gay, it wasn’t really a problem for anyone but his ex-roommate Oliver, but Smith was a good man and traded rooms with him, the AC works better in his old room and anyone would want it over the other stuffy ass rooms on this floor.

“Aw leave him alone” Annie takes my third and finale pillow off my bed to support her back.

“No, keep it going, hearing about Marlow’s sexual fantasies is far more interesting than any of his books or plays that we’ve yet to read.” Yvette points out.

Giggles and laughter erupt from the group as Marlow shrivels up in his button up shirt. My freshmen year of college has gone much better than I thought it would. Its only September but I find myself in good company. In high school I’m not quite sure what I did wrong, I’m not mean to people, I’m rather smart and as far as I’m told I’m very attractive. But back in my hometown I never really had any friends. Classmates sure but outside of them asking to barrow my notes I didn’t really conversate. I spent most of my free time writing, I guess it paid off too because now I’ve got a free ride through the country’s best playwriting program.

The top four floors of the oldest building on campus is reserved for the theatre program students and the top floor is for the scholarship kids, which is us, and the other three floors hate us, which I love. I love the superiority of it all, I love being hated by the lesser it further proves my place above it all. Yvette flips her black hair over her shoulder, as she does this action, I realize what she’s wearing tonight, or lack of. Yvette has always dressed a certain way but her current assemble seemed to top a mental list I didn’t even know I was making. She’s wearing a tight-fitting black tank top that clearly is far too small and sweats that seem to hug curves I didn’t know she had. Huh.

“Psst.” Smith calls over the group to me as Marlow struggles to change the subject. He mouths something to me that I can’t really tell, the room is very dark. Then me nods to Yvette. ‘stop staring’ that was it, see, I’m smart.

As I start to tune in to whatever the new topic is my focus is ripped away by the door of my dorm slamming open and the lights flipping on.

“Why are you all sitting in the dark? Please tell me no one’s having sex on my bed.”

Claude stands at the doorway, his copper hair showing off its red shine telling me he hasn’t washed his hair in a good while. He’s tall, taller than me but not as tall as smith, but even then, Smith’s only six two. We’re not the most height-friendly bunch with most of us being below five ten.

“You wish I was.” Yvette follows her comment up with a fake moan.

Claude sighs and drops his bag by the foot of his bed and looks dead into my eyes; “What are they all doing here?”

Before I can answer Smith stands up from my bed and rolls his shoulders back, “Its scary story night, sweetheart, come on join us.”

The shorter boy puffs his chest out a bit and puts his hands in his jean pockets, jeans I now realize they are covered with an un-godly amount of dirt.

“No thanks, I’ll pass. But y’all need to relocate I’ve got a killer head ache and I’d rather be asleep right now.”

Smith looks him up and down, makes a show of rolling his shoulders back again. They’re squaring off at each other, they do it quite a lot, I don’t know if its because they’re the two alpha males of our group or what. Though, I wouldn’t say Claude is part the group, he mostly gets stuck with one of us for projects because he’s also a scholarship kid meaning the rest of the department hates his guts. At first I thought they did it because they wanted to fuck but neither of them wanted to admit to being a bottom, but now I know they’re both straight. Very much so in Claude’s case; he’s never even kissed a boy. Smith however tends to be a bit more fluid, at least from what I can tell.

Smith forfeits their fake fight first; “Tsk, fine. We can go to me and Marlow’s room.”

“Marlow and I.” the wavy-haired brunette corrects him as everyone starts to get unsettled from their spots.

Annie yawns as she gets to the door first, “actually guys I’m pretty tired, I’m going back to my room.

“Me too.” I chime in, “Y’all go on without us.”

Yvette scoffs at us, “Fine, more fun for Smith and Marlow.” She winks at me before stepping out of my dorm and down the hall.

Marlow flashes a confused face at Smith before the two of them leave. Annie picks up her phone from my bed’s edge and hugs me goodnight, she closes the door behind her and as soon as it clicks shut Claude starts stripping his clothes off.

“Why the rush?” I ask sinking back onto his bed.

“I haven’t showered in like two days and I’m covered in shit.” He says as he lifts his shirt over his head.

“Three.” I correct him. It his job that keeps him away at every free moment of the day. If he’s not in class or sleeping he’s at his mystery job that he refuses to talk about. I think he’s a janitor or something along those lines but that wouldn’t explain the weird hours or the dust and dirt, its not like bathroom grime its real under-the-grass dirt. Mud stains if it was raining that day.

As he slips off his jeans that are defiantly a size or two too big I ask him, “What’s with all the dirt?”

He grunts, “Work.”

“Very specific.”

He rolls his eyes and opens the door to our shared restroom and turns the shower on.

“I would like more details, please.”

“It was a long weekend, just worked more then usual, no laundry machines there so it’s not like I could wash my pants before you saw them.” He snaps.

“Just asking, calm down.” I decide not to push it, Claude is already a touchy person already, but I’m guessing he hasn’t slept much at all lately.

I change into a tank top and old shorts while he’s in the shower, waiting till he’s dresses and clothed till I go in there to take care of myself for the night.

“What time is your first class tomorrow?” He asks me.

“Ten.” I say through the tooth brush in my mouth, “That stupid English class they’re making us playwrights take. It’s the absolute worst thing.”

“So I’ve heard. That real flamboyant guy, William, he won’t shut up about it.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, “Non-scholarship kid? They talk to you?”

“No, but he’s loud enough during my dramaturgy class its hard to not to hear when he complains about everything.” He looks at me a moment while I spit into he sink. “Is he any good? At the writing stuff? He talks all this smack whenever Marlow or Oliver even walk by his vicinity. I just gotta know.”

“Ha, absolutely not, he thinks just because he was named after Shakespeare he’s god’s gift, but his shit is so “inspectorial” and “meta” I couldn’t tell you what a damn one was about.”

Claude nods, “A’ight, I’ll bring that up next time he calls Marlow’s play’s basic.”

“I’m surprised Mar’s doesn’t stand up for himself.”

“He’s taken after you,” He says walks to his bed, “just starting ignoring everyone that doesn’t matter. Which I suppose at this point is anyone who doesn’t live on this floor or teach one of his classes.”

“Smart kid.” I say turning off the light to the bathroom.

“Night Butch.” He says quietly.

“G’night Claude.” I respond turning off the dorm room light. As I slip into bed, I think about nothing, nothing at all.

[sometimesiwrite]

A Pinter Pause (2/2)

Part 2 Summary: Terence and Katherine find themselves connecting on a deeper level than they had anticipated after re-kindling their acquaintance during an opening night reception at the theatre nearby. They hastily head back to Terence’s apartment to continue the evening.

Content Notes: Smut, condom use, oral, m/f intercourse, slight mention of BDSM/rough sex, discussion of emotional availability, fluff, explicit language.

Word Count: ~3,000

Again, I didn’t intend this as an imagine/fanfic piece but as with the previous story, but who am I to tell you how to use your imagination ;)

*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*

Katherine climbed the stairs to the second floor, nerves fluttering in her stomach as she approached the top of the stair case and paused, realizing Terence still had the key. He squeezed past her on the stairs, taking a little extra time to linger across from her. How is he so...ugh! Katherine was both infuriated and incredibly attracted by his composure, meanwhile here she was with clammy hands, sweaty armpits and knees that made her feel like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time. Terence grinned, “Chanel, isn’t it?”

“Dior,” she answered back, a playful edge of defiance in her voice masking her desire to scream How is this happening?! in his face. She followed Terence the rest of the way up the stairs, trying desperately to stop the feeling of becoming increasingly less sexy. His apartment was tastefully decorated and mostly what she would have expected from the home of a well-dressed urban bachelor. The floors were a varnished honey-coloured hardwood and were warm underfoot as she removed her shoes, wincing a little as she let them spread back to their full width after being confined all evening.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, also removing his shoes and blazer, and loosening his tie.

“Vodka soda with lemon?” she asked, hoping it might combat some of the dryness in her mouth.

“Coming up! Feel free to have a look around, I’ll be back in a second” he called out on his way to the kitchen. She wandered into the living room area which was cozy-yet modern with an abstract shag carpet in front of the sofa and a few larger potted plants flanking the door to what could only be his patio. A desk and some tall bookcases filled a square of the living area which he had clearly claimed as a kind of makeshift office-library with a an easy chair under a reading lamp and a coffee table next to it. She made her way over to the bookshelves to have a look at his collection which proved to be wonderfully eclectic: A Picture of Dorian Gray, a bunch of old DC and Marvel Comics, notably Hawkeye, Justice League, and Spiderman, The Collected Works of A. A. Milne, Wuthering Heights, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, a few other fantasy novels she didn’t recognize by an author whose name looked Scandinavian—Sap…Sapkowski? Her eyes continued to scan the shelves. There were a fair number of playwrights featured in his collection as well, Beckett, Pinter, David Mamet, Sam Shepard, Hanna Moscovitch, Judith Thompson… So much for learning about a person from what they have on their bookshelves. What doesn’t this guy read?

In the kitchen, Terence took a stiff drink of whisky from his glass before pouring Katherine’s drink. He wasn’t nervous, per se... more than anything he was having a hard time believing that a woman of Katherine’s caliber was not only in his apartment, but wanted him, at least for the night if nothing more. Steeling himself, he left the kitchen half expecting her to have left, though he didn’t know why.

He found her in the living room and brought her drink over. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted ice so I gave you a little.” His finger lingered on hers as she took the glass from him, basking in the colour of his eyes, a clear water-y blue. “I see you’ve found my bookshelves,” he said, standing close behind her holding his own drink in his hand. She could feel the warmth of his chest radiating against her back. Again, she was impressed at how incredibly at ease she felt despite her nerves. Sure, he wanted her, absolutely he wanted her, if for nothing more than one night… but he didn’t need anything, didn’t have to have anything from her, which made her hope, at least somewhere in her jaded soul, that perhaps he would be interested in more than an evening.

“They say you can learn a lot about a person from their bookshelves...”

“What have you deciphered? Surely your clever mind has come up with something.” He gently stroked her arm.

“Well...”She leaned back against him and tilted her head to one side, a subtle invitation. “You’re a bit of an enigma, Terrence. You’ve got everything from early 20th Century romance to superheroes and Winnie the Pooh.” 

He moved his drink to his other hand and gently swept her hair back. “But if you were to hazard a guess?”

“I would say that you’re very interested in people’s minds—” 

His nose lingered at her ear for a moment as he leant down to kiss her neck, breathing warm air onto her and inhaling more of her perfume, and with it more of her. 

“—and are probably more vulnerable than you let on.”  

Terence chastely pressed his lips against the tender skin of her neck, felt her pulse quicken under the surface as his arm wrapped around her waist, a thumb just grazing the bottom of her underwire. “If all that were true, would you still want to stay the night?” Katherine turned around and took Terence’s drink out of his hand and walked to the coffee table where she set both drinks down. He watched with the smallest hint of concern on his forehead, wondering whether she had lost interest. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You bet I do,” she gave him a wide and reassuring smile, playfully biting her bottom lip.

Terence brushed a stray hair behind her ear. “You really are stunning,” he said, an earnestness settling in his features. Katherine’s eyes softened for a moment as she gazed at the man standing across from her, her internal monologue just as speechless as she was. They pressed together slowly, completely immersed in each other’s warmth as passion mounted and swelled inside them. It had been ages since she’d been kissed like this, Katherine thought, as firm hands circled the back of her neck and waist, pulling her close. Before she knew it, her fingers were in his hair and their kisses turned all tongues and teeth as they hungrily proceeded, buttons haphazardly fumbled with as shirts were worked open on their slow journey to the bedroom.

Terence turned on the lights. “How about a little ambiance,” he said, dimming them until a warm glow honeyed his soft blue-grey walls. “Better.” He smiled at her for what felt like the hundredth time that night and paused to read her face, his eyes scanning for signs of hesitation, but all he saw was Katherine smiling back at him. He plunged into a fresh kiss, stubble leaving her lips tingling, smearing what was left of her lipstick away. They reached the last button at the same time, peeling the offensive layers from each others bodies. Katherine ran her hands across Terence’s smooth cotton undershirt, his chest warm and firm under her touch as she tugged at the hem, wrenching it from the waistband of his pants. Realizing she was wearing a slip, Terrence skillfully unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor at her feet. Katherine firmly grabbed a handful of backside with a playful smile on her face and he raised his eyebrows at her. Terence returned the favour, except his hands were much larger and his arms much stronger. “Two can play at that game,” he quipped, and pulled her off her feet as she let out a shriek of surprise, laughing as he walked them toward the bed.

“Well, here we are,” he said matter-of-factly. “What should we do now?” She laughed gently as she tightened her legs around him.

“I’m really asking,” he said, lowering her to the bed and straightening up to remove his pants. “I want to know what you want. Because, thing is,” he continued, sitting down on the bed, “I can accommodate a wide range of preferences.”

She looked at him quizzically, wondering whether she was on the cusp of something she hadn’t expected. “I don’t, um… I mean I’m not into… at least I don’t think I am, but—”

“I enjoy sex with people who are enjoying themselves, plain and simple. No strings attached, no tricks. I’ll enjoy myself if you’re enjoying yourself. It’s just kind of how I operate. So: beautiful, charming, intoxicating woman, what would you enjoy, darling?” He playfully rubbed his hardened front against her and she inhaled heavily. He smiled as he felt her desire for him dampen the fabric between them, but he still waited for her answer. “I’m pretty sure my only kink is a man who knows what he’s doing,” she laughed, pulling him close.

“That is a need I can most definitely accommodate, at least so the reviews have told me.”

“Hmmm, I’d like to follow up on that, is there a reference I could contact?” Katherine teased.

“No, but there is a 100% satisfaction guarantee: if you don’t finish, I don’t finish.” Terence quipped, his voice muffled in Katherine’s neck.  

“What do you want?” Katherine asked, seriously.

“Honestly?” Terence paused, “I would really love it if the neighbours heard you all the way from wherever the hell they are.”

 "I think I can work with that,” Katherine replied with a hawkish grin. Terence immediately took off his shirt and helped remove her slip, revealing a black lace bra which he unhooked with one hand and let fall away. 

“You’re already more proficient than 99% of the people I’ve been with,” she laughed. 

 “Let’s see if we can’t beat that last 1% shall we?” He pressed two fingers against her last remaining undergarment. “You’re so wet, darling, I can feel you through your underpants.”

He lay her back on the mattress, slowly tugging at her underwear. He kissed the margin where fabric and warm skin met, looking at her with a question on his face. She nodded enthusiastically. “Please,” she panted. He returned on top of her and she noticed he had removed the last of his clothing as well. She swallowed thickly at the sight of his naked body lowering on top of her. “Not too fast,” she murmured in his ear.

“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he reassured her, softly caressing her curves as she grew accustomed to his touch. He slowly kissed his way up her legs, teasing at the borders of her dark curls with his thumbs, listening to her hold her breath with anticipation. “If you want me to stop—”

“Don’t you dare,” Katherine blurted out, eagerly meeting his lips.

 Terrence smiled against her as his fingers slowly found their way to her centre and dragged languorously to her tip where they circled slowly. She let out an exhilarated gasp followed by a gentle moan as she pressed lightly into his hand. Terence felt a rush of gratification at how responsive she was to his touch. He teased a finger at her opening. Katherine drew a sharp breath as she felt his finger slip inside her. She clumsily reached out with her right hand searching, looking to give him something in return. She found what she was looking for.

Terence let out a satisfied moan and kissed her hard, swallowing Katherine’s sounds of pleasure. He gently pulled himself out of her hand as he shifted himself back between her legs, “There’s plenty waiting for him later.” With that, he disappeared, his tongue and fingers now proficiently navigating her most intimate topography. Katherine pursed her lips trying to control the sound that was escaping from her unbidden.

