#While the verdict may not be arguable
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Here's why Daniel getting a three-place penalty for the next race is yet again evidence that the FIA need to review their regulations:
These are the regulations for overtaking under safety car:
The stewards were right in that Hulkenberg could pass both Lance and Daniel under safety car under Article 55.8 (h), because Lance had crashed into Daniel and they were both cars with obvious problems.
But, glaringly, there is nothing in the regs that state what happens if the car that was passed quickly gets back up to speed and tries to put themselves back into the correct order, which is what you usually do if you get out of order behind the safety car, whether because of pit exits or otherwise.
I'm not saying the stewards could have changed their verdict, but it's only on paper that Daniel had no leg to stand on, because logically, that was his spot and he was very quickly back on Hulk's tail after his wheels hit the ground again. Clearly this is yet another gap in the regs that should have been logically addressed because a situation like this would eventually come up.
It's a similar gap that "stopping on track during qualifying" needed clarification for, and last year, with the 20-place grid drop Carlos suffered for the drain cover that smashed through his car and necessitated changing its components.
Needless to say, a missed gap in the regs causing what would be a logical regaining of a spot to lead to a three-place grid penalty and 2 penatly points for a driver reflects rather more poorly on the FIA regs themselves than the driver who got punted then tried to put himself back where he should have been behind the safety car.
#While the verdict may not be arguable#the punishment certainly is#give him penalty points then#a three place grid drop?#what a joke#I also want to mention that we are no longer in a universe where a ten second penalty equals a three place grid drop in a race#drivers have been calling for reviews to the penalty system for a long time now. let's listen to them.#f1#daniel ricciardo#chines gp 2024#FIA#my post
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˖ ⚜︎ ˖ 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒏 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑨𝒄𝒕 𝑽 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰𝑽 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒓: 𝑨𝒏 𝑰𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑹𝒆𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕
At the very start of the livestream, Furina appears to be on the stage of the Opera Epiclese rehearsing her responses to different scenarios that may happen in a trial. She also ascertains to herself how a god should be.
Furina: Yes, that sounds perfect. A god must be firm. A god must not allow any detail to slip through the cracks.
If Furina believes this is what a god should do, then perhaps we can assume that she walks the talk on this one.
You have probably read and watched through dozens of discussions about how Furina might have split herself into two (human form and the consciousness in the oratrice), and that she might be an oceanid? If not, you can watch this video to get a deep dive on it.
The Oratrice fits this particular ideal of Focalors: the device does not let any detail slip and its verdicts are unyielding. But what about the arguably inferior, low-budget hydro archon Furina? Is she a bumbling blunder? Is her justice flawed?
Painfully, I would say yes. But, what she makes up for it is her unwavering determination to save Fontaine, arduous compassion for her people, and sense of responsibility as a deity. She may not be the ideal god she attempts to perform, but she very well DESERVES to bear the titles God of Justice and Hydro Archon.
BUT THEN!
Neuvillette in the trailer announces at the end of a trial that the Hydro Archon is to be punished with a death sentence!
LOOK AT MY MAN IN PAIN! IN PAIN! NOOOO!!!
Was this shocking to me? Yes!
Who set this up? This is messed up! Furina? Ghurl, uhm. I'd want you to come home alive!
Anyway, Furina seems to be pleading guilty to this trial to serve as a sacrifice to save the people from the prophecy. I think she expected this to happen. If you watched/read about the theory that she could be an Oceanid, then you could say that Egeria (or Focalors? idk) created eidolons of Fontainians, Focalors created the Oratrice, and split her other half into Furina.
What do I mean serving as a sacrifice to save Fontaine? I believe that Furina actually has been for a while now, trying to give back the hydro authority to Neuvillette, but that would take this long to do it. I will explain my thoughts about this in a separate post. (I'm not sure if anybody came up with this theory yet so it might not actually be new.)
So Furina is the prophesized Hydro Archon who will be weeping alone on her throne. She is going to be sacrificed to save Fontaine.
I'm assuming that the trial they are hearing here started out as a sort of habeas corpus for Childe's case, then somehow led to condemning Furina to be guilty of the same charges.
To which . . . is she? If we go with the theory that she created eidolons of Fontainians, then she very well is tied to the disappearances case since it was all a lie in the first place. That the Fontainians are not actually humans, therefore they get dissolved via the Primordial Waters.
I am also assuming that the very reason she made these Oceanids into humans is connected to Egeria's mission to unite everyone in Teyvat. Perhaps this is the actual sin of Egeria that the Heavenly Principles did not take a liking to. Therefore, Focalors' decision was to turn most of the Oceanids into humans and took away their memories. That way all the information they gathered so far as Egeria's spies would be deleted! Gone! This might have been the only way to "save" them from being completely annihalated by the Heavenly Principles. The reason why the waters contained anger and hatred was this. The reason why the remaining Oceanids does not see Focalors as their god.
Is this . . . also the reason why Furina is super conscious of appealing to her subjects? Because deep inside, she knows . . . she did them dirty?!
Oh my gosh, did Furina really do that? If she did, I take back comparing her situation to Jesus-
Is this cracked???
Furina: What's done is done! Just trust in me, your Archon, nevermind whether you can truly convince yourself or not.
Focalors what did you do! Still pulling for you though!
To make it worse? She not only knows it, but is preparing for her curtains to fall where then she exit stage left!
My ideals have no stains.
I must correct you. People here bear no sins in the eyes of the gods... Only laws and the Tribunal can judge someone.They can judge even me. So praise my magnificence and purity.
—Focalors, Varunada Lazurite Gemstione
Boi does this description age damn fine!
My ideals have no stains. (The Oratrice is not erroneous.)
People here bear no sins in the eyes of the gods. (The populace of Teyvat bear no sins in the eyes of the archons.)
Only laws and the Tribunal can judge someone. They can judge even me. (Only the Heavenly Principles and the Court of Justice can judge someone. They can judge even me.)
I, Furina, will use this trial to show the world the true meaning of justice!
So . . . remember the crying Furina's words?
So lonely . . . How much longer?
This leaves me to believe that this is all part of her plan. But I still don't understand why it has to be presented like this? I can just lazily say that this is all to outsmart Celestia. But I honestly don't even know! Does Celestia even play a part on this recent crisis??
Why is the Primordial Sea rising? Is it because of the abnormality of the waters? Is it because of that narwhal? But the voice actors mentioned that this is an ancient matter though. And Egeria did know about the Primordial Sea during her time. So what on earth is this Narwhal's connection to Fontaine's prophecy?? What is the abyss' motive here? What's Arlecchino and the House of Hearth gonna do in all this?
I'll lay out my thoughts about those again in a separate post! I will also update my previous speculation on Childe's case. Until then, toodle-oo~!
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Mark Sumner at Daily Kos:
The Supreme Court is expected to return a ruling this week that could grant Donald Trump absolute immunity for any actions he took while in office. But even if the court comes down at the most extreme end of Trump’s SEAL Team Six fantasies, it still won’t match some of the magical solutions Republicans are inventing to avoid dealing with the fact that their candidate for president is a convicted felon.
In the Senate, a group of Republicans has vowed to block all judicial appointments in protest of Trump’s conviction on 34 counts of falsifying business records. However, considering that everyone in that group wasn't about to vote for a Biden nominee in the first place, it’s not clear how this is anything more than the weakest form of political grandstanding. It barely merits a “1” on the MAGA vs. Law and Order scale.
But while Josh Hawley and J.D. Vance can only threaten to continue to do what they’ve been doing all along, other Republicans are getting more inventive. Some of their solutions go beyond ridiculous—and straight into the impossible.
There’s no point in looking for the reasonable GOP position in reaction to Trump’s conviction. There is none. Even the Republicans whom the press generally treats as sensible and moderate are well up the ladder of fanciful answers, with solutions to the problem that are arguably far worse than the pointless foot-stomping of the no-more-judges letter.
In the House, Speaker Mike Johnson has announced Republicans will investigate Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg and special counsel Jack Smith for doing their jobs.
[...]
To justify their support for Trump, Republicans are willing to throw away the whole judicial system. While the extreme solutions suggested by Greene and Loomer may generate more outrage and ridicule, the lower-scoring names on the list—from Johnson to Romney—may be more insidious.
Because in buying into Trump’s claims that his prosecution was political, Republicans appear to have concluded that the only answer to Trump being prosecuted for his crimes is to make sure that the judicial system is as unfair and political as their dear leader claims.
The reaction to the People of New York v. Trump verdict by Republicans reveals that they are acting like a terrorist organization and crime syndicate masquerading as a political party to protect a 34x convicted felon.
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'GamesRadar+ Verdict *****
Inventive, unsettling and the perfect vehicle for its two stars, 'Wild Blue Yonder' is event TV at its best, and everything you could want from an episode of Doctor Who.
Back in 2005, showrunner Russell T. Davies kicked off his first stint in the TARDIS with an Earthbound adventure featuring a familiar villain (malevolent mannequins the Autons in ‘Rose’), followed by a trip to the furthest reaches of time and space in ‘The End of the World’. After bringing back fan-favourite comic-book creation the Meep in last week’s ‘The Star Beast’, he’s followed a similar trajectory by materialising the Doctor and Donna on the literal edge of the universe.
That’s where the similarities end, however, because while ‘The End of the World’ was a fun, knockabout introduction to some of the weird and wonderful aliens who call the Whoniverse home, ‘Wild Blue Yonder’ is a considerably darker affair. In fact, the second of the three 60th anniversary specials revels in bringing scares and some genuinely unsettling moments to Saturday evening TV – just as Doctor Who should.
Davies has said in pre-broadcast interviews that he’s been trying to keep the plot under wraps ahead of transmission, and going in cold really pays dividends here. Even the opening of the episode offers few clues of what’s to come, as Donna’s strategically spilled coffee plays havoc with the TARDIS’s navigational systems, facilitating an entertaining encounter with Isaac Newton and history’s most famous apple. But that’s just a minor detour en route to a spaceship where things are so irregular that the out-of-sorts TARDIS does a runner – the Doctor’s blue box may have a fancy new interior, but it’s still as eccentric as ever.
Much has been made of the influx of Disney Plus money to the show’s production budget, and it’s used to spectacular effect here. Running through corridors has always been a big part of the Doctor Who brand, but the Time Lord doesn’t usually have to negotiate seemingly endless corridors that mysteriously reconfigure themselves on a regular basis – although they’re obviously CG, the ambition and scale of this alien craft’s design compensates for any flaws.
And there’s something seriously weird going on here, as the episode refers back to the horror movie manual to ramp up the tension in an ingeniously family-friendly way. Why is there a rusty robot (who looks a lot like Marvin in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy movie) loitering in the corridor? Why are there no lifeforms on board? Why did an airlock open and close three years earlier? Why are there no stars outside? What’s that banging? And why has the air got a little bit chilly all of a sudden? Director Tom Kingsley also adds to your growing sense of unease by making the camera peer through holes or round corners, as if the Doctor and Donna are being watched.
When the antagonist(s) are finally introduced, it takes you a few moments to realise that something is very, very wrong. And the big reveal, when it comes, is both grotesque and hilariously funny, body horror with a comedic spin, as if David Cronenberg woke up one morning and decided the one thing his movies need is more slapstick. There are also echoes of vampire mythology, Alien(s) and even – in one wonderfully freaky moment – The Exorcist.
In fact, there’s so much going on here that it shouldn’t really hang together. That it does is a testament to Davies, who – after more than a decade away from Who, during which he’s written the brilliant A Very English Scandal, Years and Years and It’s a Sin – is arguably an even better writer than when he left. ‘Wild Blue Yonder’ segues seamlessly from a Thunderbirds reference and an ongoing gag about Newton’s discovery of “mavity” to jump scares and emotional character beats – and then back again.
The sheer volume of ideas is also remarkable, as Davies burns through several sophisticated concepts that would – on most sci-fi shows – be enough to power entire episodes by themselves. Indeed, the idea that 21st century human language lacks the capacity to comprehend the universe having an edge is a genuinely beautiful piece of writing.
Most importantly, however, “Wild Blue Yonder” is the perfect vehicle for stars David Tennant and Catherine Tate, who carry the entire episode, and – for various reasons – get to show sides of their roles we’ve never seen before. As one of the few new Who companions who’s never been in awe of her Time Lord chum, Donna’s never been afraid to tell it like it is. But there’s an extra dimension to her now that she has a family, and is even more desperate to get home than she would have been before. The Fourteenth Doctor, meanwhile, has changed significantly during the three lives he’s lived since they parted ways, and is definitely still carrying serious baggage from the Flux and the Timeless Child revelation.
They’re such a perfect duo that you want to spend as much time with them as possible, making this three-part reunion feel painfully short. The episode’s conclusion – featuring a lovely cameo – and “next week” teaser do enough to suggest they’re going out in style. But after the brilliant “Wild Blue Yonder”, it’s clear that saying goodbye for a second time is going to be just as cruel and painful as it was all those years ago.'
#Doctor Who#Tom Kingsley#Russell T. Davies#Timeless Child#Flux#Wild Blue Yonder#60th Anniversary#David Tennant#Catherine Tate#Donna Noble#The Star Beast
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A Review of Bob Marley: One Love
My dad has always been a huge fan of reggae and Bob Marley. So, of course, seeing this movie on Valentine's Day was practically inevitable. I have never appreciated reggae as a music genre, but was cautiously optimistic that this biopic would be better than I anticipated. In some respects, these predictions were correct, but in others...