Terence raised his head briefly and kissed her luxuriously on the thigh. “The neighbours won’t hear you if you don’t let your beautiful voice out.” He smiled at her, memorized the expression on her face—a mixture of pleasurable agony and astonishment—and then returned between her legs. A wave of icy heat shot through Katherine’s body as she began to tremble, her voice grew louder as her fingers clutched the sheets on either side of her. She fell silent in the last moment before full release shot through her. Terence emerged from between Katherine’s legs and the puddle that had formed beneath her, an impressed, slightly amused expression on his face. “Very impressive. There really is a first time for everything,” he panted as he gazed down at Katherine’s trembling body. “Fuck,” she panted, looking up at him trying to recover, “oh jesusfuckingchrist.” She laughed, realizing what he had just said: “Wait. Wait. You mean you’ve never had a… I mean no woman’s ever…”

“Cum all over me? No, I can’t say I have.” They both laughed as Terence settled himself down on top of Katherine, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes that said they weren’t done yet. He kissed her passionately, buried his face him her neck, found every soft and sensitive patch of skin he could caress with his lips, his fingers tangled gently in her hair.

“I take it the customer is satisfied?” He teased.

“I don’t think I’ll be asking for a refund,” Katherine laughed breathlessly.

“Well, hopefully you’re not too satisfied just yet. You see, that was just the test drive.” Terence grinned a wolfish grin and pressed his body against hers.

“You should be careful, Terence,” Katherine warned, half serious. “I could really get used to this.”

Playfully, he urged her back to the task at hand, eager to connect more thoroughly. “Permission to proceed further?”

“Permission granted,” she answered, gutturally as she locked eyes with him. He raised an eyebrow and the rest was a blur—gasps, shudders, and moans filled the room as the two became a tangled mass of hair, legs, and hands. Sweat gathered on their glowing skin as they basked in sensation, drinking each other in, grasping at each other wherever they could as if there were too many molecules of air separating them, as if they could always be a little closer and him a little deeper. They were completely lost in pleasure, moving from one position to another, Terence changing pace just often enough to keep them both teetering on a knife’s edge. Finally, Katherine felt a hand come to circle her sensitive bundle of nerves and she felt everything shake as her hips faltered in their rhythm. Her voice was full and round with pleasure as Terence felt her body turn on a dime, felt her start to clench around him, her voice and breath shift as she started to call out with every swear word she could think of as she felt everything go white hot. They came undone at the same time, pressing hard against one another, still somehow not close enough.

They stayed there, panting on one another for a little while as they got their bearings. Terence shot Katherine a goofy expression as he tied their condom in a knot and threw it in the trash. Finally, Katherine got up to pee and they both cleaned themselves up before flopping back into bed, gulping cool water from the glasses Terence had brought back from the kitchen. Finding a dry patch to lie on, however, proved difficult. “Come here,” he said, opening his arm for her to nestle into the crook of his shoulder. Katherine sleepily obliged, crossing a leg over him, tracing a circle on his sternum with her finger.

“I wasn’t kidding about me getting used to this, Terence. You should be careful.” Katherine joked.

“I guess we both should be careful, then. Because I think I could too.” Katherine’s eyes snapped to meet his, trying to see if he was joking, but all she found was sincerity and tenderness. She raised her palm to the side of his face and he leaned into its warmth before kissing it: “I mean it, Katherine. You’re magnificent in every way.”

They both lingered for a moment in the realization that this was likely more than just one night of passion and indulgence, simultaneously hoping it might be more but not wanting to say so and risk an uncomfortable conversation.

“I must say this was a pleasant surprise, to say the least” He left a lingering kiss on the top of her head as he inhaled. Exhaled.

“Something tells me you encounter ‘pleasant surprises’ on a regular basis.” Katherine hoped she was wrong but tried to sound casual.

“No, actually, not often at all. Only when I want to connect with someone which isn’t always easy for me… hence my efforts to be... accommodating. So that when I do find an interesting person, there might be less of a barrier.”

“So you’re very physically available…”

“But am I emotionally available, you wonder?” Terence was quiet for a moment, and Katherine raised herself up onto her elbow to see his face. He looked up at her, his eyebrows baleful. He sighed and Katherine felt her stomach sink. “Let’s just say you were right about my bookshelf.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Impenetrably enigmatic?”

“I’m more vulnerable than I let on,” he admitted with difficulty. “It’s—been a long time since I’ve been... open to someone. In that way.”

Katherine nodded, her jaw tightening as she broke eye contact and looked away. She was grateful for the connection they had shared, the chemistry, the banter and company—not to mention excellent physical compatibility. But... 

“But,” he said, sitting up and placing a hand on her shoulder, “if you can bear with me a little bit, I could very quickly get back up to speed.”

Katherine smiled at him, relieved and surprised, affection swelling in her chest. “I would like that.” She settled back onto his chest and Terence rested his lips on the top of her head once more, feeling a piece of himself deep within crack open that had been shut tight for a very, very long time.

Tag requests:

@iloveyouyen

[parkinsonismblr-blog]

stonewall

this is by  @radfemwonderwoman but it wont let me like/reblog her awesomeness that i desperately need for my records hehe

First of all, the story of Stonewall is very complex. There is a lot of different accounts of what happened and who was there.

Let’s begin with Marsha and Sylvia.

1) Marsha P. Johnson was a gay man/transvestite/self-identified drag queen.

“Johnson’s concept of her gender identity varied throughout her life. In the early 1970s, Johnson simultaneously identified as a “gay transvestite” and briefly considered surgical transition,[18] the latter of which she ultimately rejected, saying in an interview on June 26, 1992 (ten days before her death), “I’m a man.”[3]”

He was for transgender rights, that’s true, but he himself was not transgender or transsexual.

2) Sylvia Rivera is a bit more complicated. Sylva referred to herself as a gay man, a transvestite, and a pre-op transsexual. So she may or may not have been transsexual, but that is not for us to assume.

~ “My first lover taught me how to make love to another man, and in my youth I was always supposed to be the bottom. This is the way I thought a relationship was…an effeminate gay boy was solely to be the bottom. My lover was a butch-looking boy, very butch. Actually, no one even knew he was gay.

~ “People now want to call me a lesbian because I’m with Julia, and I say, “No. I’m just me. I’m not a lesbian.” I’m tired of being labeled. I don’t even like the label transgender. I’m tired of living with labels. I just want to be who I am. I am Sylvia Rivera. Ray Rivera left home at the age of 10 to become Sylvia. And that’s who I am.”

~ “What about the term “drag queen?” People in STAR prefer to use the term “transvestite.” Can you explain the difference?

A drag queen is one that usually goes to a ball, and that’s the only time she gets dressed up. Transvestites live in drag. A transsexual spends most of her life in drag. I never come out of drag to go anywhere. Everywhere I go I get all dressed up. A transvestite is still like a boy, very manly looking, a feminine boy. You wear drag here and there. When you’re a transsexual, you have hormone treatments and you’re on your way to a sex change, and you never come out of female clothes.

You’d be considered a pre-operative transsexual then? You don’t know when you’d be able to go through the sex change?

Oh, most likely this year. I’m planning to go to Sweden. I’m working very hard to go.

It’s cheaper there than it is at Johns Hopkins? It’s $300 for a change, but you’ve got to stay there a year.”

Very few drag queens were allowed into Stonewall and the bar was meant for gay men.

“Eric Marcus, Making Gay History

Actually, it was the first time I had been to the friggin’ Stonewall. The Stonewall wasn’t a bar for drag queens. Everybody keeps saying it was. The drag queen spot was the Washington Square Bar, at Third St. and Broadway. This is where I get into arguments with people. They say, “Oh, no, it was a drag-queen bar, it was a black bar.” No. Washington Square Bar was the drag-queen bar.If you were a drag queen, you could get into the Stonewall if they knew you. And only a certain number of drag queens were allowed into the Stonewall at that time.“

“Martin Duberman, Stonewall

Washington Square was Sylvia’s special favo[u]rite. It opened at three in the morning and catered primarily (rather than incidentally as was the case with Stonewall) to transvestites[.][…]If she was going out at all… she would go to Washington Square. She had never been crazy about Stonewall, she reminded Tammy: Men in makeup were tolerated there, but not exactly cherished.”

From Marsha: “Well, uh, at first it was just a gay men’s bar.  And they didn’t allow no, uh, women in.  And then they started allowing women in.  And then they let the drag queens in.  I was one of the first drag queens to go to that place.  ‘Cause when we first heard about this…  and then they had these drag queens workin’ there.  They didn’t never arrested anybody at the Stonewall.  All they did was line us up and tell us to get out.”

From Sylvia herself: “What people fail to realize is that the Stonewall was not a drag queen bar. It was a white male bar for middle-class males to pick up young boys of different races. Very few drag queens were allowed in there, because if they had allowed drag queens into the club, it would have brought the club down. That would have brought more problems to the club. It’s the way the Mafia thought, and so did the patrons. So the queens who were allowed in basically had inside connections. I used to go there to pick up drugs to take somewhere else. I had connections.” Sylvia was said to not have even been at the Stonewall riots.

“Paul D. Cain: Where’s Sylvia Rivera? Duberman’s Stonewall placed her at the bar on the first night of the riots, yet your book makes absolutely no mention of her (although you do mention her buddy, Marsha P. Johnson). Do you think that, like so many others, she fabricated her remarks about being there?

David Carter: Yes, I am afraid that I could only conclude that Sylvia’s account of her being there on the first night was a fabrication. Randy Wicker told me that Marsha P. Johnson, his roommate, told him that Sylvia was not at the Stonewall Inn at the outbreak of the riots as she had fallen asleep in Bryant Park after taking heroin. (Marsha had gone up to Bryant Park, found her asleep, and woke her up to tell her about the riots.) Playwright and early gay activist Doric Wilson also independently told me that Marsha Johnson had told him that Sylvia was not at the Stonewall Riots.Sylvia also showed a real inconsistency in her accounts of the Stonewall Riots. In one account she claimed that the night the riots broke out was the first time that she had ever been at the Stonewall Inn; in another account she said that she had been there many times. In one account she said that she was there in drag; in another account she says that she was not in drag. She told Martin Duberman that she went to the Stonewall Inn the night the riots began to celebrate Marsha Johnson’s birthday, but Marsha was born in August, not June. I also did not find one credible witness who saw her there on the first night.”

“My late uncle Bob Kohler was a Stonewall veteran; he could never actually place either Sylvia or Marsha at the bar.”

“The eyewitness accounts in RAT (July 1969) specifically credits “one guy” (not a lesbian or a queen) for precipitating a scuffle by refusing to be put into the paddy wagon…. At least two people credit Sylvia herself with provoking the riot…. But I’ve found no corroboration for either account[,] and Sylvia herself, with a keener regard for the historical record, denies the accuracy of both versions. She does remember “throwing bricks and rocks and things” after the mêlée began, but takes no credit for initiating the confrontation.“

“The Ambrosini photo does not show a single transvestite. Craig Rodwell told researcher Michael Scherker that “one of the myths about Stonewall is it was all drag queens. I mean, drag queens are part of what went on. Certainly one of the most courageous, but there were maybe twelve drag queens. In thousands of people.”

“Randy:  Marsha’s the only one, she’s the only one everyone agrees was at the Stonewall riots. There were a lot of other people, but everyone agrees that Marsha was there, so…

Marsha:  The way I winded up being at Stonewall that night, I was having a party uptown. And we were all out there and Miss Sylvia Rivera and them were over in the park having a cocktail.”

Please note how it says transvestites - transvestite is defined as:

“a person, especially a male, who assumes the dress and manner usually associated with the opposite sex.”

“Eric:  Now you mentioned an organization that Marsha, you were involved with.  What was the name?

Marsha:  Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries with Miss Sylvia Rivera.

Randy:  STAR.

Eric:  What was that group about?  What was it for?

Marsha:  Ah, it was a group for transvestites.

Randy:  It was a bunch of…

Marsha:  Men and women transvestites…”

Films/interviews:

Pay It No Mind: Marsha P. Johnson

Randy Wicker Interviews Sylvia Rivera on the Pier

Stonewall Veterans Talk About the Night That Changed The World - Stonewall: Profiles of Pride

3) The person who started the riots was a black butch lesbian drag king named Storm�� DeLarverie.

“Stormé DeLarverie (December 24, 1920 – May 24, 2014) was a butch lesbian whose scuffle with police, according to Storme herself and many eyewitnesses, was the defining moment that incited the Stonewall riots, spurring the crowd to action. “It was a rebellion, it was an uprising, it was a civil rights disobedience–it wasn’t no damn riot.”[1]”

“Fed up with constant police harassment and social discrimination, angry patrons and neighborhood residents hung around outside of the bar rather than disperse, becoming increasingly agitated as the events unfolded and people were aggressively manhandled. At one point, an officer hit a lesbian over the head as he forced her into the paddy wagon — she shouted to onlookers to act, inciting the crowd to begin throw pennies, bottles, cobble stones, and other objects at the police.”

“Several spectators agreed that it was the action of a cross-dressing lesbian – possibly Stormé DeLarverie – which would change everyone’s attitude forever. DeLarverie denied that she was the catalyst, but her own recollection matched others’ descriptions of the defining moment. “The cop hit me and I hit him back,” DeLarverie explained [in Kaiser’s own interview with her on 1995.12.09].”

Remembering Stormé - The Woman Of Color Who Incited The Stonewall Revolution

However, there are some disagreements on this:

“Charles Kaiser suggested to the author that Stormé DeLarverie (see The Gay Metropolis: 1940–1996 [Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997], p. 198) was this woman, but she could not have been. To cite only a few of the problems with this thesis, DeLarverie’s story is one of escaping the police, not of being taken into custody by them, and she has claimed that on that night she was outside the bar, “quiet, I didn’t say a word to anybody, I was just trying to see what was happening,” when a policeman, without provocation, hit her in the eye (“Stonewall 1969: A Symposium,” June 20, 1997, New York City). DeLarverie is also an African-American woman, and all the witnesses interviewed by the author describe the woman as Caucasian.”

4) You know that before Stonewall, there were LGB movements, right?

https://www.out.com/entertainment/popnography/2010/03/homo-history-emma-goldman.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_LGBT_actions_in_the_United_States_prior_to_the_Stonewall_riots

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Council_on_Religion_and_the_Homosexual

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knights_of_the_Clock

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Society_for_Human_Rights

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mattachine_Society

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daughters_of_Bilitis

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Kameny

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barbara_Gittings

Just a few examples for you.

5) You should also recognize that Stonewall didn’t affect people outside America.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientific-Humanitarian_Committee

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veterans_Benevolent_Association

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swedish_Federation_for_Lesbian,_Gay,_Bisexual_and_Transgender_Rights

You can deny history all you’d like, but it doesn’t change it.

Stay mad. 😘 ✌

[peckhampeculiar]

Painter man

TOM PHILLIPS IS A HIGHLY ACCLAIMED, PECKHAM-BASED ARTIST WHO HAS BEEN ACTIVE FOR MORE THAN 50 YEARS.

Here, he talks about his fascinating and varied career and calling up his friend Brian Eno on the phone

WORDS: SEAMUS HASSON;  PHOTO: LIMA CHARLIE

Tom Phillips is a local artist who has led a rather extraordinary life. A painter and sculptor of con­siderable renown, he is also a composer, set de­signer and writer. He has received commissions to produce artworks for the likes of Westminster Cathedral and Westminster Abbey and has held high-profile positions at some of the country’s most prestigious cultural institutions.

While Tom is an artist of international acclaim, he is also known locally as the bloke who de­signed the mosaics and iconic curved lamp posts on Bellenden Road.

I arrange to meet him at the Peckham Pelican on the August bank holiday, but on arrival we dis­cover it is closed for the day. After a brief discus­sion about how to proceed, we hop on the 345 to­wards Camberwell and settle for a greasy spoon a few stops down. Perhaps not the most distin­guished setting to interview one of the country’s most esteemed artists and a trustee of the British Museum, but Tom is without pretension.