Pros:
Most of the Marley family have joined forces to collaborate on this project. Consequently, there is a sense of authenticity that another group of filmmakers may not have been able to bring to the movie
Kingsley Ben-Adir and Lashana Lynch submit phenomenal performances as Bob and Rita Marley. It is almost remarkable how perfectly the lead actor captures the gentle, mellow nature of one of the most famous reggae artists of all time. (Although, he may be a little too handsome for the part). Lynch's portrayal of Marley's wife is also multi-layered. Anxious, frustrated, and maternal, this characterization brings an impressive level of complexity to a member of the Marley family who is not often seen in the media
The presence of so many popular Bob Marley songs creates some emotional moments throughout the movie
It is wonderful to see the presence of so many black actors in one film -- especially during Black History Month. We have likely not seen this level of representation since The Color Purple
The supporting cast share strong chemistry with Ben-Adir and, whenever the actors are all onscreen together, there is a true sense of community that permeates their scenes
The staging and cinematography of certain scenes -- especially the ending -- are beautiful and create dreamlike settings for concert features especially
This movie is not afraid to depict Bob Marley acting out in violence. This was a fascinating detail I did not expect to associate with an artist so closely connected with pacifism
There are some heartfelt conversations that expand on the beliefs of the Rastafarians
A beautiful tribute to Bob Marley's life, made with archival footage of the musician, closes the movie
Cons:
The single biggest problem I have with this feature is that the Marley family did not seem to know how to adapt the story of Bob Marley's life for the big screen. So many significant struggles in his life (e.g., his battle with cancer, his relationships with record labels, encounters with gang violence, and his rise to fame) are not explored in great detail. Bob Marley is arguably the greatest reggae musician who ever lived, and it is unfortunate that the audience does not feel a deeper sense of conflict when watching this biopic
The lack of conflict in this movie results in a narrative with slow pacing, passive storytelling, and a less interesting viewing experience
There is one visual motif that makes a superfluous amount of appearances throughout the film. It is meant to serve as a representation of Marley's fears, but it doesn't convey much psychologically, and its relevance is lost on the audience as a result of not being fully explored
While I love that so many of Bob Marley's biggest hits are placed in the film, they appear so often that their presence becomes gratuitous, and even a bit manipulative
I didn't appreciate how often the Rastafarians in this movie were seen smoking. For a picture produced by a predominately black cast, I thought this was a harmful stereotype I was hoping the movie would avoid
Verdict: Bob Marley: One Love is a labor of love on the part of the cast and crew. Unfortunately, in spite of its great ensemble of actors, this presentation of Bob Marley's life is not very memorable and doesn't quite capture what makes the reggae artist such a lasting figure of pop culture. This movie is decent, and by no means awful, but it's possible that my expectations of Bob Marley: One Love were a little too high. If nothing else, I'm glad I saw it. As my dad saw Barbie with me, it's only fair I saw this movie with him.
I truly hope the cast move onto even bigger projects that elevate their careers. Their performances define this film's quality and I would not be surprised if Ben-Adir and Lynch go on to win Oscars for their efforts.
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The Bazball Hypothesis
No one could have predicted that the term 'Bazball' would take the game by storm when it was coined a year ago. Comparisons with the infamous Bodyline (coincidently another B word) used more than 90 years ago may feel inappropriate. But there has been no other strategy since Douglas Jardine invented the leg theory which threatens to overshadow the main Ashes contest.
The ambit of Bazball which started as just a brand of aggressive, positive cricket is constantly expanding. The umbrella field employed by Ben Stokes, his audacious declaration when Root was destroying the Aussie bowling and the left field selection of Moin Ali from test match oblivion are all now considered to be part of Bazball. Even a fairly orthodox batsman like Joe Root got caught up in this new buzz word. The bizarre reverse ramp shot attempted of the very 1st ball of day 4 from Pat Cummins and his dismissal jumping down the wicket to Nathan Lyon in the 2nd innings were completely out of character
Australia which chose a more conservative approach seemed to be playing a different game than their opponents. The fields Cummins set were over defensive and the batting was for a large part cautious right until the end of the match. The Aussie captain finally decided to take the fight to the opposition with some aggressive hitting against Root's part time spin.
Ultimately Australia's decision to stick to the basics won them the game. The old fashioned virtues of occupying the crease and grinding the bowling paid rich dividends to Khawaja, who was arguably the best batsman on either side in the match.
While Bazball has undoubtedly succeeded in generating unprecedented interest in test cricket, it still remains a hypothesis that needs to be fully tested before it becomes a blue print for other teams to follow. What better way of doing this than during an Ashes series. The question which has been on everyone’s mind is whether this new ultra aggressive style of batting will succeed against the formidable Australian bowling.
There are already rumblings from traditionalists like Geoff Boycott who think that England has got too caught up with Bazball and are in danger of reducing the Ashes to an exhibition. Unless results in the rest of the series go England's way, there will be others who jump on the bandwagon of criticizing England's new strategy. What ultimately matters is who has possession of the famous little urn at the end of the series. The jury is therefore still out on Bazball, we will soon know the verdict. Until then, we hope to see more nail-biting finishes. 2.1 million viewers tuned in to Sky Sports to watch the 1st test live, in addition to packed stands at Edgbaston. At a time when test cricket is facing an existential crisis, this is a victory in itself.
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My theories on Milgram: Second Trial for oncoming characters AS I AM WATCHING THE LATEST VIDS:
I understand the people that love and support Haruka and Mu's codependent friendship and that think that people are throwing Mu's new confidence put of proportion but I really think the glitched voice lines given in the Character Voice Trailer with Haruka putting himself down while apologizing and Mu demanding attention is... highlighting the unhealthiness in this combination. I'm leaning more towards Mu turning around and treating Haruka maybe not as bad as her bullies did her, but similarly by putting him down when he 'crosses a line.' She may think it's alright because she makes up for it by being nicer than her bullies were, but it's just the same cycle of abuse, and Haruka isn't able to know better. He's truly thinking this is the best attention he's gotten.
SO AFTER WATCHING HARUKA'S NEW VIDEO: I was concerned it was highlighting how far he's willing to go to keep the new attention and validation he's gotten, especially Mu's love (DREA-MU, COME ON THAT PUN LOL) even willing to kill if needed or ordered to, COME ON HARUKA. HE HASN'T LEARNED HIS LESSON. OF COURSE. We seem to have just created a yandere, and if anything happens to Mu while we're in our second nap, I wholeheartedly believe he's going to be the one beating people up and killing anything that threatens taking Mu's attention away. I was more concerned over Mu manipulating the impressionable Haruka but damn this turned the tables. Now Mu's going to be in a cage, stuck with Haruka for better or for worse. This feels like it's what they'd both want anyways. Unconditional attention for Haruka for being Mu's supporter, and Mu getting someone to boss around without repent now. ... also this boy is a masochist. He has definitely warped pain into being a form of love. Just saying (more to myself cuz holy crap I'm still reeling.)
The theory of us getting Shidou's motives wrong and that forgiving him is feeding an unseen 'killer' personality is becoming plausible to me... and it's scary. You can wave off, albeit with a raised eyebrow, his name being synonymous with the Japanese version of Jack the Ripper, but when his glitched voice says to 'Hurry up and die" well gosh darn it, sir, it looks like we fed the beast. If he ends up confessing in his next song to having enjoyed what he did to his patients before his guilt took over, we know we screwed up and are letting it take him over. But now we also know that if we don't forgive him, there can be risks to not having a doctor around to heal our prisoners. Our hands are tied!!!
IS MAHIRU BECOMING YANDERE FOR US? That's what it feels like with her upcoming song being 'I love you' and her lines in the Voice Trailer. "It's so good to see you", "I really missed you" and her glitched proclamations of love are sounding to me like she's so in love with love that it's a comfort for her. So now that shes in arguably the worst low and fearing for her life, she's clung onto that coping mechanism and attached it to us, seeing us as her savior, if only she can convince us with her love that she's worth saving.
I'm really reaching with this one, but I'm putting it out there anyways. I thought we should be on high alert as to why Kazui's had the least outwardly visible change out of everyone, and his glitched line being him claiming he loves Hinako (is that his wife? I'm running with that theory...) more than anything.... has me looking at the possibility he may be taking matters into his own hands and dispensing 'justice' onto himself since we're not condemning him. Take that as far as you'd like.