“I’m a south London boy,” he says. “I’ve lived all of my life in south London and most of it in Peck­ham.”

Tom was born in Clapham in 1937, where he spent his early years and attended Henry Thorn­ton Grammar School. From there he achieved his ambition of going to Oxford. “I wanted to go there because I wanted to act in plays and things like that,” he explains. “So, I went and studied – as they call it – English, for about half an hour a day.

“[While there] I was drawing all the time and looking at art and reading about art and wanted to go to art school. Luckily enough the one I chose was about 100 yards from where my mother had bought a house.”

Tom went to the Camberwell School of Arts and Crafts, where he was taught by German-Brit­ish painter Frank Auerbach. Fortuitously for him, his mother had bought a house on Talfourd Road some years earlier.

“We were going bankrupt I think as a family and she bought the house in Peckham because they didn’t cost anything, about £500, and let it out to art students ironically enough. I was the last art student to occupy it and took it over bit by bit.”

The property is the studio where Tom contin­ues to work, producing pieces that have been shown across the world. “My art school life was here in Peckham,” he says. “When I left Oxford, I had to get a job like people do, so I did teaching. I taught in a school in Brixton and went to evening classes here at the Camberwell School of Arts and Crafts as they called it then.

“The only artist I knew about who was teaching was Frank Auerbach so I joined his class and that was the deal done as far as my life was concerned. I think you always need someone who passes the baton on, you know, it’s a race that we’re all run­ning one after the other.

“So, I followed lots of his advice and learnt a lot from him as well as other people who were there who were interesting.”

It wasn’t long before the art world was taking notice of Tom’s work. His first solo show was in 1965 at the Artists’ International Association Gal­lery in London, followed by an exhibition at the Angela Flowers Gallery in 1970.

“Right away I was doing my own work, I won a prize or two and got noticed a bit,” he says. “Even­tually it seemed possible to do it as a living, which I managed to do in the end. I’m still managing.”

In 1966 he began a project that is still occupy­ing him today. “A Humument” came about when he set himself the task of finding a book for three­pence and altering every page with painting, col­lage and cut-up techniques to create an entirely new version.

The book he chose (at random) was an 1892 novel called A Human Document by WH Mallock. “It was an old Victorian novel. I picked it up by chance actually on Peckham Rye, on the exact spot where Blake saw his first angels,” he says. “I got it in a big shop called Austin’s, which is gone now.”

Although the final edition of A Humument was published in 2016, Tom has found it difficult to leave it behind. “I thought I’d work on that for a bit and I ended up working on it for 50 years,” he says.

“And I’m still working on it actually; although I’ve published a final edition. I can’t stop, it’s too interesting. It leaves a black hole in your life when you’ve been doing something for 50 years and then suddenly you say stop.

“I certainly was lucky in the book that I chose. It’s got an undertext and a sort of darkness and is full of interesting things you can find. Even the other day I was thinking how there are things in modern life that don’t crop up, when I suddenly saw in the middle of a page I was going to work on the words, ‘me too’.

“I thought, ‘Well, me too didn’t mean anything in the 1890s but now it’s got a relevance to it’, so I moved around that idea.”

A Humument was shown in an exhibition at the Royal Academy, where Tom has been chairman of the exhibitions committee since 1995.

It was also exhibited in a museum in Massachu­setts and the book illustrating the work is avail­able on Amazon.

A renowned portrait artist, Tom’s subjects have included the likes of the cast of Monty Python as well as personal friends such as Iris Murdoch and Salman Rushdie.

In 1989, he became only the second artist to have a retrospective of his portraits shown at the National Portrait Gallery (his portrait of Iris Mur­doch is still on display there).

Another of his subjects was Irish playwright Samuel Beckett. “I spent a couple of weeks paint­ing his portrait when he was rehearsing a play here,” says Tom.

“He was interested in A TV Dante [a television series that Tom directed for Channel 4] and I was showing him what I was doing. I was doing a translation of Dante with pictures and he was rather kind about it. He was just a nice, lovely man.”

Locally, Tom is involved in a photographic pro­ject called 20 Sites n Years, where he takes pho­tographs in and around Peckham of the same site, on or around the same day, at the same time each year.

It has been going since 1973 and has been made into a film by Jake Auerbach, Frank Auer­bach’s son.

Another area of the arts that has played a big role in Tom’s life is music. As a young man he sang in the Philharmonia Chorus, which he describes as being “rather grand”.

“I did singing at school of course and played in­struments very badly, which I continue to do. But I could sing without having the skill of playing an instrument, so I then joined the leading choir in the country it seemed to me.”

In the late 1960s, he gained recognition for his experimental opera, Irma, and during his teach­ing career, he taught and befriended the avant-garde musician and producer, Brian Eno.

“He was a student. I can’t name many students who have done anything because I’m not a very good teacher,” he laughs. “But with someone like Brian it was difficult not to get things going.

“We worked together a little here and there. He made versions of things that I had done, and we were both associated with something called the Scratch Orchestra. He’s a person who always has the same phone number, which rather impresses me. I mean I don’t belong to a glamorous world like he does, but still the same old phone number gets Brian. Perhaps I’m the only person left who has that number.”

Talking to Tom, all sorts of brilliant anecdotes pop up. A keen ping pong player, he once played a tournament with the author Howard Jacobson and Salman Rushdie round at Charles Saatchi’s house. Then there was the time he got on the wrong side of the authorities in South Africa.

“I did the curation at the big African art exhibi­tion at the Royal Academy,” he says. “It all came through travelling in Africa and originally in South Africa. But then I sort of wondered how I could get involved as an artist. So, I joined a group called Artists Against Apartheid and we showed all over the world.

“I got into trouble slightly in South Africa itself because I overprinted banknotes with a slogan. In South Africa there were notices all over benches and things saying ‘slegs vir blankes’, which means reserved for whites.

“So, I made up this rubber stamp that said ‘slegs vir almal’, which means reserved for every­body and I put a rubber stamp upon every note that came through my hands. After that I was told that I wasn’t very welcome here in South Africa. It then became a little known as a slogan.”

With his days of political activism in the past and A Humument beginning to wind down, what does a typical day now look like for Tom Phillips, the artist?

“I’m doing everything I always did,” he says. “I was very lucky in the things that I did. They inter­ested me. I can’t think of anything that I want to do that I could do that I haven’t done. Not really. It filled the time – I’m 82.”

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Cool Party the Other Night

Author: Thieving-Gypsy

Year: 2010

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Howard/OFC

It's a few days after Howard's birthday party, and Vince is still courting that girl he met. Well. "Courting" doesn't cover it, really. Howard winces at a particularly loud moan from upstairs, the creak of bedsprings and the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the headboard against the wall. If that's chipped the paint and they have to redecorate, Vince better not think that's coming out of petty cash. No sir, that's coming directly out of Vince's hairspray budget. Let's see how smug he is then, Howard thinks, feeling quite smug himself at the thought of getting one over on him. It doesn't last. There's a giggle from upstairs, it could be coming from either one of them. Howard slumps against the counter, propping his chin on his hand and wondering which deity he could have offended to make his life like this. If this is karma, karma is wrong. He's fiercely intelligent, devilishly handsome, his talents are many and varied, his sense of humour is witty and whimsical, he helps old ladies across the road and then helps them back again when they hit him with their handbags and snap that they never wanted to cross the road anyway. Howard Moon is a good person (Howard thinks to himself) but where's the payoff? Vince is the one who ends up risking friction burns on his johnson, even after all his crimes against good taste and that shocking ridiculous scene on the roof the night of the party where he took advantage of Howard's good nature to save his own neck. The only thing Howard got was a night spent terrified and crying in the bottom of the airing cupboard hoping Old Gregg would get bored of waiting and go away, but every time he opened the door to check Gregg was there tapping his foot and smiling and staring like a serial killer. I can wait all night, Howard, I'm Old Gregg! he said, as if that explained it all. Naboo kicked him out eventually with the rest of the party stragglers, then gave Howard a disgusted look and called him a batty crease when Howard awkwardly bought him a bunch of flowers the next morning to say thank you. It's a good thing the shop's been so quiet lately. Customers don't need to hear this kind of nonsense when they're innocently looking for a rare Bleedin' Gums Murphy LP, it's just not professional. Or maybe they would like it, but that sort of clientele doesn't belong here anyway. You've got to keep a sense of pride when you're a shopkeeper. Even in a dodgy part of town, even if the last customer you saw buying something was a wide-eyed teenage boy paying for Vince's autograph three days ago, you still need your pride or you might as well be dead. He sort of wishes he was, listening to those dirty noises get louder and faster for what feels like the billionth cycle. And then the bell above the door rings, sounding like a hallelujah. A girl comes into the shop. An angel with black and red hair and skin like smooth pale cream. Howard stands up quickly and adjusts his hat to a rakish charming sort of angle, smoothing down the front of his shirt and giving her his very best smile. She looks sort of frightened then. Well, that's not unusual, she probably saw something unpleasant outside. It's that sort of street. "Good afternoon madam," he starts – then all of a sudden he recognises her from that ghastly spin the bottle game at the party and feels himself turn pale. She had a number eight stuck on her back, and she heard Naboo trick Howard's confession out of him. Could his life get any more tragic and painful? Yes, he discovers, because she recognises him too. "Hey, Howard," she says. He can't tell whether she's smirking or smiling. "Cool party the other night." "Ha ha, yes, it was rather, wasn't it? Ha ha. I hope you tried the quiche, I made it myself."

"Oookay." Surely it's a smile. She's coming closer, anyway, right over to where Howard is, putting the silver jacket she's carrying on the counter between them. What does it mean? Is it some sort of offering? Is this how women offer themselves? He feels the blood rise back in his cheeks, but then she speaks again and ruins it. "Vince gave me that to borrow cos it was cold walking home, can you give it back to him? When he's finished," she adds, glancing at the ceiling. She really is smirking this time, and that strikes him as very odd. Isn't she jealous? Most girls would be jealous and go running out of the shop weeping and talking about nunneries because there's no point any more if Vince has found someone else. Maybe he's in with a shot after all! Howard smooths his moustache with his fingertips, very glad he put on his best taupe rollneck this morning even without a special occasion planned. Surely that's fate. Serendipity. Something. He can see them already, blissfully content in a country cottage, all crawling honeysuckle and chirruping birds, making sweet fulfilling love together every night while the children sleep soundly and dream of happy things and a team of editors go back to college to train for different careers because the world-famous novelist-poet-playwright Howard Moon's words are so perfect, so incredibly gripping, informative and rich with life-changing meaning, that he needs no changes made at all. He realises he's nodding his head like a dog ornament on the back shelf of a car, and makes himself stop. "Of course, madam, of course, I'll see that he gets it post-haste." "Cheers." Eight gives him that smile again and turns round to go. Howard panics and bangs into a shelf in his rush to get out from behind the counter and block her way. "While you're here, might I interest you in the soothing jazz tones of-" "No. I don't think you might." "Well then, what about..." Everything in the shop is shit it's all shit and he hates it here and his life should have been so different and why does nothing ever ever ever go right? "This lovely flying jacket? Vintage World War Two, genuine bullet hole in the collar to add that bit of authenticity and you can barely even see the bloodstains, ha ha ha..." She actually laughs at that, it bubbles up and spills out and she looks like it surprises her but it's a definite laugh. "You're a crack up, Howard, you're hilarious. I didn't bring any money. I might come back another time though and you can show me someone's torn parachute or a charred ejector seat that didn't open properly." Is that a date? That sounds very much like a date. Howard's palms feel sweaty on the sleeve of the jacket and he carefully hangs it back on the hat stand where he found it so he doesn't leave handprints. "I would like that very much indeed, shall we say next Tuesday?" "Seriously, Howard, I've got to go." But why would she be lingering and saying she had to go instead of just going if she didn't find him intriguingly attractive? Today is turning out to be a roaring success after all. "Then please allow me to escort you home," he says, formally on purpose so he doesn't scare her away with his aggressive manliness or sound like the sort of sexual predator who would pester a young woman when she's just trying to run a simple errand. "This is no place for an innocent young lady to be walking on her own when it's getting dark, especially one as, I hope you don't mind me saying, charmingly beautiful as you." Eight looks out the cluttered shop window into the bright afternoon sunlight. After what feels like forever she turns back and almost gives Howard a heart attack. "Yeah. Alright, then."

"...Yes?" he repeats stupidly, and Eight grins like a wicked little pixie. "Yeah. Why not." "Oh. Well. Alright then. Let's go, shall we?" That hussy upstairs is shrieking Vince's name. So is Vince, the vain little tart. Howard doesn't even leave a note. If they ever satisfy themselves and come downstairs for a cup of tea, they're just going to have to worry themselves sick about where Howard's disappeared to in the middle of a working day. He flips the door sign to closed and follows Eight out into the grimy street. He's trying to work out whether he should put a safe guiding gentlemanly hand on the small of her back when she glances up at him sideways and says, "So... you're a virgin, then?" * "Not any more," Howard's gasping half an hour later. Eight looks at him with raised eyebrows. "What?" "Not a virgin any more." "Howard, mate. You're fingering me, you're not having sex." It happened all at once, it seemed, time-lapse flashes like a nature documentary about the sprouting of a seed: one moment they were walking through Dalston, the next he was accepting the offer of a cup of tea, the next she was lying back on the couch with her legs over his and her dress hitched up around her waist, pushing her black cotton knickers aside and holding his hand at the wrist to direct him where to touch. His head is a blur, he feels slightly sick – not because it's not nice, because it is, but because he always thought men were supposed to be the ones desperate for sex on a first date and the women were bashful modest flowers. Eight's got her hand over his, pressing on top of his fingernail and moving in little circles over the wet, warm flesh between her legs. He can't see what he's doing, her pants and their hands are on the way, but that's probably a good thing because he's tenting up the front of his trousers already and he is so not ready for this to be over yet. "Do it like that," she says, a little bit flushed, a little bit breathless. "Right there. Good. A bit faster... good. Oh." Is this what's supposed to happen? Don't things go inside when you're having sex? Is she – oh god – another freakish anomaly like Old Gregg? Actually, it's hard to care any more. So what if she is? She's still pretty, and she's willing to let him touch her when the whole world seems to be against the idea of him having any sort of nice time at all. She's perfect. "Take my pants off," she says. Howard scrabbles to obey as quickly as possible, pulling them down her legs and stretching the leg holes over her boots. It's like a new world underneath, dark curling little hairs and wet pink flesh. It's horrific. She's got to be a freak, there's no way Vince would get so excited about something that's so vile to look at. But it's too late to stop now, the hand around his wrist is directing him lower down and pressing until his first finger slips inside her. He makes a ridiculous unmanly sort of noise in his throat, shame and desire all tangled together,and Eight bends one leg up to rest on top of the cushion behind Howard's head, spreading her monstrosity wider. He takes the initiative and slides another finger in beside the first, so she blinks and looks at him in surprise then flashes a filthy curling little smile and sighs quietly, like a happy moan. "Nice. How big's your dick?" "Excuse me?" Howard splutters, blushing furiously. "Just asking. Because I can take another finger if you want, but if your dick's smaller than three fingers I'll be upset so maybe you shouldn't." "Let me assure you, madam, my-" He can't make himself say it. "-my equipment is perfectly adequate for the job at hand, so to speak."

"Alright then, let's have it." She pushes his hand away suddenly and stands up, leaving the room without looking back like she just expects him to follow her. He gets hit in the face with something as he's going through the bedroom door; it's her dress, she just pulled it off over her head and now she's reaching behind herself to unhook her bra and sitting down to unzip her boots. She gives him that look again when she's on the bed, naked on her back with one knee up and her foot flat on the mattress. She's doing to herself what he was just doing, gently stroking between her legs with her fingertips, biting her painted lower lip and catching her breath in her throat. Howard feels horrendously out of place. Future wife or not, something about this feels very strange and wrong indeed. Her displaying herself like a common tramp and caressing her abnormality like it's a beloved pet while Howard stands there mutely, fully-clothed including a straw hat and holding her crumpled dress. "Let me help you out," she says, still circling gently with her first two fingertips and smirking. "The next step is, you take off your clothes. Time-lapse again. It seems to take a nanosecond, then he's standing there with his hands protecting his modesty. It's a good thing he's got big hands, he thinks proudly, then that terror stabs back in his guts and he freezes like he's on stage. "Come here," Eight says, gradually breaking through with her calm voice and cool instructions. "Move your hands away, let me see you. Come and get on the bed. It's okay to touch me. Shall I show you what you do?" He just nods, moving as directed but still completely unable to think up the right words to say to somebody who's got her hand wrapped around his bits and pieces – his bits and pieces, he thinks crazily, she's touching his balls, why would anybody do that? But it feels good, he can't deny that, it's sending white-hot floods of goosebumps rushing over his skin and even if he's got no words he can still make noises, strange pathetic little whimpers and trembling pleas for things he doesn't know the details of. Eight pushes him back so he's lying against the pillow, pointing up like Excalibur, but she stops stroking him so she can straddle his legs and roll a condom on, and knee-walks a few steps up the mattress, holding him steady there so she can sink down around him. It's hot and tight and completely overwhelming. Howard's vision blurs and he feels like he's going to faint but then Eight grabs his nipple and pinches hard, dragging him back. He stares at her, feeling vaguely abused, but she just smiles sweetly and holds his hands to bring them to her hips. "Now you're having sex." "And... this is normal, is it?" he mumbles, hypnotised by the sight of his thingy disappearing up her when she raises and lowers her body above his. It makes her laugh, shaking her dyed red fringe out of her eyes and tipping her head back like she's reading something interesting on the ceiling. "The man's normally a bit more involved, but yeah, close enough." "I can get involved," Howard says desperately, "I can, let me show you-" His words turn into a choking sort of moan when she moves again. It's so obvious now how it's meant to be, he can do this, it's simple, it's the most natural thing in the world... Eight lets him turn them over so she's the one on her back, and Howard slips almost all the way out of her and drives back in hard. She moans just like Vince's floozy moaned, and like it's some kind of trigger: Howard shivers all over and comes, thrusting frantically into her and whimpering.

It's quiet after. He can't move, he stays there on top of her, stroking his fingers through her hair and feeling a slow lazy smile spread across his face. Nothing matters any more, not the teasing pitying looks at the party, not Vince's complete lack of shame and self-control and regard for other people's feelings, nothing – Howard's got a girlfriend, and life is wonderful. "Um," she says after a while. "Yes, my darling?" Howard murmurs, loving how much he sounds like Clark Gable or one of those other smooth manly charmers from old romance films. "Get off me, yeah?" "Oh. Sorry." He rolls onto his back hastily. It's no wonder she can't bear to be touched after such a mindblowing experience, she's probably feeling vulnerable, she's probably struggling to come to terms with the reality of it. "Is there anything you need, darling, can I do anything for you?" "Yeah, just pull the front door shut behind you on the way out, it should lock on its own." What? "...what?" "And tell your darling mate Vince if he's really sick and sad enough to keep my knickers even when he's shagging other girls then I'll stop hassling him to get them back, and let him know in as much detail as you want that I'm not waiting round for him either." "Oh." It's not so much a flash of realisation as a falling anvil. "This was... revenge?" The imaginary honeysuckle house burns down to rubble before his eyes and Eight just laughs, carefree and oblivious like Vince, like everyone else. Howard slowly starts to get dressed and decides to set up a permanent home in the airing cupboard, where it's safe and dark.

[wolf-nir]

The Members of the Decay of Angels

The Decay of Angels is a five-member terrorist organization. They specialize in being a “murder association”. Although few in number, all its members have powerful and threatening abilities.

So far has been presented two members of this organization, Fyodor Doystoyevsky and Nikolai Gogol. The other three members remain a mystery, however it is known that possibly all of them are infiltrated into the government and the Japanese police force.

From the two members hitherto presented, it is possible to deduce that the organization is probably formed by classical russian authors, since Asagiri likes to present groups and organizations with members having the same nationality. This is the case with the ADA, Port Mafia and The Guild.

However, I believe that only two of the remaining members can be russian authors, since Asagiri has been playing reference to one of the classic Japanese authors, Mishima Yukio, which would make sense for an organization with predictable base in Japan needing a Japanese connection.

Following this theory, we know that there are several classic russian authors, an example is the very organization commanded by Fyodor, who has mostly russian authors. However, because it is a tremendously dangerous organization, it is possible to deduce that the authors chosen by Asagiri are the best known and/or controversial in the history of russian literature, both IRL!Fyodor and IRL!Gogol being part of this list.

Among several choices I have separated five authors known for their fame and influence in literature. Since this is a theory, I will introduce some of the IRL! and their possible ability. Since I’m not Asagiri and I don’t have much knowledge about russian literature, I may be wrong on some points here and there, but I hope you enjoy it!

❝  Leo Tolstoy ❞

⌈ IRL! Facts ⌋

✓ Leo Tolstoy, born as Liev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, was a Russian writer who is considered to be one of the greatest authors of all time. ✓ Born to an aristocratic russian family in 1828, he is best known for the novels War and Peace (1869) and Anna Karenina (1877), often cited as pinnacles of realist fiction. He first achieved literary acclaim in his twenties with his semi-autobiographical trilogy, Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth (1852-1856), and Sevastopol Sketches (1855), based upon his experiences in the Crimean War. ✓ In the 1870s Tolstoy experienced a profound moral crisis, followed by what he regarded as an equally profound spiritual awakening, as outlined in his non-fiction work A Confession (1882). His literal interpretation of the ethical teachings of Jesus, centering on the Sermon on the Mount, caused him to become a fervent Christian anarchist and pacifist.

⌈ Ability ⌋

❝  Karenina ❞

✓ Anna Karenina is the tragic story of Countess Anna Karenina, a married noblewoman and socialite, and her affair with the affluent Count Vronsky. The story starts when she arrives in the midst of a family broken up by her brother's unbridled womanizing — something that prefigures her own later situation, though she would experience less tolerance by others. A bachelor, Vronsky is eager to marry Anna if she will agree to leave her husband Count Karenin, a senior government official, but she is vulnerable to the pressures of Russian social norms, the moral laws of the Russian Orthodox Church, her own insecurities, and Karenin's indecision. Although Vronsky and Anna go to Italy, where they can be together, they have trouble making friends. Back in Russia, she is shunned, becoming further isolated and anxious, while Vronsky pursues his social life. Despite Vronsky's reassurances, she grows increasingly possessive and paranoid about his imagined infidelity, fearing loss of control. ✓ Seen from a small perspective, Karenina is a novel focused on a toxic relationship because of Anna's mistrust and paranoia. (in fact I may be quite wrong, since I have never finished reading the book and probably never will -q) ✓ Thus, Tolstoy's possible ability could be something connected to causing paranoia/delusions in the victim or incubating the victim to betray his own allies. ✓ Seeing that Leo Tolstoy is probably also infiltrated in the Japanese government, it is quite possible that he is using his ability to cause discord among politicians, and if he finds himself infiltrated into another government or public force, his ability continues to be useful in conflict of national or international disposition.

❝ A Confession ❞

✓ The book is a brief autobiographical story of the author's struggle with a mid-life existential crisis. It describes his search for the answer to the ultimate philosophical question. “If God does not exist, since death is inevitable, what is the meaning of life?”. Without the answer to this, for him, life had become “impossible”. ✓ According to IRL!Tolstoy, in the face of the inevitability of death and assuming that God does not exist, the most intellectually honest response to the situation would be suicide. ✓ Thus, the ability of BSD!Tolstoy would also be manipulative in content, perhaps something close to the ability of Yumeno or Fyodor, in that by touch or any other kind of contact, Tolstoy could manipulate the victim's mind to commit suicide, perhaps by incubating existential doubts or personal insecurities that, in extreme circumstances, could lead the person to the suicide. Honestly, that would be the last ability I'd like Atsushi, Akutagawa or Dazai to face (even if Dazai can cancel the ability).

❝  Andrei Bely ❞

⌈ IRL! Facts ⌋

✓ Boris Nikolaevich Bugaev, better known by the pen name Andrei Bely or Biely; 26 October [O.S. 14 October] 1880 – 8 January 1934), was a Russian novelist, poet, theorist, communist, and literary critic. ✓ His novel Petersburg was regarded by Vladimir Nabokov as one of the four greatest novels of the 20th century. ✓ Boris Bugaev was fascinated by probability and particularly by entropy, a notion to which he frequently refers in works such as Kotik Letaev. ✓ As a young man, Bely was strongly influenced by his acquaintance with the family of philosopher Vladimir Solovyov, especially Vladimir's younger brother Mikhail, described in his long autobiographical poem The First Encounter (1921); the title is a reflection of Vladimir Solovyov's Three Encounters. It was Mikhail Solovyov who gave Bugaev his pseudonym Andrei Bely. ✓ Bely's symbolist novel Petersburg (1916; 1922) is generally considered to be his masterpiece. The book employs a striking prose method in which sounds often evoke colors. The novel is set in the somewhat hysterical atmosphere of turn-of-the-century Petersburg and the Russian Revolution of 1905.

⌈ Ability ⌋

❝  Petersburg ❞

✓ To the extent that the book can be said to possess a plot, this can be summarized as the story of the hapless Nikolai Apollonovich, a ne'er-do-well who is caught up in revolutionary politics and assigned the task of assassinating a certain government official — his own father. At one point, Nikolai is pursued through the Petersburg mists by the ringing hooves of the famous bronze statue of Peter the Great. ✓ The main character of the book is known for wearing a strange red domino mask and cape. This visual is a way of “acting like a fool” in front of the woman who spent a lot of time courting and being rejected. ✓ The ability of BSD!Bely could be deceptive, illusory, very similar to that of Oguri. ✓ His ability could be to hypnotize the victim so that she was able to see and do catastrophic things as just “silly things”. An example would be to turn a bomb into a simple bouquet of flowers or something else that would make the victim cause chaos without actually realizing it.

❝  Mikhail Bulgakov ❞

⌈ IRL! Facts ⌋

✓ Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov (15 May [O.S. 3 May] 1891 – 10 March 1940) was a russian writer, medical doctor and playwright active in the first half of the 20th century. ✓ He is best known for his novel The Master and Margarita, published posthumously, which has been called one of the masterpieces of the 20th century. ✓ After illness Bulgakov abandoned his career as a doctor for that of a writer. In his autobiography, he recalled how he started writing: "Once in 1919 when I was traveling at night by train I wrote a short story. In the town where the train stopped, I took the story to the publisher of the newspaper who published the story". ✓ His first book was an almanac of feuilletons called Future Perspectives, written and published the same year.

⌈ Ability ⌋

❝  The Master and Margarita ❞

✓ The story concerns a visit by the devil to the officially atheistic Soviet Union. The Master and Margarita combines supernatural element with satirical dark comedy and Christian philosophy, defying a singular genre. ✓ The ability of the BSD!Mikhail is very similar to that of Lucy Montgomery, the only exception is that instead of a doll, Mikhail has the body of a dead woman as his marionette, he calls her Margarita. ✓ Margarita is described as a woman in a Russian style dress of the 19th century in a lush shade of red. His eyes are black and empty-looking. ✓ She is able to obey Mikhail's three specific orders. She “comes to life” during this process through the drinking ritual of Mikhail's blood. The more complicated Mikhail's desire, the more blood Margarita consumes.

❝  Heart of a Dog ❞

✓ The Heart of a Dog is a satirical work in which a doctor does an experiment on a dog rescued by him in which he transforms the animal into a human of personality and primitive aspects. (or at least that's what I understood, frankly I'm so confused with this book) ✓ The ability of BSD!Mikhail, in this case, would be quite simple: through physical contact, he is able to make a human being surrender to his most primitive and savage side, until that person becomes, in fact, a dog. ✓ Mikhail is able to control the duration of the transformation, meaning he is able to make someone turn quickly or slowly, depending on his intentions. Besides that, once the person is totally transformed, it is impossible to undo the transformation.

❝  Anton Chekhov ❞

⌈ IRL! Facts ⌋

✓ Anton Pavlovich Chekhov (29 January 1860 – 15 July 1904) was a russian playwright and short-story writer, who is considered to be among the greatest writers of short fiction in history. His career as a playwright produced four classics, and his best short stories are held in high esteem by writers and critics. ✓ Along with Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg, Chekhov is often referred to as one of the three seminal figures in the birth of early modernism in the theatre. Chekhov practiced as a medical doctor throughout most of his literary career: "Medicine is my lawful wife", he once said, "and literature is my mistress." ✓ Chekhov had at first written stories only for financial gain, but as his artistic ambition grew, he made formal innovations which have influenced the evolution of the modern short story. He made no apologies for the difficulties this posed to readers, insisting that the role of an artist was to ask questions, not to answer them.

⌈ Ability ⌋

❝  The Seagull ❞

✓  The Seagull is generally considered to be the first of his four major plays. It dramatises the romantic and artistic conflicts between four characters: the famous middlebrow story writer Boris Trigorin, the ingenue Nina, the fading actress Irina Arkadina, and her son the symbolist playwright Konstantin Tréplev. ✓ The ability is to "send" your fatal injuries to the body of other people. According to BSD!Anton, the people with whom he makes this exchange are his mere seagulls who used to live happily and ignorantly, but who know him only to be a tool to kill his boredom. ✓ For the exchange to take place Anton must have made a "contract" with the other person. For the most part, people are women who have previously been their lovers or who are in love with him.

❝  Maxim Gorky ❞

⌈ IRL! Facts ⌋

✓ Alexei Maximovich Peshkov (28 March [O.S. 16 March] 1868 – 18 June 1936), primarily known as Maxim Gorky, was a russian and soviet writer, a founder of the socialist realism literary method and a political activist. He was also a five-time nominee for theNobel Prize in Literature. ✓ Gorky's most famous works were The Lower Depths (1902), Twenty-six Men and a Girl (1899), The Song of the Stormy Petrel (1901), My Childhood (1913-1914), Mother (1906), Summerfolk (1904) and Children of the Sun (1905). ✓ He had an association with fellow Russian writers Leo Tolstoy and Anton Chekhov; Gorky would later mention them in his memoirs.

⌈ Ability ⌋

❝  The Lower Depths ❞ 

✓ The play is centered on lower-class characters living in a shelter. Everyone has questionable ethical actions throughout the plot. ✓ Gorky's ability is based on people's lies. He is able to turn any and every lie that the person has already said into reality, most often causing the destruction - be it physical, mental or social - of the victim.

[namjoonsteeth]

HONEY - (Bangtan Boys mini series)

A/N: not fully edited yet

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Smut; enemies to lovers

Word Count: 7.6k

Joon always reminded me of honey, smooth and wet. From the way he spoke to the way he moved. 

Even as we both trade abrasive words in class, rallying back and forth as we try to make known our top tier positions academically. Namjoon is far smarter than me. This much I know. The guy is an actual genius with which that could not be argued with. He corrected professors, he pointed out contradictions in course material, and more often than not he made his disdain for me known whenever I went up against him. I picked fights with him. It was clear to everyone. He’d say one thing, and I made it my sole purpose to side with the opposite. It was petty and completely unnecessary; I’m sure our professors found our sparring to be a waste of time on most days. 

“Which is why the statement “Shakespeare is overrated” is neither accurate nor is it valid, Y/n. Not only has he contributed many words to the modern English language, its undeniable that he has changed the way authors and playwrights tell stories,” he ends his ten minute rant by shooting me one last look of distaste.