I know the Voice Trailer lines are from their past, but I believe bringing these particular lines put now is meant to highlight how they're taking our verdict and moving on. But. IN CONCLUSION.
I think I believe that everyone should have plead guilty on this first trial if we wanted them all to truly reflect on their characters and be able to grow. By pardoning some and not others we've just made it worse.
So uuh I just finished watching Yuno's video and am CONFLICTED over my prior conclusion because... yeah. She didn't do anything wrong. And despite her spite towards us, thinking we all forgave her purely because we thought of her as a 'poor little girl', I like the awareness she's gotten through her 'Innocent' verdict. I think she'd come to the same conclusion regardless if we voted her as 'Guilty' instead (and she'd call us out for that verdict) but I like that most of us agreed on her choice. Still. If we gave everyone BUT her the 'Guilty' verdict, that would've been disastrous... it would have outed her to everyone else. I guess I'm standing behind we should've given everyone the 'Guilty' verdict for the overall narrative arch that would've been us seeing them reflect and be on equal footing but I don't think Yuno is guilty at all 😔
#milgram#milgram yuno#milgram haruka#milgram mahiru#milgram mu#milgram kazui#milgram shidou#milgram theory#milgram trial 2
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relationships • finding love
IN PRAISE OF UNREQUITED LOVE
We are a practical species, and when we think of love, it is normal to focus on the sort that goes places, that is mutual, that leads people to form couples and perhaps one day households.
But the more peculiar reality is that the greatest share of humanity’s love stories have unfolded in a directionless form in the recesses of the mind of only one party. It seems that we are – in aggregate at least – committed first and foremost to the unrequited version of love.

At any point, millions of love stories are quietly being spun by one person while the object of their adoration goes about their business blithely unconcerned. Someone watches someone else on a train, casts surreptitious glances at a delegate at a conference; carefully notes a fellow shopper’s manner in a grocery store – and the earth spins on undisturbed.
Unrequited lovers are easy to dismiss as not far from pathetic. If we were better designed and a little saner, we would of course never develop feelings for people who were not prepared to develop them for us – nor squander our days on desires without logical or practical outcome.

But, looked at more benevolently, there is something hugely salutary and noble about our capacity to entertain tender daydreams. It is a feat to be able to detonate powerful longings without causing any inconvenience to others. The ability to daydream is a significant human achievement. Rather than wishing that we stop doing so, we should be worried by what might happen to us if we couldn’t daydream, if we were faced with the choice of either accepting reality in all its barrenness or else of barging into the lives of others with unwanted desires. Daydreaming is a vital and artful safety valve, mediating between resignation on the one hand and uncontained effusions on the other.
Along the way, unrequited love provides us with an occasion to exercise our aptitudes for optimism in a highly salutary way. After a few decades on the earth, it is only too easy to start to hate our fellow humans for their mediocrity, selfishness and idiocy. But with our beloved in mind, we can, for once, give free reign to a boundless generosity that a god or the parent of a newborn might deploy. We can tell ourselves that we have found an angel, an exalted being, on the basis of nothing more than how wise their green eyes look or how delicately they open their yogurt for lunch. Our verdicts are a delusional exaggeration, but – given how much grounds there is to despair at the human experiment – perhaps a noble and forgivable one as well.

It’s the privilege of unrequited love never to have to encounter the disappointment that follows from contact with reality. We are not after accurate knowledge of what it would be like to coexist with this person. We don’t really want to know how they might behave in the midst of a crisis at work or over a holiday with their parents. We’ve been through enough such trials – and the results aren’t edifying. Of course they would, after a time in our arms, prove less than ideal and a little more like everyone else we know. We may be denied intimacy, but we are granted access to something arguably far nicer: boundless hope. We can attach to the form and figure of the person we desire everything we so want to be true about human beings. The beloved becomes the repository of every desire: for a particular kind of intelligence, wit, temperament and outlook. The older we get, the more unrequited love brings us back into contact with a passion and hope that feels like an essential relief, like finding out that we can still run – or giggle. In meditating on our beloved, we’re not getting to know a real person; we are gaining an insight into our ideals.
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New Post has been published on https://www.vividracing.com/blog/volk-racing-te37-sl-vs-gramlight-57cr-buyers-guide/
Volk Racing TE37 SL vs GramLight 57CR - Buyers Guide
In the world of automotive enthusiasts, finding the perfect wheels is crucial. If you’ve clicked on this article, you are probably in the market for a set of either Volk Racing’s TE37 SL wheels or GramLight’s 57CRs, but where should you invest your money? Let’s be honest, these wheels are so much more expensive compared to most; you better be happy with your choice! Both offer beautiful and timeless design elements that are not easily mimicked by companies making reps of these design concepts. These two titans offer a blend of performance and practicality. But for buyers, the choice is more than just aesthetics; it’s about aligning with driving demands and budget.
Join us as we explore the critical factors guiding this decision. From the TE37 SL’s weight-saving prowess to the 57CR’s balanced versatility, each wheel offers promises of greatness. But the ultimate decision hinges on delivering maximum value and satisfaction on the road.
Something to quickly note before we get started, there are many variations to each of these wheels from Volk Racing and GramLights. The topics we are going to cover in this article also encompass the characteristics of these variants below.
Volk Racing
TE37 Saga S-Plus
TE37 Saga SL
TE37 Saga SL M-Spec
TE37 Ultra M-Spec
GramLights
57CR Overseas
57CR 2324
57D – Mark II
57DR
57DR Overseas
57DR 2324
If you want to see our extremely in-depth Volk Racing TE37 Buys Guide – Check out this comprehensive video!
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1. Price
Volk Racing TE37 SL: Generally, TE37 SL wheels are priced at a premium level due to their high-quality forged construction and reputation in the aftermarket wheel industry. Expect to pay a higher price compared to many other wheel options. At the time of writing this article, the average Volk Racing TE37 SL is priced at about $900 a wheel.
GramLight 57CR: GramLight 57CR wheels are typically priced more affordably compared to TE37 SL wheels. While still offering good quality, they may be more budget-friendly for some consumers. The average GramLight 57CR is priced at about $500 a wheel.
Verdict: This is on average a $400 price difference per wheel. To the seasoned automotive-nut, this won’t come at too much of a shock, but remember, most cars have 4 wheels… our brain should operate this equation by 4x. So let’s say, in most cases, the average set of TE37 SLs will be about $1200 more per wheelset. That is a massive investment, but is it worth it? Let’s dive into what is creating this price difference.
2. Build Quality:
Volk Racing TE37 SL: Renowned for their lightweight and durable construction, TE37 SL wheels are forged from a single piece of aluminum alloy. This manufacturing process ensures high strength and rigidity while keeping weight to a minimum. In the world of forged wheels, Volk Racing is arguably one of the greatest. Rays Engineering, the parent company of Volk Racing, has developed one-of-a-kind tooling to mill the intricacies of these wheels. This is something that hasn’t been replicated by any wheel manufacturer on the market. That is one of the reasons for the price.
GramLight 57CR: The GramLight 57CR wheels also offer solid construction, typically utilizing a cast aluminum alloy. While not as lightweight or as strong as forged wheels like the TE37 SL, they still provide good performance and durability for everyday driving and occasional track use.