I irritate him. I’m mostly ok with that considering that any attention from him is good attention. He’d reminded me of honey, and the only time I could get his eyes on me was when we were fighting. I’d relished in the times that he’d narrow his dark brown eyes on me, his full lips going a mile a minute as he’d battled my made up opinions. He talked slowly but quick all at once. He’d take long beats of time to formulate his attacks before spewing them out without even a breath in between. If I was anyone else, If I didn’t love every bit of attention he’d given me, maybe he would’ve broken me semesters ago. 

“One day you’re going to make him snap,” Seokjin smiles while we walk from European literature. 

Namjoon  left before us, knowing that his friend would walk me to my next class after we grab something to eat. I think it further irritated him that I found a way to be friends with all of his roommates. He’d refused to both join a fraternity as well as leave his friends alone to fend for themselves. He’s the most responsible one out of all seven boys, even managing to keep the older ones in line too. That’s just how Joon is, he’s in control of most things in his life. 

“That’s the plan,” I smile brightly up at him. 

“Why are you such a brat, Y/N-,” Seokjin winces immediately after speaking as a hand slaps the back of his neck. The younger boy joins us naturally, a sweet wide smile on his face while he teases his friend. He shakes his dark hair out of his face before tucking his hands into the deep pockets of of his oversized black hoodie. 

“Hey, Jeon Jungkook, I’m older than you, you know?” Seokjin says knowing that it’ll start a fight. I sigh waiting for the inevitable; JK hits Seokjin, Jin reminds him that he’s five years older than him and demands respect, JK pretends like none of that matter, chaos ensues until another boy shows up to break it up.

“And you still don’t know how the talk politely to women,” JK clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

I watch the two of them bicker back and forth, trading neck slaps and dodging each other on the crowded sidewalk. I watch as the other students get out of the way of their playing, not batting an eyelash as JK dramatically rolls on the ground to dodge Seokjin’s attack. 

The Bangtan boys have always been a spectacle. In the beginning they were foreign exchange students who seemed to be good at everything all at once. They were all so close that everyone thought that they were real brothers, no one really bothered to correct them because for all intents and purposes, they are. Seokjin quickly became the lead of Thespian Club, Yoongi an irreplaceable shooting guard on the school’s basketball team, JK and Tae have founded a whole gaming club as well as being members of the men’s choir, and Jimin is student body president as well as the co leader of the dance team with Hoseok who is also a member of the diversity board. As for Namjoon, there isn’t enough time to list all of his accolades. 

He’s a genius. Not even speaking in terms of comparability to the other students at the university. Namjoon is a genius compared to the world. With an IQ of 148 he surpassed me easily. I think that’s why I liked to mess with him so much. I know that I can never beat him academically. We both know, but I think it annoyed him that I wouldn’t stop trying. 

We finally get to the sandwich restaurant on campus. We spot Jimin and Taehyung easily. All the Bangtan boys have a draw to them. Invisible halos that draws the eye the minute they enter a room. They could be doing the most mundane thing in the world, like sitting at a restaurant with their noses buried in One Piece, and they’ve got the whole room’s attention. Jimin with his high cheekbones that cause the apples of his cheeks to puff up when he smiles and silver hair, Tae with his angular features that no doubt belong on a runway. It’s hard not to look at them, What’s worse is that all seven boys hold the same charm. Gazes move from the two young boys in the center of the lunch room toward the two boys who are still fighting playfully as we make our way to our friends.

“Y/N, are you coming over tonight?” Jimin asks, while leaning forward to see me past Tae. 

I shake my head as I pull out my buzzing cellphone. It’s Hoseok, telling us that he’s buying us all burgers and if we want something else it’s a little too late. The boys all ignore the text, fine with anything as always. Yoongi tells us that he’s skipping lunch to go work on some music before his game tonight. I see Namjoon’s floating icon pop up, showing that he’s read the message. It’s been weeks since he’d had lunch with us. Usually he’s able to ignore me and focus solely on the boys. Out of the blue he’d started going to the library during the first break in his schedule.

“I rather not sit through passive aggressive Namjoon finding different ways to express his hate for me without being too obvious,”

Hope brings sets two trays full of food in the middle of the booth table we’re all sitting at. His hair is back to black meaning that he’s either changed the girl he’s sleeping with this week or his preferred dance style. He’s entirely too predictable and he’s fine with it. He catches my eye as he slides into the booth beside me and passes JK a drink.

“Oh, he 100% hates you,” he says seriously. “Hey, Jeon Jungkook, I only got you one burger. Don’t eat too fast,”

JK smiles around his already full mouth. He sips at his drink to wash his food down so he can speak. “It’s ok. Jin Hyung will get the next round,”

“What do I look like to you, huh?” Seokjin points across the table at JK who laughs at having riled up the oldest again. “I spend so much money on you, neglecting the other maknaes all in the name of putting food in front of you,”

“Maybe if you weren’t old you wouldn’t have to bare the responsibilities that come with being the eldest,”

“Hey, Jeon Jungkook!” 

The rest of the boys ignore them as they get into another round of bickering. It escalates when Jin reaches out for a neck slice which JK dodges easily. Hope rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone. 

“Hyung, doesn’t hate you,” Tae says not looking up from the graphic novel in his hands. He opens his lips wide as Jimin shoves a French fry into his mouth. 

He flicks his strawberry pink bangs out of his face and focuses on his story. That’s how Tae is. Either he’s completely absorbed in our conversation or he’s only giving us half of his attention. He’s almost done with his book, so I expect by tonight he’ll be the center of chaos with JK. 

It’s not that I actually think Namjoon dislikes me. He wouldn’t let me get to him so much if there isn’t just a hint of fond there. At least, I hope so. I hope there’s a part of him that likes going at it with me as much as I do. Still, sometimes it feels like he’d give anything to get me to shut up. Or maybe it’s that he wants to be the one to do so. Again, I hope so. God, I really want him to. 

It isn’t news that Namjoon is attractive. Whatever trait you’re into, he has it. He’s incredibly intelligent, able to outsmart just about anyone on campus. He’s physically attractive, slightly tan skin, tall, large just about everywhere. He’s funny when he’s with his friends, protective, sensitive, and just about anything else you could think of. God, I sound like I’m in love with the guy. If I’m honest, maybe I am a little. Maybe that’s the point of all of this.

“This is dangerous territory,” Hope warns looking a up form his one and at his friend who don’t seem to have a problem with spilling all of Namjoon’s secrets. His warning seems serious but he speaks around a large bite of the burger in his hands. There’s sauce on his cheek, JK reaches out to wipe his jaw quickly before going back to his own meal. 

“I think he wants to sleep with you,” Jimin proclaims before wincing as Hope and Seokjin hit either side of his shoulders at the same time. “Hey, why should I lie?”

“Where’s your loyalty, Jimin,” Hope asks frowning at him. 

Jimin shrugs. 

“With whoever is in the room I guess. And I’m not betraying Joonie Hyung. I’m taking the steps he’s too prideful to take,”

It would be funny if I wasn’t too focused on how all five boys look to be hiding something. It’s not fair for me to exploit Jimin’s weak ties, right? I’m going to do it anyway. As smart as Namjoon is, he’s not necessarily right about everything. I can’t imagine I’ve done something so bad for him to avoid me so much that he’d sacrifice spending time with his friends. 

“Which are,” I prod. 

JK covers Jimin’s mouth to keep him from speaking. If there’s anyone loyal to Namjoon it’s going to be the youngest. He’s shown a reverence for the other boy plenty of time, even refusing to take my side on most occasions. I can’t expect him to tell me what’s going on without a little work. 

“JK,” I say pushing my lips out in a pout. 

He’s young, not quite accustomed to the charms of women. Though he knows he’s incredibly attractive, he’s not quite sure how to act around girls yet. His cheeks turn red as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Like a deer in headlights, he looks a little innocent and a lot startled. 

“Don’t fall for it, Kookie,” Hope warns again. 

I roll my eyes and try again, blocking Hoseok’s strict expression with my hand on his face. He makes an obnoxious noise of anguish before quieting down. Satisfied, I remove my hand and let him eat in peace. Tae continues to ignore us, Seokjin watches in silence as Jimin’s eyes light up in mischief. 

“You know I like your hyung, JK. It’s not like I’ll use anything you tell me against him,”

That’s only half true. I’m going to get Kim Namjoon to admit to liking me even if it’s just a little bit. That’s my mission.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but Mon Hyung would kill me-,” JK curses as Jimin bites his hand that’s still slapped down on his mouth. He shakes the sting off as Jimin shakes free of his hold.

“You made out with him at a party last Summer and he thinks you’re purposely ignoring it,” Jimin rushes out quickly.

More curses, this time from Seokjin, Hope, and JK. Tae smiles to himself but only flips the page of his book, completely unbothered and only slightly entertained. I knew I can count on one of the younger boys. I make a note to address JK’s misplaced alliance later. 

“I kissed Namjoon?”

Jimin shakes his head. “I would call it more foreplay than a ‘kiss’, if I’m honest. It was at one of our house parties and I honestly felt like I was watching a very well shot, very realistic dirty movie,”

I look at Seokjin who only shrugs. “It was intense,”

“We didn’t-,”

Hope shakes his head. “You passed out before anything could happen. Namjoon took you up to JK’s room and that was it,”

“Last summer?” I ask, still trying to piece it all together. 

The memory doesn’t even seem remotely familiar. I’d passed out in the bangtan house more than once, crashed in JK’s room even more times than I can remember considering he has an aversion to his own bed. This could have happened at anytime.

“Either you’re repressing the memory or you actually don’t remember,” Hope says while going back to stuffing his face. 

“Why am I only finding out now?” I frown. “I’ve been asking you guys what I’d done wrong for a year and a half now,”

“Namjoon Hyung is scary when he wants to be. We all promised we wouldn’t say anything. Jimin, whatever he does to you, you deserve it,” Tae contributes while closing his book. 

I agree, the recent turn of events are more interesting than anything else. I’ve been friends with these boys for just over three years now. I’m without a doubt the closest friend outside of the seven of them that they have. They’re my best friends, all of them; even Namjoon if he would stop acting like a dickhead all of the time. 

Jimin shrugs and has the nerve to look smug. “I’m his favorite. He won’t care,”

He’s  right. Jimin won’t get in trouble for spilling Joon’s secrets. 

I eventually agree to go over tonight. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen Yoongi with how busy he’s been with practice and working on music. Still, it’s Namjoon that my heartbeat doubles for. I haven’t spent anytime with him outside of class in a while. Granted usually our time is spent sitting on opposite ends of the couch and shooting each other passive aggressive jabs. Still, I miss him.

Ironically, its Joon that opens the door when I get to their shared house. I’d decided to confront him about the whole “kiss” from last summer, still not completely believing the boys. I can’t imagine touching Namjoon at all and being able to forget about it. I needed an upper hand with him, though. I may annoy him most of the time with my picking and what not, but there’s still a part of him, even if solely on the physical level, that is attracted to me. I use that small fact to my advantage.

“You’re here,” he says. 

It’s hard not to respond to him. I feel my body heat as he looks down at me. He speaks slowly like he’s not in a rush to let me in; typical. His body stays in the door way, blocking me from entering. We play this game every time I come over. His arms cross over his chest like he has no plans of letting me in anytime soon. As always, I look forward to it. We aren’t in class now, he’s free to let me have any insult he wants. 

“Don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t observant, Kim Namjoon,” I smile up at him.

He looks at my attire, the dusty pink dress stops right at the top of my thighs showing more skin than not. I watch his eyes rake over my body before he frowns at me again, a ‘W’ shaped line in the middle of his forehead. His jaw ticks once before pushing out just a bit. 

“Did you have a date?” He’s obviously only pretending to care. I can tell by the sarcastic way his eye brow raises. 

I raise my eyebrow back at him, unable to stop a smirk. “You care?”

“Does it matter?” he challenges, grating my nerves. Sighing, he smiles while giving me a scathing look. “Besides, it couldn’t have ended well if you’re here begging for attention as always”

“From who exactly,” I ask while crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t miss how his eyes flick down to my chest. His gaze lingers longer than he’s ever allowed himself to. 

“It’s whom,” he corrects. “From whom is the proper-,”

“You don’t ever shut up, do you?” I interrupt becoming irritated. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is us. It’s dysfunctional and very stupid, but its how we’ve done things for the majority of the time that I’ve known him. 

“Namjoon, we both know that you don’t like me enough to care what I do,”

“Stop telling people I don’t like you,” he frowns as if he’s just remembering something. “And stop grilling Jimin for information,” 

He turns, leaving the door open, finally letting me in. 

“The guys aren’t here,” he calls over his shoulder. 

I follow him to the kitchen where our friends usually gather. He’s right, no one is home. This kind of seems like a set up. Just a little.

“Yoongi hyung has a game, Seokjin hyung and JK are there. Jimin and Tae are seeing a movie and Hope left an hour ago,”

Very convenient. I’m in the middle of sending a heated text message to the group chat about leaving me alone with Namjoon after telling me about you kiss last summer. Unfortunately for me, Namjoon is the type to talk about everything. Even if he’s not particularly fond of me, I can sense a discussion on the horizon. At least if the boys were here I’d have a bit of backup. This feels like an ambush with nowhere to run.

He hands me a bottle of water as he pulls one out for himself as well. I take a seat on a stool at the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. Namjoon leans against the refrigerator, his eyes on me as he takes a sip of water. His eyes never leave mine and its pretty hard for me to look anywhere else beside the deep dimples around his mouth that appears as he gulps down water. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his upper lip 

I can’t remember the last time I’d been left alone with Joon. It was never awkward between us, but I was definitely closer to any one of the other guys than him. But he was also the only one of the Bangtan boys that I was ever attracted to. He just wasn’t approachable in that way, though He was always doing his own thing, always studying, tutoring, working on music. It wasn’t standoffish, he was just busy. Then it became that he’d rather do anything other than spend any amount of time with me.

The more I think about it, it was last year that we’d started losing patience with each other. As irritating as he is sometimes, I still like him. I really like him. His peach colored hair is starting to grown out just a bit already, darkening at his roots. He’s wearing his glasses, so either he was studying or working on something. Whichever it was, he looks incredibly domesticated in his t-shirt and sweatpants. I look at his feet to see his favorite character on his slippers. Its cute. The hidden parts of Namjoon that he hides away from everyone else but has no problem showing the other boys. I find it endearing. 

“So are you going to stay until they get home or what?” He breaks me out of my thoughts of him.

“We’re friends right Joon?” I ask without really meaning to.

I’ve been thinking of our strained relationship all day,  not really able to focus on anything else. Because at the end of the day, I want to be friends with Namjoon. If nothing else, we could get back to how things were when they first showed up. 

“We used to be able to at least hold a conversation without jumping down each other’s throats,”

“Friends?” He raises an eye brow at me before taking a few steps forward, and leans against the counter, taking me by surprise. 

Namjoon doesn’t have an ordinary face. I can’t explain it. He’s rough, hard angled , but he’s also soft. I know if I would reach out he’d feel the same way against my finger tips.

“You do everything you can to piss me off, and you want to be friends?”

I shake my head, unable to take my eyes off of his mouth when he’s this close. 

“I want you to remind me about last summer, actually,”

He draws back slightly, looking almost..embarrassed. God, he really does think I’m purposely ignoring the supposed kiss. I thought I was being immature by purposely getting under his skin sometimes, but this is beyond childish. Unless he thinks that I actually regret it. Can’t regret anything you don’t remember Namjoon. 

“I don’t remember the kiss, Joon,” I tell him quietly.

He rolls his eyes and draws back further. His chin juts out; a sign that he’s agitated. I’m getting on his nerves again, not in the banter-like way, more that he’s ten seconds away from throwing me outside. 

“That’s supposed to be better?” He frowns while crossing his arms over his wide chest. “Because it isn’t, by the way. That was just a rhetorical question,”

Smart ass.

“Which one hurts your feeling more, Namjoon,” I can’t but sound bitter. He’s being mean. He’s always mean, but now it feels like he’s purposely trying to hurt my feelings. I’m done pretending like I don’t care how we treat each other. 

“The option that you think it matters to me either way,” he snaps at me. His eyes narrow at the counter between us. 

“You’re lying,” I counter. 

“Why, because I don’t care that you were too drunk to remember that you kissed me? It’s irrelevant,” He looks back up at me and his eyes are dark. I like it. I like it entirely too much. 

“And you’re so sure that I kissed you first?” I scoff, walking around the counter to stand in front of him. I can feel heat rolling off of his body like he’s putting in extra effort to control himself. If only he knew that its the very opposite of what I want him to do. 

“Yes, because I wasn’t blacked out,”

“I’m going to do it again then,” I take a step so that my toes line up with his slippers.  

“What-,”

I press my lips against his softly, forcing myself to take in every detail about how his mouth feels against mine. His lips are cold from the water he’d been drinking, his tongue is too. He taste sweet. Honey. All of him reminds me of Honey. Sweet, slow moving, packing more flavor than first expected. His hands move up my hips, drawing up the fabric of my dress. When his hand touches my thigh, it electricity right to my most sensitive nerve endings.

I want him. All of him. I’m sober and tired of pretending that our back and forth exchanges are enough. I press my body tighter against his, shaping every curve to his body. I expected him to push me away by now, but he holds me closer, hands moving all over me. At some points he seems hesitant, he pulls back, his eyes moving over my face as if he’s checking that I’m still here with him.

I’m here, and as good as he feels, his mouth isn’t enough. I don’t think it ever was. I’ve envisioned Joon’s body against mine more times than I can count. It’s the little doses of his skin that he’d show on occasions that started it. Glimpses of the tan skin of his neck as he scratched at his collarbone in glass, the pull of his lip between his teeth when he was thinking hard about something, his large hands and long fingers; they were all puzzle pieces of a whole that made me want every part of him touching me. 

“Touch me,” I whisper against his mouth. 

He lets me drag his hand up the side of his thigh. He takes the hint, fingers inching up my dress until he traces the waistband of my underwear. He’s so close, all he has to do is go a bit further, but he stops.

“They guys could walk in,” he says, pulling away fully. 

Now that I have him this close, I’m not going to make it easy for him to let me go. I’m here for one thing. Namjoon. 

“Well then lets go to your room,” I grab his hand and lead him out of the kitchen and toward the hallway that leads to the room he shares with Taehyung. 

“Why so suddenly?” He tugs at my hand, stopping me from entering his room. 

“Huh,” I look back at him.

I don’t really know how to answer his question. The only difference between today and yesterday is knowing that our first kiss happened already. Still, that hadn’t really made much of a difference. I’m emboldened by the sheer fact that he wants me at all.

“All this time and now you want to fuck,”

“Does it matter?” I shrug, hoping that for once he can just let it go.

He does. He nods for me to push the door, letting us both into his room. As expected of Tae, it’s a mess. Unexpected of Namjoon, his side is also a mess too. Wires and equipment take up most of his desk, piles of clothing on the computer chair in front. For someone so uptight in every other aspect, his room is the complete opposite. Not to say that I’m attracted to unkempt men, but it’s a little reassuring for some reason.

He pushes my back against his wooden door interrupting my scan of his room. His mouth trailing down from the corner of my mouth down to my neck. As if he can’t stand to be away from my lips for long, he kisses my mouth again, his tongue forcing its way between my lips. His large hands smooth over my bare thighs roughly. He touches me like he’s annoyed with himself, like he’s mad that he wants me in this way. I love it because I’ve known all this time. 

One hand reaches up to lightly cup my throat, his hand is so big that his thumb can reach the hair that sticks to my lip gloss. He brushes it away with his finger as he looks down at me. He looks partially surprised that we’ve ended up like this. I want to remind him that that theres a thin line between fucking and fighting, but he’d only scoff and tell me to stop stealing corny lines from Jin. 

“Are you going to keep touching me or is this it?” I ask him, trying my best to drag a breath into my lungs. 

He rolls his eyes and presses his lips against mine to shut me up. I close my eyes, trying to commit the feel of his lips to memory. Things like this are volatile. There’s no way of knowing just how much Joon will give me tonight let alone if I’ll ever get to have him touch like this again. His bottom lip works with his teeth to bite at my sore mouth. He feels dirty, and uneven, like he’s not even trying to make this neat like everything else in his life. Just like his room, his intimacy style reveals who he truly is. The truth beneath Namjoon, he’s a mess, he’s sort of a freak, and he’s making everything up as he goes. There’s a certain charm to how well he’s gotten at getting everyone to believe that he knows exactly whats going on, when in reality he’s just as clueless as the rest of us.��

“And If I tell you that I want you to leave?” He breathes heavily, only leaving the smallest space between our lips. 

“You’d be lying,” I tell him while I reach up to brush his sweaty bangs off of his forehead. “But if you’d asked me to leave, I would go,”

I lean back, putting more space between us. I’ll give him one formal chance to change his mind, one chance to act like this never happened, because once I get permission to stay, he’ll have to try really hard to keep this dress from hitting his floor. I tilt my head as I size him up one last time. There’s still a possibility that he’d put an end to this. I’m measuring my odds. Going by the press of his dick between my legs from beneath his sweat pants, I know that physically he wants me. That could only go so far. I don’t think I’ll survive a come to senses moment in the middle of all of this. 

“Joon,” I call running my hand down the front of his t-shirt. “Make up your mind. Either put me out or take my clothes off,”

He looks frustrated. I can tell its mostly at himself. That doesn’t make me feel any better. I want to be in his bed, only if he wants me in his bed. Of course it would be easy to settle for a one time hate fuck, but he doesn’t hate me. At least, I don’t think he does. I’m really hoping he doesn’t. 

He grips my fingers right as they curl around his waistband. He takes a full step back, causing my feet to land fully on the floor. I don’t like this at all. I want to go back to having his mouth on me. I watch as he takes a seat on the edge of his bed. His hands scrub over the top of his scalp, running through the peach colored locks. Am I stressing him out? Am I having an effect? I hope to god I am. For the sake of my insistent need to have him, I hope that how much he wants me is driving him crazy. 

He leans back on his elbows and I see the switch. His eyes trace over my body. I can almost feel them seeking out bare skin above anything else. His gaze is so potent that I feel goosebumps rise to my skin only from him watching me. 

“Take your panties off, Y/N,” 

His voice has become even deeper. It seems almost impossible but he sounds gruff, the arrogance from earlier is gone leaving me with only a matched need to have him inside me sooner rather than later. 

As always, I don’t do as he says. I like our games. I like when he looks at me like I’ve hit every nerve possible. I like the attention. Only this time there’s no classroom. There’s no professor to break up the tension, no students to make snide remarks about how we’re destined to butt heads. It’s just Namjoon and I this time, and the feel of his shag carpet between my toes as I make my way over toward him. He’d told me to take my underwear off, but I do the opposite when I stop in front of him. I grab the edge of my dress in my hands before pulling it up over my head. I watch his eyes follow the material as it drops to his floor. 

“If you go back now, you’ll never live it down, Joon,” I straddle his lap, planting my knees on either side of him on the mattress. “No matter how much you beat me in the class room, if you don’t fuck me tonight, I win,”

He reaches up with two hands to cup my jaw. When he kisses me this time, it’s almost too soft to believe. He’s too gentle, too immersive. As much as I want this, I wanted to keep my head, but right now everything feels a little incoherent. Nothing makes sense. The fact that I’m even here with him doesn’t make sense. But its Namjoon, and I’ve spent the better part of the last two and a half years wondering if his lips taste as good as they look. I’m finding that they don’t; they’re better. 

His hands go to the back of my bra, undoing the latches before dropping it down to the floor with my dress. He pulls back, looking at my chest like he’s mesmerized. I didn’t realize just how much I’d wanted his eyes on me like this. The high I got from sparring with him in class is nothing compared to the way his eyes smooth over my chest, his tongue flicks over his bottom lip so quickly that if I hadn’t been staring at his mouth, I would have missed it. 

I don’t know what it is about having his unwavering attention, to have him one hundred percent focused on me. Something about his gaze on me makes me want to make sure it doesn’t stray. I guess this is my chance to cement his eyes on me. If tonight is all I get, then its my mission to make it so memorable that he’d have to actively work to forget me. 

I move first, leaving the warmth of his lap and crawling behind him into the middle of his mattress. I kneel behind him, running my hands across his broad shoulders, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. I get to do this. For so long, I’ve imagined it. I’d spent hours in class wondering what it would like to touch him like this, and to have him touch me. His honey colored skin rises in goosebumps as I kiss him, moving pass the collar of his shirt. 

“I’m going to take your clothes off now,” I say quietly. 

He nods and lets me pull his t-shirt off. His shoulders are so broad, its hard to resist running my hands across his shoulder blades. My fingers trace over the beauty spots that dot along his collar bones. I want more time. I want to see all of him, to explain every inch of his tan skin. But I’m also a little impatient. 

I reach in front of him, slipping my hand passed the waistband of his sweats. He’s not wearing underwear, that much was clear from the minute he answered the door. Now, feeling him, running my hand over his silky soft skin. It’s a sin. For him to be so…perfect. It isn’t fair to me or anyone else he has gotten to feel him. 

“Is this ok?” I ask him.

“You’re asking for permission to touch my dick while you’re touching my dick?” He says like he still finds me incredibly exasperating. “You wouldn’t be in my bed if it wasn’t ok, Y/N,”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. How can he be annoying even now. Still, it does nothing to the way I need him. Feeling him has only made it worse. I won’t lie, the banter turns me on too. I don’t think it would be the same if Joon was too soft. It wouldn’t be him. 

“Stand,” I command. 

“Why?” 

“Just do what I say for once,” I frown when he looks back at me, still refusing to move. His defiance might kill this before we can even get started. I sit back. With his eyes on me, I pull my simple cotton underwear and throw it with the rest of my clothing. I cock my eyebrow as he watches my movements, seemingly shocked.  

“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready, Namjoon,”

“Where’s the thing?” He gestures awkwardly with his hands. 

God, he’s so weird. Still, I can’t help but think he’s perfect. His passive aggressive jabs and awkwardness may be his only flaws but I don’t think I’d want him any other way. I hand him the condom that I threw on the bed and wait impatiently. He finally stands and pulls his bottoms off, his hand going down to cover himself as he climbs above me. Even with the coverage of his hand, its not hard to see just how big he is. Its not like I’ve ever doubted, but seeing it up close it definitely more satisfying than I could have ever hoped. 

His lips touch mine again, as he opens the foil package and pulls the latex out. He has it on quickly, wasting no time lining himself up with me. His hands smooth over my thighs and pulls them around his hips as he pushes forward. My hands squeeze at his hands, trying to get a grip on something. He hasn’t moved yet and already I’m a bit delirious. Maybe it’s because I can’t remember the last time a person looked at me like they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but right with me. Maybe it’s because I’m gathering that Kim Namjoon is really, totally, completely my type. 

“Why can’t I stop kissing you?” He frowns to himself before kissing me for the hundredth time tonight. 

“You like me,” I manage to tease while still getting used to how good he feels. I don’t think I’m ready for him to move yet. He’s already too much, and I refuse to give in the satisfaction of making me come so quick. Not when I’ve waited so long for this. 

His hips snap against mine, immediately forcing me to drop my smile as my lips part. He builds a slow steady rhythm. It’s too slow, too languid, like he’s willing to make this last as long as it takes to drive me out of my mind. His kisses become messy, as his own lips part, a low moan of air brushing against my mouth. His hips still move almost painfully sluggish, like a drag. 

Like honey.

I throw my head back into his pillow as he reaches between us to touch me softly. He’s too much at one. His large body covers mine completely, his awkwardly long legs tangling with mine. While he holds himself up on his elbow above me, his lips never leave my skin. I’ve never doubted Namjoon to have a side like this, I just thought that it would never be for me to see. Right now kind of feels like a necessity that I do. I need to feel his hips pull at mine. I need to feel his thick lips take mine roughly. I need to have him. Even if I only get tonight, I know that whatever happens later it’ll be worth it. 

“You were wrong about Shakespeare,” he says suddenly. His hips snap against mine like he’s punctuating the statement and handing the pulpit over to me. 

It’s such a ridiculous statement to make at this exact moment that I have no clue what to say. I’m stuck between forcing him off of me just so I can tell him how wrong he is about Shakespeare as well as let him know how completely absurd it is to bring it up mid-thrust. But, it’s Namjoon. I sort of expect nothing less than ludicrous musings at the least opportune times.

So I take the bait. 

“Shakespeare is trite and he isn’t even the best satirical playwright and yet we a society celebrate him as such-, Fuck Joon,” I breath out as the rhythm of his hips pick up slightly. 

“Who’s the best satirical playwright in your opinion,” his breathing picks up as we both start to sweat.

Our bodies are slick, moving together smoothly as we both chase after the rising feeling in our stomachs. He’s bringing me higher with each push/pull of his hips all while having a ridiculous conversation about playwrights and satire; which if we’re honest we couldn’t care less about. There’s just no other way to be for us.

I pull away from his lips that move against mine again, missing the taste of his tongue the moment he disappears from my mouth. I try to answer his question but it only comes out in a sigh as he hitches my thigh high on his hip. His fingers press tightly into skin as I close my eyes.

“Are you relenting?” I hear the smug tone in his voice. “Have I finally shut you up?”

I shake my head. Even now, I refuse to give it to him so easily; especially when I know it’s exactly what he wants. “No, I’m just in awe you’re finally asking for my opinion on something,”

“So, who then?”

“You’re incorrigible,”

“You’re deflecting,” he tells me.

“Moliere,” I say. “Moliere is the greatest satirical playwright of all time. Shakespeare wishes he could touch Tartuffe with anything he ever wrote,”

“There would be no Moliere without Shakespeare,” Namjoon counters. “And besides Shakespeare is a dramatist, satire was a hobby and even then Moliere barely measures up,”

He’s sort of right, but as always I’m not going to admit it. I counter attack by tightening around him. Moving his heavy hand aside, I take over touching myself as he continues to move against me. As expected, I’m quicker to bring myself over the edge than he is. He pauses as I come around him, unable to handle both sensations at once. 

He curses lowly but its an illegible mix of English and Korean that I can’t begin to piece together. His face presses into my neck, as he presses his hips against mine and withdraws quickly. His rhythm is a little stuttered as he chases after his own orgasm. The competitor in me wants to win. There’s no definition of winning and losing during sex, but with Joon and I, everything is a game. Especially this. I use all my weight to roll us to the side, straddling his hips  before he can protest. His large hands hover above my hips, not quite touching my skin. His plump lips form an ‘O’ as I lower myself back on him. 

“Was this necessary-,” he moans louder than either of us expects, sighing as I rock my hips above him.

You’re so easy, Namjoon. 

I press my chest against his, taking a turn to kiss him dumb like he’d done me for the last hour. Two hands move up my back and tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck. He pulls roughly as my hips start to pick up the pace, set on making him come for me. It’s all I really want. 

“Y/n,” he breathes quietly.

I pull back, moving his hands back to my hips, urging him to use my body to make him feel good. I watch as his eyes close and his head presses deep into his pillow. His lips part slightly as and he holds me tight. He’s so close. I want to kiss him again but he looks too good. I can tell when he’s about to come as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough that his pink skin turns white. 

“Let go, Joon,”

For once, he listens. His hips meet mine as he comes finally, his breaths coming out fast like he’s trying to refill his lungs. Unable to resist anymore, I lean forward and press my lips against his. He kisses me back roughly, wrapping his arms around my back to hold my body against his. I roll off of him, tired as well. As nice as it would be to spend the rest of the night in his bed, I can’t.

As if I wish them into existence, I hear the front door open and the sound of rowdy boys. I freeze, instinctually pulling the sheet off the floor and over my chest. Namjoon doesn’t seem worried. Slowly he moves my hair out of my face and kisses my temple before sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed. 