Verdict: While the process of creating GramLights isn’t as monumental as Volk Racing’s forged wheel, let’s keep in mind, GramLights is also a company of Rays Engineering. Rays Engineering isn’t going to miss the target when it comes to manufacturing wheels and the quality behind them. Build quality comes with purpose in mind.
3. Wheel Purpose:
Volk Racing TE37 SL: TE37 SL wheels are designed primarily for performance-oriented applications, such as track racing and spirited driving. Their lightweight design helps improve acceleration, braking, and overall handling performance. They are favored by enthusiasts who prioritize performance above all else.
GramLight 57CR: The GramLight 57CR wheels strike a balance between performance and daily usability. While they are still suitable for track days and aggressive driving, they are also well-suited for everyday street use. The 57CR wheels often appeal to enthusiasts looking for a combination of style, performance, and practicality.
4. Target Audience:
Volk Racing TE37 SL: These wheels are targeted towards serious enthusiasts and professionals who demand the highest level of performance from their vehicles. They are popular among track racers, autocross competitors, and performance car enthusiasts who prioritize lightweight and strength. If you are looking for arguably the best wheels money can buy, TE37 SLs are sitting at the top.
Competitive Racers
Regular Track Drivers
Purpose Built Cars
GramLight 57CR: The 57CR wheels cater to a broader audience, including enthusiasts who appreciate performance but also value brand name, aesthetics, and affordability. They are suitable for a wide range of vehicles, from daily drivers to occasional weekend track cars, appealing to those who seek a balance between performance and practicality.
Budgeted Aftermarket Purists
Drift Drivers Seeking Regular Wheel Replacements
Occasional Track Drivers
Premium Daily Driver Builds
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In summary, while both the Volk Racing TE37 SL and GramLight 57CR wheels offer quality and performance, they target slightly different drivers. The TE37 SL prioritizes lightweight and performance, making it ideal for serious enthusiasts and racers. On the other hand, the 57CR provides a balance between performance, style, and affordability, appealing to a broader range of enthusiasts who seek both performance and daily usability.
You are in the market for the perfect set of wheels for your car, Vivid Racing is the largest stocking dealer of Rays Engineeing wheels in North America. That’s including Volk Racing and GramLight wheelsets. In-stock and ready to be shipped to you quicker than anyone else!
Want to shop by the specific wheelset we’ve curated for your car? Check them out HERE
#Audi#BMW#buyers guide#GramLight 57CR#GramLights#honda#Mazda#mitsubishi#Toyota#Volk Racing#Volk Racing TE37 SL
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Spoiled Rotten (Reid Fic)
Summary: After Spencer went radio silent on Reader while he was in prison, their pride and stubbornness threatens to tear them apart forever. Reader’s forced to mourn the death of who they were and experience the inner turmoil of navigating who they are.
A/N: Y’all are gonna kill me for the ending, but it’s one hell of a way to go.
Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid
Category: Angst
Content Warning: Imprisonment, humiliation, abandonment, anger, frustration, angst, yelling, fighting
Word Count: 5.3k
Playlist: Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo
Time jumps are indicated by “. . .” or “_ _ _”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
A rather unfortunate predicament we’ve found ourselves in tonight. I can’t say I’ve ever been quite this uncomfortable in my life, yet I’m careful not to speak too soon. Because I know the second Spencer opens his mouth to break the silence we’re currently sitting in, I’ll stand corrected.
“You’re breathing really hard,” He tells me out of nowhere.
See, I stand corrected.
Now that I’ve become hyper aware of my own inhale and exhale, my respiration is just that much more restricted. I’m practically holding my breath at this moment - both from the anticipation of catching this unsub in the act and giving Spencer one less thing to scrutinize about me.
“I didn’t say you had to stop breathing,” He tacks on as if it would put me any more at ease. Not that if he had explicitly said such a thing, I would’ve.
Unlike other people, I wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to throw myself at his feet so he’d like me. But to use that as grounds for his disdain would be foolish. Our rancor went deeper than the basic lack of synergy between us.
And in the spirit of getting to the bottom of that abyssal pit, I finally asked the question with words that always seemed to hang above but never would form.
“Why was I the only one denied visitation while you were in prison?”
It may surprise you to know that it wasn’t always like this between us; we were actually close once, although it is hard to imagine that version of us ever really existing. However, if I think about it hard enough, I can remember with perfect clarity who we used to be.
. . .
“Jeez, you really don’t like these things do you?” I nudged him playfully before feeling instantly guilty once I witnessed the result of my shove that must’ve been a little too much for all 120 (at most) pounds of him. I’d neglected to remember the strength I held over the lanky Doctor as well as neglected to notice where the trajectory of my push would land him - in the direct line of a circus clown walking the opposite direction as us. This, of course, brought him face to face with the character. Unfortunately, I managed to catch a glimpse of the lens of Spencer’s glasses grazing the white face paint of the caricature.
After a shudder of mortification and a very brave shriek, Spencer ran to my other side to be as far away from the clown as possible and apparently, as close to me as possible. From a distance, you’d think we were conjoined simply by the way he was glued to me - shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
While removing his glasses to clean them off with the hem of his blazer, he answered, “Carnivals? I mean, what’s not to like? What with the loud noises, the heart-attack-inducing food that’s more grease than actual food, or the sheer amount of bacteria harboring on each and every handle, hoop, ball, or button of these ridiculous game booths.”
“Wow, you really don’t like carnivals.” I should’ve figured.
“Nope. Never have and probably never will.”
As someone who looked forward to the fair every summer of her childhood, any aversion to carnivals broke my heart. I had a fondness for them borne in adolescence that I couldn’t quite justify now in my adulthood.
“But they’re fun!” was the best argument I could muster. The whine in my voice being provoked by the possibility that the higher the shrill of my pitch, the easier he’d be to sway. Turns out, Dr. Reid was not nearly as susceptible to my auditory persuasion as I might’ve thought he was. Just a stone cold, inconvincible slab of steel.
“I’m sorry. I know you brought me here because you love these things, but I just can’t get past the ...” He surveyed the fair, ostensibly against his will, in search of the perfect word to describe our surroundings. “Filth.”
I would’ve argued in the defense of the carnival, mentioning how it’s endearing that the only bathrooms for miles were porta potties, and that the screaming, crying, sticky children galore just added to the attraction, and that there was a hidden charm to the way the roller coasters creaked beyond their means with every ride.
But to an extent, I agreed. It was rather filthy, and I wasn’t much of a germaphobe myself so to someone like him, this would be hell on earth.
“Well, you get what you put into it. If you’re willing to overlook some minor imperfections, I really think you’d enjoy this place.”
Spencer by now had his hands in his pockets and his walking pace had slowed to a complete halt. There was a moment of skepticism, followed by a partially open smile to make way for the laughter that escaped from the disbelief that he felt for letting me break his resolve so easily.
“Alright then. What do you want to do first, Brat?”
The nickname I’d earned could be seen as meanspirited, but truly, it was affectionately diminutive. Like all good nicknames are. And like the proclaimed Brat I was, I’d taken him to all my favorite parts of the fair.
First came the bumper cars to ease him into the experience - as ironic as that sounds. He was reluctant to submerge his gangly body into a mini vehicle, much less one that’d been inhabited by God knows how many people before us, but he pushed his reservations aside when he realized he’d get to slam into my car (safely, of course).