“I’ll keep them distracted. Come out when you’re ready,” 

I nod as he disposes of the used condom in the bathroom. When he comes back, he pulls the sweats up over his hips again before leaving me alone in his bed with too many questions. Is he going to tell them? Should we? I don’t have much time to think. I’m not sure exactly how many boys are back but I rather none of them find me in Joon’s bed; naked. 

I run my fingers over my lips as I gather my clothing off the floor. He’s still on my mouth, I can feel him. I can’t get the taste of him out of my head. I can’t get any of him out of my head. I should’ve thought this through. I’m addicted now. I need more of him; more slow kisses, more of his hips dragging against mine. More honey. 

[hellzyeahthewebwieldingavenger]

Did Spider-Man being married make finding big name writers hard (SPOILERS: no...)

One of the frequent arguments used against the Spider-Marriage was that it allegedly made high caliber writers unwilling to work on the series and/or made filling the role of writer difficult to do.

In particular Roger Stern’s unwillingness to work on the series due to Spider-Man being married and Ed Brubaker’s public frustration with how the marriage prevented him from writing a story he had in mind is cited to corroborate the above argument.

But let’s deconstruct that idea a little bit shall we.

Prior to the marriage’s introduction in 1987 there had been a total of four Spider-Man titles. Amazing Spider-Man, Marvel Team Up, Spectacular Spider-Man and Web of Spider-Man, which had replaced the cancelled MTU series. So for 25 years (Spider-Man was created in 1962) there was between 1-3 titles per month, 1-3 writing positions that needed to be filled.

And who filled these roles? Well a lot of people and I’m not going to list them all but broadly speaking (and prioritizing people with actual runs not fill in works or who only did side projects of annuals) we had:

Stan Lee

Steve Ditko

Gerry Conway

Roy Thomas

Bill Mantlo

Al Milgrom

Tom DeFalco

Roger Stern

Denny O’Neil

Marv Wolfman

Peter David

David Michelinie

Louise Simonson

Danny Fingeroth

Len Wein

Christopher Priest/Jim Owsley

That’s a lot of people and some HUGE names there. Of course some of those names got huge later on or else got huge ON their Spider-Man runs.

What was the state of affairs during 1987-2007, during the years the marriage was around?

Well if I recall correctly among the titles published in which the 616 married Peter Parker had an at least semi-recurring starring role we had ASM, Spec, Web, No Adjective Spider-Man (later rebranded Peter Parker: Spider-Man), Spider-Man Unlimited Volume 1 and 3, Spider-Man Team-Up, Marvel Team Up Volume 2, Marvel Team-Up volume 3, Spider-Man Family, Sensational Spider-Man, Marvel Knights: Spider-Man (later rebranded as Sensational volume 2), Webspinner’s: Tales of Spider-Man, Spider-Man’s: Tangled Web, New Avengers, and Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man.

Bear in mind this is excluding guest appearances, one shots, mini-series, annuals, What ifs, alternate universe appearances or flashback titles like Untold Tales of Spider-Man.

As you can see that is far MORE titles than in the 25 years preceding it. Now in the interests of fairness obviously those were not all published at the same time and some of those titles were anthologies wherein stories might not be set in the present day where Spider-Man was married...but most were.

In fact at any given time during the 20 years the marriage was in place there was always a minimum of 3 titles in publication and on some months in the 90s there could be as many as 5-7.

That is a lot of writing roles that need to be filled and on occasion writers would handle the chores on multiple books. But that was not the norm the majority of the time each book would have their own individual writer.

There was never ever an instance where there was a gap in the schedule that couldn’t be filled because there was just no writer available willing to work with the marriage, that just plain never happened.

Moreover looking at the glut of titles during those 20 years Marvel apparently felt confident enough that there WOULD be writers willing to work with a married Spider-Man because they drastically increased the amount of space about a married Spider-Man that needed to be filled. In particular there were multiple anthology books during those 20 years meaning there would be even more space per book that needed to be filled. 

But hey, that just tells us they found writers willing to plug those gaps. It doesn’t address the criticism that the marriage was turning away writers of high pedigree.

After all the unmarried Spider-Man had all those names I listed above work on his titles and after OMD he had the likes of Dan Slott, Mark Waid, Joe Kelly, Marc Guggenheim, Christos Gage, Chip Zdarksy and the guys from Jimmy Kimmel and Agent Carter!

Was the pedigree of writers during the marriage anywhere close to those guys?

Well we did have...

J.M. DeMatteis who during the marriage authored 3 all time classic Spider-Man stories, had an iconic Batman story and an iconic run on Justice League International that forever defined Blue Beetle and Booster Gold and continues to be influential to this day

Todd McFarlane co-creator of Venom, creator of Spawn, a founder of Image comics and the guy responsible for the highest selling Spider-Man comic book of all time

Acclaimed Playwright, showrunner of Riverdale and powerful editor of Archie comics Roberto Aguirre Sacasa

Gerry Conway, Co-creator of Firestorm, Killer Frost, regarded as the Goeff Johns of his day and oh yeah the guy who killed Gwen Stacy

David Michelinie co-author of the greatest Iron Man run of all time, co-creator of Scott Lang and Taskmaster and co-creator of Carnage and the most popular Spider-Man villain of all time, Venom

Tom DeFalco, editor-in-chief of Marvel and one of the two people who helped introduce Spider-Man’s iconic black costume.

Mark Millar co-creator of the Ultimate Marvel Universe specifically the Ultimates who became a major influence on the 2012 Avengers movie and MCU, such as the decision to cast Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury

Paul Jenkins, generally speaking acclaimed writer in particular on his work on Hellblazer/Constantine

President of Entertainment for Black Entertainment Television (BET) Reginald Hudlin

Acclaimed novel and comic book writer and author of the greatest run of the Incredible Hulk of all time, Peter David

Acclaimed science fiction writer and creator of Babylon 5 J. Michael Straczynski

Oh and by the way, among the people who did small projects or fill-ins were:

Ann Nocenti, acclaimed X-Men and Daredevil writer.

Roger Stern acclaimed Marvel writer, author of what many regard as THE greatest Doctor Doom story of all time and one of the greatest Spider-Man runs of all time where he created the Hobgoblin.

Acclaimed (for some reason beyond me) author and co-creator of The Boys Garth Ennis.

Once upon a time acclaimed and former Geek God Kevin Smith who was poised to be the main writer of Amazing Spider-Man once upon a time.

But that’s not all because want to know who ALMOST wrote for a married Spider-Man?

Acclaimed comic book writer on countless works and (for some reason) fan favourite Grant Morrisson, credited as authoring one of the best Batman runs and Superman stories of all time along with THE best Justice League run of all time.

But he isn’t even the biggest name who almost wrote Spider-Man. Because in the mid-1990s the then editors almost convinced a very big name creator to return to working on Spider-Man. Unfortunately he was turned off of the job when he saw Untold Tales of Spider-Man, a series about a teenage single Peter Parker.

His name is Steve Ditko.

You might remember his work as the creator of the Question, the second Blue Beetle, Doctor Strange and THE CO-CREATOR OF SPIDER-MAN HIMSELF!

Now I’m not saying every one of those marriage era writers did great jobs. I’m not even saying they were all necessarily great writers.

However all of them had a lot of prestige to them and either support from fan adoration or critical acclaim. 

And most of them probably could’ve turned the job of writing a married Spider-Man down if they wanted.

J. Michael Straczynski in particular did not need the job and had more than enough credibility to pick many of his projects.

He is without a shadow of a doubt the single most high profile writer to ever write for Spider-Man exempting Stan Lee himself.

And he not only accepted the job of writing a married adult Spider-Man he actively embraced both facts of the character’s existence. 

As did the author of the greatest Hulk run of all time, the co-author of the greatest Iron Man run of all time and the author of maybe the greatest Spider-Man story of all time.

So...it seems that being married didn’t make it particularly difficult to attract high profile ones.

But please, tell me again how Spider-Man being married was bad because we were turning away big name writers like the guy primarily known for resurrecting a long dead character, killing and resurrecting the hero and replacing the hero because screw originality I guess 

P.S. Wanna know another big name writer who didn’t agree with making Spider-Man unmarried?

This guy...

Who happened to create...this...

[linkspooky]

hello there! i was discussing the recent events of the manga with my friend and he was saying that ishida has wasted his time, seeing the hyped awesome villain Eto fall against Furuta, when she could handle her own vs Arima himself, and then apparently disappeared ever since without a trace, supposedly dead, in addition to Arima dying for Kaneki's sake and the result is Kaneki completely destroyed vs Juuzo and Hanabe, which is imo really underwhelming and ridiculous even if he hasn't eaten...1

..2 and then Furuta becoming this all powerful villain out of no where feels kinda silly as well, and kaneki's fail in winning his fight just felt very underwhelming for his character, do you think Furuta being this op villain really is fine and kaneki just easily getting crushed isnt gonna make us slowly dislike the manga? (and yes its ishida's story after all but im just discussing) wouldnt be a there another route for the story to take other than this ?

This is an opinion question anon, but I’ll try to give you a meta answer as this really isn’t an opinion blog. 

I know a lot of the fights don’t make total sense in terms of shonen power levels, and I understand why that can be frustrating. I know a lot of people call shonen stupid but I actually like shonen, like shonen fights, and like the way mangas devise power levels and have to cleverly plan out fights. The fighting in Tokyo Ghoul is definitely a let down at times, I can think of the Urie and Roma fight for sure as a conclusion that made so little sense I was unsatisfied with it. 

However, as I’ve discussed previously in this meta here, fighting and power levels aren’t that important [x]. In fact Furuta himself as a character is not that strong, except for his one offscreen victory against Eto. We saw him even parody the shonen notion of gaining strength and a power up at the last moment only to totally fail in that fight.

So, rather than viewing Furuta as a character whose somehow all smart or all powerful, it might be better for you to view Furuta in a narrative sense. I’ve made this meta in the past as well, but Furuta seems to have taken over as the narrator [x]. 

In a meta sense what that means is Furuta is always the one setting the scenarios in these situations. Furuta acts, and everybody else reacts to him. However, Furuta retains control because he’s always the one plotting the scenario. He is the author, and the others are characters.

As we’ve noted several times, the current scenario basically follows this. Not only that, but the video that Furuta broadcasted to everybody was basically once again him narrating to them what is happening and what the current scenario is.

Reporter, Media, Script, Playwright, Casting, Last Boss these are all terms that describe narrative. When Furuta won so to speak, the words “Game Over” along with a glitching effect appeared on the screen. We’re meant to read Furuta not only as a character existing within the world and restricted by its rules, but also a character in a narrative sense.

Then the question is why exactly is Furuta able to seize control of the narrative even though he’s a character who came from relatively nowhere? This answer too is tied to the idea of narrative, and narrative foiling. The reason is simple, Furuta is the main villain because Kaneki is the main character.

The two of them are near perfect inversions of each other. Remember that word you used to describe Furuta, that he came out of nowhere and became the most powerful ghoul in the manga?

That is quite literally exactly what happened to Kaneki. He’s not the chosen one, he’s just some poor unfortanate soul who got ghoulified and happened to have  body suited for it. Three years later despite having nothing at all to do with the conflict he’s now completely at the center of it, with all of the ghouls literally moving for Kaneki’s sake alone.

Whereas Furuta’s backstory places him at the exact center of the conflict. He was born into this, he’s been plotting this his whole life. He’s even far more connected to Rize, who was the woman who brought tragedy upon Kaneki, than Kaneki ever really was.

In this story of Washuu and fighting V, in a traditional narrative Furuta who was born at the center of it all, who destroyed the Washuu, who plotted his revenge for his whole life would be a more traditional main character.

However, we follow Kaneki instead and our perspective is centered on him. Therefore we, much like Kaneki, view Furuta as having come from nowhere, and therefore having no discernible motivations.

However, Furuta is Kaneki, and Kaneki is Furuta. The reason that the final antagonist is Kaneki’s greatest foil is because Kaneki greatest enemy is ultimately himself.

Kaneki’s own choices, his limited viewpoint of the world are often what end up damning him again in again in tragic circumstances. Kaneki will not conquer tragedy until he conquers himself and looks at himself honestly so to speak. In the same way, he won’t conquer Furuta until he accepts Furuta, his shadow. 

That’s why what brought about Kaneki’s sudden downfall had more to do with Kaneki than Furuta really. The reason Kaneki was weak was because he starved himself and refused to take care of his body. The reason he lost so easily is because he got overconfident and charged in against Juuzou entirely on his own.

Furuta overcoming Kaneki didn’t come about by Furuta being a brillaint omniscient mastermind. He simply had to know what Kaneki’s weaknesses were and account for that. Furuta knows Kaneki so well because Furuta is, ultimately, Kaneki, the narrative embodiment of all of his flaws.

It’s Kaneki himself however who took a complex situation and narrowed it down to two really predictable choices. It’s Kaneki whose thinking is almost entirely reactionary, where Furuta will often have two or three plans going at once so he can adjust. 

Kaneki’s thinking is linear. He sees something and then tries to decide between one or two options, he even describes himself as being on railroad tracks. It’s as black and white as you can get. 

Kaneki’s always had extremely black and white ways of viewing things.

Furuta himself always blurs the lines between things. His thinking is lateral, he’ll often float two or three plans. You can tell there were several options to entrap Kaneki, he might not have even initially planned to rely entirely on the 24th ward raid. 

He also had back up plans. He promoted Mutsuki himself and Mutsuki devised their own plan to entrap Kaneki. He was also the one who made a public anouncement, and he probably was aware that Hajime was being sent down to the 24th ward. 

Kaneki wasn’t just trapped in one plan, he was in the midst of several but decided to narrow it all down to a binary choice. Either attack or retreat. He was, clearly and obviously outgambitted and the manga does a good job of explaining how Furuta won in practical terms without relying on just him being the villain or being super smart or something. 

Ultimately though, what sabotaged Kaneki is Kaneki. He wasn’t taken the role of king seriously. It didn’t need to be Furuta who took him down, Kaneki was doing a good job of sabotaging himself. 

Narratively though, as Furuta is Kaneki, the embodiment of his urge to die, his entitlement towards others, his need to have everything revolve around him, all of the worst parts in one package having Furuta be the final boss is in a way a way for Kaneki symbolically to confront his own flaws and overcome them, or at least accept them. 

[talabib]

How To Turn Failure Into A Valuable Experience

If you’ve ever had to do anything creative, you’ve experienced failure. It’s a necessary part of the creative process. But there’s more to it than that.

It turns out that when you look at how some of humanity’s greatest minds think of failure, they don’t think of it as an event to be overcome. They see it as a necessary part of the journey towards mastery.

This post explains why failure isn’t something to fear, but rather something to understand. How can it propel us forwards, to our successes?

Mastery has nothing to do with avoiding failure; rather, it’s about relentlessly striving for more.

When people speak about artists and athletes, they often use black-and-white terms, like “good” or “bad,” “success” or “failure.” Well, that kind of hierarchical language is deeply misguided, because failure can actually help you achieve mastery.

To understand why failure can be such an advantage, first we need to understand mastery. Mastery is about endurance, not perfectionism (which is bound up in how we want others to perceive us) or success (related to particular events). In other words, mastery is the unrelenting pursuit of a goal. Think of it like chasing something that can never be caught; it’s about striving for the impossible.

Digging a little deeper, consider the Archer’s Paradox as a metaphor for the process of mastery. The Archer’s Paradox refers to the idea that the archer will draw her bow and point her arrow in a way that's intended to account for elements that are outside of her control, like weather.

So, in a sense, the archer is constantly striving to control things that cannot be controlled. And like the archer, those of us who seek mastery also try to hit the target despite facing enormous trials over which we have no control

And since mastery is borne of this continual process of unrelenting striving, we shouldn’t even use the word “failure” to describe the difficulties we encounter on the path. Because as long as you keep working past the moment of “failure,” the event becomes a learning experience.