Secondly, we went on the Carousel, but this was only in preparation for the real ride that I wanted to take him on next - the Swinging Chairs. He’d gotten a little nauseous, from both the repetitive circling and the galvanized chains he had to hold that were definitely held by several others.
He had no interest in going on the Gravitron - super lame, I know - so we opted for the Ferris Wheel instead. I didn’t mind making this compromise so much after recognizing all that he’d done for my benefit that night. And for his generosity and selflessness, I thought it only fitting to end the night going somewhere so tame he couldn’t possibly have any opposition to it.
The photo booth.
The booth in particular we’d gone to was smaller than an airplane bathroom, if you can imagine that. The bench seat was barely wide enough to fit Spencer, let alone seat the both of us. While he didn’t explicitly make the offer to let me sit on his lap, it was kind of a give in that I’d have some part of my body intertwined around him like stubborn ivy.
. . .
I still laugh thinking about the tangled mess of limbs we were below what the camera couldn’t capture. It was arguably the furthest extent of contortionist work I wanted to do in my lifetime, and henceforth exceedingly uncomfortable, and yet, I’d never felt more at home than when I was in his arms.
That night he would tear off the top three photos to keep for himself while I kept the bottom three photos.
To this day, I have never seen the pictures that he kept, and I’m left to wonder if he had them at all.
Because I still have mine. And they were virtually the only thing keeping me sane throughout his trial and subsequent imprisonment.
Six Months Ago ...
My eyes were locked on the loose thread of my cardigan that I was rolling between my fingers anxiously.
“Would you stop that?” Penelope swatted my hand away from my sweater. “You’re making me nervous just looking at you.” She grumbled.
“Sorry,” I apologized bleakly.
A few seconds later she groaned again, making me think I was still doing something bothersome, but it turned out to be just the opposite. “Ugh, I know that sounded mean, and I hate when I sound mean, but I can feel my forehead creasing from the stress, and watching you fidget is going to give me an ulcer.”
“I wish I could help it. I’m just really worried about him.”
“Well I am, too, but that’s not gonna do us any good right now. All we can do is hope for the best.”
Sometimes Penelope’s overly optimistic view on life was futile and unwelcome, and truthfully, this was one of those times.
“Penny?”
As she turned her head, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the lenses of her dark green glasses. I could see my own mournful expression as I asked, “What if he’s found guilty?”
She started to say something but stopped herself. “Right now, all we need to focus on is his bail. We can worry about a verdict later.” She put her hand on top of mine and shook it briefly to remind me that we were in this together.
Moments later recess was over and the team came trudging back into the courtroom.
The sound of the judge clearing her throat and our footsteps on the floor made this feel all too normal.
How could Spencer’s life be hanging in the balance in such a place as non-intimate as this?
It frustrated me how casual things felt today and how everyone was acting normally. Prentiss had yet to bat an eye, Rossi’s stoic expression never changed, and Penelope was telling me not to worry. Everyone was acting so aloof.
My eyes darted to Spencer, who was looking back at us woefully. I couldn’t bear to see him like that any longer, so I kept my head down and stared at my feet after I took my seat.
Even when I closed my eyes, I was haunted by the vision of him in a suit, just like one he’d wear to work. But instead, he was wearing it for this - this vastly different situation.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at him the same in one anymore. I’ll probably just remember this particular look on his face, in this god awful courtroom, during this horribly nauseating circumstance.
If one thing was for certain, it was that this would all come back to me if I ever laid eyes on him in a suit, and that thought fucking terrified me.
Because that one thought spiraled into the next: Everything was bound to change after this. Every little thing would change in every little way.
Spencer’s lawyer, the judge, and the prosecutor were going back and forth for a while, but I tuned it all out because I knew if I had tuned in, I wouldn’t have been able to hold back my arguments. Eventually, though, I heard something I could no longer ignore.
“If past behavior is the best indicator of future conduct, and I do believe it is, then your client presents a flight risk.”
I stood up immediately, getting a head rush from the speed. I knew what was to follow, so I needed to be on my feet the second I heard it. Maybe so I could run and escape before I had to.
“Bail is denied. The defendant will remain in federal custody pending trial.”
“Spencer!” I shouted, losing all the composure I’d been trying to maintain. I reached for him as if he was at any capacity to reach back and hold me. God, I needed him to hold me. Hold me like how he did at the carnival.
Hold me.
Luke held me back as I fought to be near him.
“Let me go!” I screamed, trying to break free of his tight grip. Spencer could only stand and stare, mirroring my own wistful glance. He mouthed something to me that I couldn’t quite make out, but if I knew him at all, he probably said something about not wanting me to worry about him.
“(Y/n), (y/n) it’s gonna be alright.” JJ reasoned, pulling me into a hug.
“How long before this case goes to trial?” I heard Prentiss whisper to Spencer’s lawyer.
“It’s a complicated case. I’d say three months maybe?”
Immediately, I worked myself out of JJ’s arms and pushed my way through the team, running up to the barrier between us.
“Spence!” I cried out in anguish.
To the sound of my voice, he glanced over his shoulder sadly. He wasn’t even shocked I’d been able to get so close to him - he seemed to expect it, and for that, he was sad. Because he knew if I was going to be as stubborn as to fight to get to him at this hearing, then I was going to be stubborn enough to reach him in prison, too. And should he find himself behind bars, he knew that I’d get to him one way or another.
That is if he’d let me.
“Be strong,” He weakly smiled. ‘For me’ his sad eyes begged in addition. He held my gaze for as long as he possibly could before disappearing into another room.
As I watched him walk away, I could feel my heart shattering and crumbling into the pit of my stomach. Perhaps that was a premonition, a true gut feeling, telling me something I at the time couldn’t have known and wouldn’t have accepted.
That was the last time I would see Spencer.
People always say when something unbelievable happens, it doesn’t feel real, but this? Nothing felt more real and more intense than this.
There was no other way for me to see this situation but as the first defeat in an endless line of them.
If Spencer was denied bail, what else could happen to him? Could he be found guilty too? Because prior to this, the denial of his bail seemed impossible. He posed no flight risk, but according to the judge, he did. So if what I once thought to be impossible happened, then it could and would happen again.
I knew Spencer was going to be found guilty.
What I didn’t know, though, was how I was going to live with myself from then on.
I didn’t go that day.
I knew myself too well. So did the others, which is why they didn’t object to my decision not to come to Spencer’s trial. They knew I was better off staying home. Especially, if there was the chance that I might react hysterically again.
I didn’t stay home, though. That part the team never found out about.
I went to visit Diana instead. A much wiser choice, in my opinion.
“You know, we’ve been talking so much about Spencer today, but we haven’t talked about you yet,” said Diana.
“Yeah, I guess that’s true.” I feigned a polite smile.
“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” She tilted her chin downward and gave me that sly grin of hers.
“No, no, of course not. I know better than to underestimate the Diana Reid.” I quipped, making her smile widen. “I just figured you’d wanna spend your time talking about someone much more interesting.”
“Oh please, Spencer and I talk about you all the time.”
I perked up from the checker piece I was fiddling with. “You do?”
“Mhm,” She nodded over and over again. “I always knew there was something between you two because you could always talk about each other to me, but for some reason, you could never actually talk to each other.”
For the first time in months, I genuinely laughed and I couldn’t help it. “He makes me nervous! I always feel like he might correct something I say, or tell me that there’s food in my teeth.”
“You know, now that you mention it, I do remember him saying something about seeing a really big piece of lettuce in your teeth one time.”
“Diana!” I squealed, pushing the checkerboard at her, pretending to take offense.
“I really don’t know what you’re so nervous about! I think it would be good if you just talked to him.”
“It’s, um, it’s not that simple. Not right now, at least.”
My energy quickly nose-dived and I tried to do my best to hide it from Diana, but it permeated through the rest of the visit. I couldn’t fully enjoy myself after it.
The team and I all agreed not to let Diana know, especially not with the uncertainty of the case. There was no point riling her up if there was nothing to be worried about. And I could only imagine how I reacted - Diana would be reacting 10 times more hysterically.
But as much as I hated to say it, I almost would’ve rather been in her position.
I would give anything to un-know Spencer’s circumstance.
Present Time ...
In this car, there was nowhere for him to run or hide, not like before.
Anytime I so much as entered his gravity by being in the same room, he’d flee the space in the next breath. Granted, he couldn’t really avoid me entirely. We did have to be on the same flight for an extended period of time, but he made that work by letting me choose my spot first, then choosing a spot directly on the opposite side of the jet.
What a gentleman, huh?
“Kudos to you, by the way. For managing to avoid me for this long. I imagine it’s been as not-easy as it has been incredibly-cowardly.” My words stung as they flowed from my lips as badly as I imagine they seared his already cracked skin. I couldn’t believe that now that I finally had the opportunity to talk to him, I was using it to be petty and passively aggressive. But then again, I could.
Because after what he put me through, he deserved to feel the full severity of my indignation.
My only wish was that he knew exactly how I had felt when I found out.
. . .
Icarus.
He died tragically while using artificial wings, invented by his father, to escape from the Labyrinth. When Icarus flew too close to the sun, it melted the wax that held the wings together, and he fell into the sea.
‘Don’t fly too close to the sun.’ That’s the moral of the story. That’s what Reid was trying to tell me. But I didn’t listen.
I flew too close.
I had approached the window with more zeal than this predicament warranted.
“I’m (y/n) (y/l/n). I’m here to see Spencer Reid, R-E-I-D,” I eagerly spelt his last name with ease as though it were my own last name.
She’d flipped back and forth between pages, running her index finger up and down the sheet for far too long that it made me worry. Turns out, I had every right to be worried.
“I don’t see you on the list, ma’am.”
I was so mindnumbingly dumb that I couldn’t even see how dumb I was being. “Oh no no no, I’m with the FBI. I called earlier and left a message, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember you,” She smiled politely, giving me the tiniest fragment of hope. “But you’re not on his list.” Only for it to be shattered in an instant.
I had yet to process or accept this information. “So what does that mean?”
“It means he doesn't wanna see you right now. And frankly, neither do I. Next!”
“Wait, could you just please check with him? My name is (y/n) -”
“Ma’am, you are holding up a whole line of people that wanna see their loved ones too, so I suggest you see yourself out before I call security to help see you out.”
I knew by her tone of the word ‘help’ that meant a prison guard would most likely forcibly remove me from the premises, and the last thing I needed was to feel even more humiliated.
I got plenty of that when I had to come back to the BAU.
“You’re not on the list?” Luke seemed genuinely shocked. More so than I was. Above all, I just felt really stupid.
“I’m sure it was just a mistake.” Stephen reasoned. He was so good at being level-headed. Which normally, I would’ve loved. But right now, it only fueled the fire burning in my chest.
“That’s what I thought at first, too. But later on, she asked him herself, and he said - and I quote, ‘I don’t want to see her. Not now. Not ever.’”
. . .
Those were the words that seared my skin, and he hadn’t even spoken them directly to me to do it.
The words that did just enough to heal me back to health were, of course, Penelope’s.
“Since you haven’t seen him yet, the rest of us will just wait until you have. It’s only fair that you have your first turn before the rest of us go back for a second time.”
Back then, it was easy to hold out hope, but the more and more time passed, the more he kept denying my visits. Therefore, the more my hope began to fade.
It had been weeks since anyone else had seen him before I finally surrendered. Although I had newly-brewing sourness towards Reid, it didn’t feel fair to deny him everyone else’s presence until mine was permitted.
Luke was the one who volunteered to visit first. And to my dismay, Spencer didn’t fight against it.
The proof was finally there. Now I could say with absolute certainty: Spencer just didn’t want to see me.
It was both ironic and utterly frustrating to think about how I’d never gone more than two weeks without seeing him. Even when the BAU got time off after big cases, we’d always spend that time together. The longest we’d spent apart was 12 days. And right when he came back to D.C, we were attached at the hip for the next week, trying to compensate for all that time we were apart.
Now, look at us. I haven’t said one word to him in half a year.
If tragedy and comedy could coexist, this would be it.
“How is he?” I asked Luke as soon as he got back.
“He’s holding on,” Luke affirmed with confidence. What he said next lacked any of that. “He told me to tell you not to worry about him.”
Something in me knew it was a lie. “Did he actually say that?”
His lack of an answer was one itself.
“Did he say anything at all about me?”
“I tried telling him how much you wanted to see him, but he just brushed it off. I’m sorry, (y/n).”
This became my routine for the months to follow. Every time someone would come back from the prison, I’d ask them if they talked about me, but the answer was always no. After a while, it had gotten to the point where I purposefully started leaving myself out of the loop. At least in that case, it was by my own volition that I was being excluded, not by a predicament being forced on me.
Not by Spencer.
“We’re not doing this right now,” Spencer declaration brought me back to the present, where I found him removing himself from both the conversation and the vehicle. When I heard the latch click to open, my hand reflexively flew to my auto-lock to prevent him from leaving. Naturally, he still managed to escape using his door’s button.
If I couldn’t stop him, then I could follow him.
“Then when will we do this? Huh, Spencer? When? Because anytime I try to talk to you, you run away.” The mere fact that I was speed-walking after him was proof. While he casually strolled down the sidewalk paying me no mind, I tried to be clever and walk down the street so we’d be somewhat side to side. I was tired of staring at his back every time he walked away. I needed to see his face.
For his every stride, I had to take at least three steps. He was gliding through the world so effortlessly as I was trekking my uphill battle. It was quite fitting, though. Further exemplification that, between us, I was fighting harder to preserve the people we used to be, the relationship we used to have. Meanwhile, he couldn’t care less. A stone cold, inconvincible slab of steel. Just like he always was.
As I began to speak, I had to also be conscious of the parked cars along the curb, being careful to weave in and out.
“For months, you have blatantly ignored me. The entire time you were in prison, you denied my visits. And it’s not like it was a one time thing. I tried to visit you over 100 times while you were in jail! 100 times I got rejected. 100 times I got turned away. 100 times my heart shattered.”
By now, I was speaking so loudly that I could see household lights within neighboring homes turning on. I hadn’t even realized how far we’d walked down the street and away from our car, but it was the last thing on my mind.
“Then after you were released, it’s like I never even existed. I had to find out that you were out of there a week later than everyone else because they all assumed you came to me yourself to tell me the good news,” I laughed wryly at my own stupidity. “Do you know how hard it was for me?”
“Do you know how hard it was for me?”