Not to mention, these difficulties (i.e. “failures”) can also be a form of motivation. As playwright Tennessee Williams said, “The apparent failure of a play sends me back to my typewriter that very night, before the reviews are out. I am more compelled to get back to work than if I had a success.”

For most of us, there’s a gap between what we have achieved and what we want to achieve.

Since failure is a misguided concept, how can we talk about unrealized achievement? Well, there’s The Gap, a term which refers to the fissure between what you have achieved and what you can achieve.

For instance, a young Hart Crane encountered The Gap when the esteemed poet Ezra Pound deemed Crane’s work “all egg” and no incubator. He meant that Crane’s poetry didn’t match his high potential. In other words: Crane was in The Gap.

Since anyone can fall into The Gap, what can be done to close it? Well first, start by creating a safe haven, a mental or physical space that protects you from criticism and allows you to take risks.

The playwright August Wilson created his safe haven in a restaurant. One time, while he was scribbling away, a waitress asked whether he was writing on napkins “because it doesn’t count.” In fact, that was precisely the case: Wilson wrote on napkins because it felt safe; it allowed him to keep striving without worrying about criticism.

As you can see, a safe haven can be immensely valuable for unleashing creativity, but this protected space also comes with risks. Because after all, when you shield yourself for too long, you often lose touch with reality.

That’s what happened to Pontormo, a sixteenth-century Florentine fresco painter who spent eleven years working on a portrait in isolation. After the work, neither he nor the painting survived.

The risks of isolation are one reason why, after creating a safe haven, you have to find a way to incorporate criticism and pressure. Composer Leonard Bernstein valued having the pressure of limited time: “To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan, and not quite enough time.”

For example, the author and neurologist Oliver Sacks was desperate because he hadn’t written anything for months. So, he gave himself an ultimatum: write a book in ten days or commit suicide. Nine days later, guess what happened? Sacks finished his book.

Near wins compel us to confront our limitations and push past them.

Have you experienced that sinking feeling that sets in when you miss the bus by just a few seconds? It can be extremely frustrating, especially if you have somewhere important to be. Although these near wins are excruciating, they’re also necessary, because they push us forward

This has actually been proven by psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky, who found that near wins have a profound effect on our thinking, leading us to obsess over “what might have been.” The psychologists even found that the more frustrating the failure, the more it affects our behavior, motivating us to work harder.

For instance, consider Jackie Joyner-Kersee, who was one-third of a second away from winning gold in the 1984 Olympic heptathlon. Her near win had such a motivating effect that when she returned to the Olympics in 1988, she set a record nobody’s beaten since.

But a near win not only motivates us to achieve great things; it also shifts our perspective, focusing our attention on the process of striving and not the end goal.  

Triathlete Julie Moss may be one of the best examples of this phenomenon. During the 1982 Ironman race, Moss had a six minute lead, but then she collapsed during the last half-mile. Although she could barely control her limbs – much less stand up – she still crawled through the last yards of the race, willing herself to push past the pain.

In other words, Moss’ focus shifted from her original goal (winning the race), to the how of the race – that is, how was she going to push past her pain to cross the finish line?

These kinds of near misses define our lives, because the path to the finish line is rarely a straight one. So we learn to keep moving forward, even when it’s a struggle.

In order to reach your potential, you have to surrender yourself to pain.

Near misses motivate us to push past our frustration and accomplish great things. Pain is another difficulty you may have to overcome on the path to mastery: That is, you have to accept and surrender to pain to reach your potential.

Since everyone experiences tragedies, setbacks and disasters, pain is inevitable. A lady was forced to face this sad fact head-on when her seven dear friends all died within a year.

This was obviously a deeply painful experience for her, but eventually she accepted that death is unavoidable. And once she accepted the fragility of life, she was inspired to find more meaning in each moment she had.

That’s how surrendering works: Once you accept your pain fully, you can finally begin to understand it – and then move forward.

The martial art Aikido is a great metaphor for this process. Aikido is all about using your opponent’s force against them, by absorbing their energy and redirecting it back towards them. Wendy Palmer has mastered this technique, making her one of the most powerful and fearsome Aikido fighters, despite being only 5’5”.

Just as Aikido literally trains participants to absorb hostile energy and transform it, we have to learn how to accept setbacks, surrender to their pain and transform the energy or emotions they provoke.

To that end, it’s remarkable how many great leaders faced painful adversity on the path to mastery. For example, Martin Luther King Jr., now renowned as a great orator, had to overcome a speech impediment. In fact, his verbal tic was so noticeable, he was penalized for it when he studied oratory in Seminary.

How did he overcome his impediment? As MLK put it, “Once I’d made my peace with death, I could make my peace with all else.” In other words, once he accepted the fact that life is fragile and painful, his speech impediment simply disappeared.

To get creative, embody the amateur.

If you want to accomplish great things, you have to allow yourself to experiment and play! This idea gets right at the amateur’s advantage – that is, the benefit of having more experience than a novice, but less than an expert. So, why do amateurs have an advantage over experts? Well, amateurs act for pleasure, not money or career-related reasons – and pleasure goes hand and hand with experimentation, leading to truly original new ideas.

To understand the benefits of experimentation, consider scientists Andre Geim and Konstantin Novoselov, who created the world’s first two-dimensional object (a layer of carbon found in graphite) and consequently won a Nobel Prize. This groundbreaking invention was a product of their “Friday Night Experiments,” which consisted of ludicrous experiments with low probabilities of success.

By stepping into the role of amateurs, the scientists had the freedom to play with ideas – eventually leading to a major breakthrough.

And this playfulness is why amateurs have an advantage over experts. The latter are burdened by the Einstellung effect: once someone has developed rigid routines, they are less likely to rethink what works and come up with new ideas. But this is a faulty mindset, because what worked once might not work again

We’ve seen that experimentation results in innovation, and so can playing in a childlike way. That’s why companies like Mattel encourage employees to play in the office, whether on carpets that look like grass, or in chairs that stimulate space shuttles.

There’s even a scientific connection between creativity and play. One study gave two groups of four-year-olds a toy. The researcher showed the first group how to use the toy, but didn’t show the second group. In the end, the second group spent more time playing with the toy and even discovered hidden features.

Ultimately, the study showed that playing intensified the second group’s curiosity, leading them to find more innovative uses for the toy.

On the path to mastery, cultivate grit.

Grit is the final piece to understanding the way failure and setbacks can lead us to mastery.

So what is grit? It’s having a thick skin in the face of defeat. Grit ties together ideas we’ve already discussed, like surrendering to pain and striving for mastery.

Taking a step back, it’s important to note that grit is different from persistence or self-control. Persistence is rugged steadfastness towards an end goal – like studying hard to pass your medical school exams and become a doctor. Self-control is more temporary – like resisting temptations.

By contrast, grit is endurance displayed over years. It’s about continuing to strive for mastery despite apparent failure, over and over again.

For example, the director of Iowa University’s world-famous Writing Program noted that the most successful writers were those who most wanted to become great – not the ones with the most natural talent. So in the case of the most ambitious writers, grit is a matter of continuous, unrelenting effort over time.

But grit isn’t only about making a continuous effort, it’s also about applying it towards mastery. And that’s why art is one of the best ways to learn grit. After all, art teaches us to constantly reassess ourselves, our work and our ideas – even as we continue to strive.

Consider that artists have to deal with criticism all the time. Well, successful artists have figured out how to use valuable parts of the criticism to improve their work, and discard the rest.

Imagine standing next to a painting you poured your soul into, while dozens of critics figuratively tear it apart. How would you respond?

In the end, having the grit to face that kind of criticism is what you truly need to succeed. So find a way to absorb all the criticism, pain and difficulties you encounter, and incorporate them.

Failure, as we know it, doesn’t really exist. When we confront what looks like failure, instead of bowing to it, we need to see it as it really is: a valuable learning experience. Because after all, if you want to accomplish great things, you have to find a way to transform your setbacks into motivation. In other words, you have to continually strive for more in order to achieve more.

Action plan: Next time you think you’re at rock bottom, tell yourself: “Great, I can only go up from here.” After all, although being at rock bottom might feel like a failure, it isn’t! It’s part of the path towards achieving your goals.

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The Internal Debate Within the Writer of One Night in Miami and Soul

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It’s one of the most kinetic moments in One Night in Miami. As a character observes, the banter is over and friends are pulling out knives: Kingsley Ben-Adir’s Malcolm X just challenged Leslie Odom Jr.’s Sam Cooke on his responsibility as a Black artist to the Black community.

“You bourgeois negroes are too happy with your scraps to know what’s at stake here,” Malcolm says, demanding Sam take advantage of this elusive thing called celebrity and speak up for all those voices who never got a mic. Yet to Cooke—an artist with his own record label that keeps the rights of Black music in Black hands—this is the height of hypocrisy.

“Everybody talks about how they want a piece of the pie,” Sam counters. “Well, I don’t. I want the goddamn recipe.”

Even for a younger audience who may not be familiar with Cooke’s music, or Malcolm X’s autobiography, the debate of social responsibility in American life rings as urgently in 2021 as it does in the film’s 1964 setting—and it echoes acutely too for Kemp Powers, the writer who penned One Night in Miami twice: first as a play and now a film. He can hear it in his debates with other Black artists over the years, and between the lines of books he’s read about each of the men in his story—he can even hear the debate waging in his own head, whether it’s while authoring a passion project like Miami or co-writing and co-directing Soul, the first Pixar film to star a Black man.

“It’s a debate that’s been happening since long before that night between Malcolm and Sam,” Powers says over a Zoom call. “It’s a debate that still happens now, and is a question that I think Black creatives ask ourselves all the time. What, if any, social responsibility do we have as a Black athlete, artist, or public figure? There’s no real clear answer to it, but that being said, almost everyone has an opinion.”

Powers has entertained several over the years, sometimes at the same time. In his youth he may have more clearly favored Sam’s pragmatic sensibility of working within the system, but at age 47 he has long realized, “I can see myself as just a writer or director, or whatever, but society is going to call me a Black writer-director whether I want it or not.” Thus the question becomes how to manage that reality, whether as a playwright or one of the four most influential Black artists, athletes, and leaders of the mid-20th century.

“So many people have asked me about, who do I think is right, Malcolm or Sam?” Powers reveals, remarkably without sighing. “That misses the point, because ultimately the argument they’re having is just the inner monologue that goes on inside my head all the time… and the answer is it’s situational. Some days you got to be like Sam about it, and other days you got to be like Malcolm about it.”

And sometimes you have to be both on the same day.

Indeed, Powers first put One Night in Miami out into the world as a play in 2013. Back then he had no aspirations of becoming a filmmaker. And yet, by the time a film adaptation gained momentum, he’d already begun working with Pixar in Emeryville, California on retooling Soul as the story of a jazz musician in a real existential crisis. The two films, technically speaking, were released on the same Christmas Day, and One Night in Miami is now having its streaming premiere on Amazon Prime Video a few weeks later.

The serendipity of the complementary releases amuses Powers, as does the strange coincidence that Miami would take such a winding path to the screen that it’d catch up with him as a filmmaker. Still, even between these two movies, Powers sees that same internal debate now playing across multiple streaming services.

“My Sam and my Malcolm are on full display with Soul and One Night in Miami as a writer,” Powers chuckles. “You’re seeing me work within an existing system to try to bring about some positive change that might not be fast enough for some people, but it’s a quantum change; it’s a massive, massive change at this huge company that hasn’t had a lot of representation for us, and at the same time you’re seeing me unfiltered in an independent film where I literally can write whatever I want, and it just goes out there unfiltered. So you’re seeing how both can be positive and effective, right?”

It can also mean historical figures jokingly referenced in Soul like Muhammad Ali—who appears as one of 22’s mentors in that film—can also take a spotlight role via One Night in Miami. In fact, Ali is the crux of a curious historical detail Powers turned into a fascinating fiction. On the night Cassius Clay (an uncanny Eli Goree in the film) took the heavyweight championship of the world from Sonny Liston by TKO, the 22-year-old champ chose to celebrate the victory by quietly hanging out in a motel with his mentor Malcolm X, and pals Sam Cooke and Jim Brown (Aldis Hodge). The next day, Clay officially changed his name to Cassius X and announced his joining of the Nation of Islam.

All of that actually happened. But what did they say to each other that night before Cassius took the first step to becoming Ali? And did it cause Cooke to write “A Change is Gonna Come?” Very few details are truthfully known—Powers even reveals one of the few concrete facts is that they were served pints of vanilla ice cream that night (alcohol is forbidden by the Nation of Islam). But then Powers was one of the first to extensively consider the ramifications of all four men in one place at one significant time.

“Usually when you see that night mentioned, it’s mentioned in the context of a story that’s focusing on only one of them,” Powers says. That’s how he came to learn about it, as a minor detail in Mike Marqusee’s Redemption Song: Muhammad Ali and the Spirit of the Sixties, which Powers first picked up about 15 years ago.

“Obviously the focus was very much on Muhammad Ali throughout the entire book,” Powers says. “So it’s a coincidental fact to the writer of the book, who’s focusing on Muhammad Ali, who was not going to see it through the way I was seeing it. [Between] all of them, what is the power dynamic? What’s the friendship like between four guys who were not just influential, but [were] also in different disciplines?”

Powers likens it to the Rat Pack, which was primarily composed of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr., among others. To this day, popular culture idolizes and deifies them as best bros playing cards and crooning ballads in Las Vegas. “And they’re all singers!” Powers contends. “But I think this is like that on an exponentially different level, because they’re not all the same thing. You have an entertainer, you have an athlete, you have a political activist.”

Ultimately, Powers jokes they’re a bit like the Black Avengers, with each having been romanticized to the point of becoming superhuman in pop culture over the decades. It’s certainly how Powers came to them, with the scribe having a special affinity with Malcolm X after reading his autobiography as a teenager. “It’s a formative experience shared, I think, with a lot of Black men of my generation.”

Sam Cooke, who he came to later, was his grandmother’s favorite artist; Jim Brown represented Black strength to a whole generation, and took on a mythic aura by the time Powers came of age; and Ali was just on a whole other plain of existence. “Ali was a hero of mine growing up and I didn’t even know why,” Powers muses.

Yet upon learning all four shared the same space, he found an excuse, and an opportunity, to imagine what these men said behind closed doors and among ostensible equals. In the process, Powers could use literary license to also dive deeper into each of these four men’s towering iconographies, and what lay beneath.

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“I wanted to definitely show the private version of all four men. The whole point of them being in this private space away is that we’ve seen so much of them in the public eye.” But in One Night in Miami, each looks strangely more comfortable sitting with their own thoughts, whether that means by strumming a guitar or holding a camera—thereby removing himself from the other three—than on stage or in the arena.

“We have a movie with Jim Brown with no football in it,” says Powers. “We have a movie with Muhammad Ali that has tiny fragments of two boxing matches, but not even one complete boxing match; we have a movie with Sam Cooke where, relatively speaking, he doesn’t sing that much; and we have a movie with Malcolm X in which he doesn’t give a speech.”

The writer credits director Regina King with making those fleeting moments that aren’t in his original play crackle with energy—the half a round we see of Clay dominating Liston or the glimpses of Cooke winning over a crowd, while also feuding with Jackie Wilson, no less. But unlike so many conventional (and often meandering) biopics, there is an emphasis here on specificity of narrative, and specificity of these men’s characters.

Says Powers, “With a snapshot, you have the freedom of focusing on who that person was at that moment of time. You don’t have to bring them into this modern context and be like, ‘Well, how is this person perceived now?’” He adds, “I feel like with two hours or less, I want to focus on that humanity.”

With One Night in Miami, and even Soul, Powers finds theirs, as well as reveals his own.

One Night in Miami is streaming on Amazon Prime video now.

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