It took me a second to register that he was actually engaging with me in this conversation now. But when I looked at his expression, I could see that something within him had snapped. A little piece of me was glad, though. Now I knew for sure that there was some effect I had on him.
“Hard for you?”
“I know you came to visit me 100 times! Want to know how I know? Because I was there, too! I was there every time a guard came to ask if I wanted to see you. I was there every time I turned you away. And while you got to walk out of those doors every time I did, I was stuck in there, rotting in that cell, thinking about how badly I wanted to see you. How badly I wanted to touch ...” His voice faltered. “To touch you. But I had to protect you!”
“You do realize in protecting me, you were hurting me in the process.”
“Because you just don’t know when to leave well enough alone!” His hands tugged at the root of his unruly hair like evidence of the frustration that my stubbornness caused. “You’re such a pain in the ass because you can never cooperate! It’s gotta be your way or no one else’s! ‘Spencer, it has to be this way because I said so. Spencer, you have to let me see you because I said so. Spencer, you have to talk to me because I said so. Spencer, you have to ride this stupid roller coaster because I said so,’” His imitation of my nagging voice would’ve made me laugh before. Now, it was bringing me onto the verge of tears. “Since clearly no one’s told you this before - not everything is about you! You just want it to be because you’re a whiny, little brat! You’re so spoiled rotten that you can’t even see how far down it goes. If you did, you’d know that you’re rotten to the core and that nothing will ever satisfy you. Especially me.”
His words had done more than sear me. They pierced me. They ripped me. They destroyed me. When he called me Brat, I thought it was endearing. Now, looking back, I realize - no, that’s just how little he thought of me.
As I came to the conclusion, I stopped dead in my tracks on the pavement.
I was done chasing Spencer.
His face had fallen from its anger, indicating he was apologetic, but I was beyond accepting his sorry excuses anymore. I couldn’t stand to look at him so I looked behind me to find our car at least a football field away. I guess in many ways, I’d gone the whole nine yards.
“This is what you wanted right?” I turned back to him momentarily. My voice scared me how calm it was because, inside, I was boiling with rage. “Well, here you go, Spence. Have all the fucking space you want.”
It was usually me watching his back while he walked away, and now, he was watching mine.
“(Y/n), wait!”
And for the briefest second, it actually felt good to be the first one to leave.
I was free.
_ _ _
To my dismay and relief, when I walked into work the next morning, he wasn’t there. I would’ve looked for him with more than a cursory glance except I was stuck on looking at something strange in the bullpen that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But as I walked further in, a blaring siren went off in my head.
Spencer’s desk is completely empty.
I instantly sorted through my purse for my phone to reach Prentiss when I noticed something more.
I had been desperate to cling onto any notion that he still loved me, and there it was, just sitting on his desk. Proof that the man I loved was still in there somewhere.
The top three pictures from the carnival photo booth.
I laughed, as I always did, thinking about how much we had to exert ourselves to be positioned in a semi-adequate way. In the next wave, I felt profoundly empty. He had kept the pictures all these years, and now that I finally get to see them, he’s left me.
As I brought my hand to my face to clear the tears pooling at my lower lashes, I saw that my finger had an ink smear on the pad of it. There was nowhere else I could’ve obtained it except for if there was writing on the back of the photos.
What I read when I turned it over was as follows.
I want to be this guy for you again, (y/n). I just don’t know how.
I just don’t know if I can.
No matter how much I’ve changed, one thing’s still the same.
I love you.
I should’ve focused on the message, but all that I could focus on was that if I managed to smear the ink, that meant it was fresh, written just now.
He was still here.
I pocketed the photos and abandoned my purse, only carrying with me the phone that I forgot to use to dial Prentiss. After a moment’s indecision, I figured that taking the stairs would be faster than the elevator, and I bounded down the steps without hesitation.
“Spencer!” I yelled into the parking structure when I reached the ground floor. The sound of me bursting through the door caught the attention of Anderson, who was getting out of his car.
“I just saw him leave.” Anderson threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the exit. I knew, even in my state of mind, there was no feasible reality where I could reach him on foot. I had to call him.
I pleaded to myself for him to pick up with every ring of my phone.
“(Y/n),” He said like a statement instead of a question. Again, he’d anticipated I’d do this. He probably picked it up not even having to look at the caller ID but knowing it was me and no one else.
“I don’t need you to be the guy you were before, Spencer. I just need you to bend a little bit. I know we’re both stubborn people, but if we can just find a halfway point-”
“(Y/n), (y/n),” He was settling me and the sentences that were coming out of my mouth at 100 mph.
“I’ll bend if you bend.” I promised.
The static of the call filled my ears until his voice finally did.
“For everyone else, I bend ... for you, I break.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
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Clubbing 101
Written by @alliswell21
Prompt 144: She has a night of fun before the start of the semester. She meets this guy, they hit it off that they sleep together. But when she shows up to her class the next day, she sees the guy again. But he’s her professor and he’s way older than she originally thought. #olderPeeta [submitted by @animekpopxx]
Rating: Explicit. NSFW.
Tags and Warnings: Canon Divergence; College!AU; Age gap, older man/younger woman; The opposite to slow burn? Smut; Unprotected sex; technically impaired consent since alcohol, but their both into each other while sober too 🤷🏻♀️; Ethical dilemmas; Teacher/Student relationship (sort of); One Shot, with an ambiguous open ending? Almost 10K words. Unbetaed.
Notes: Thank you to the moderators once more for putting up with us, procrastinating writers. You gals are saints! Thank you to @animekpopxx for her amazing prompts that never fail to snag my attention and give me the best ideas ever! You rock! I projected this story to be a smutty short thing, but it sprouted words and a background out of nowhere and I had to forced myself to stop adding to it, to get back to my other submissions waiting in my docs. Hopefully, it’s a good read for the ones who take the chance with it.
Thank you all!
KPKPKPKPKP
It starts with a harmless ranting.
“I’m not outgoing, or fun. I’m not even ‘cool’… hell, I don’t care what my sister says, I’m too old for this place!” I tell the handsome, bearded, guy sitting in the barstool next to me, “She’s a med student, you know, but she insists that partying is part of the college experience, especially when one’s career is so demanding… plus, is the last weekend of summer break, which apparently means you’re contractually obligated to party extra hard,” I roll my eyes, “I never saw the appeal personally, but I let her drag me out here so I can keep an eye on her. Is not like I’m gonna let her piss away her future for a night of clubbing,” I scoff, taking a long pull of my beer.
The guy chuckles, but I’m not done just yet.
I slam down my bottle and continue listing my grievances, “The thing that grinds my gears, is that she begged for a ‘girls’ night out’, and instead of drinking with me and people watch, she goes off with the first fucker that asks her to dance! I mean… did it ever occur to her, I may want to dance with her on OUR girls’ night out?!” I scowl and gulp another mouthful of beer, “then, to add insult to injury, thirty minutes later I get a text from her, saying to go on home without her ‘cause she found a ride, followed by that cursed eggplant emoji, like I needed an illustration of what kind of ride she’s getting,” I mock gag, rearranging the strap of my tiny purse across my chest.
“I guess she’s young, and beautiful, and does work very hard, but if you invite me to go clubbing with you, don’t abandon me within the first 15 minutes of arriving!”
My companion winces before sipping his drink, and smiling ruefully, “That’s harsh… sorry you’re having a shitty night,”
“Meh… little sisters, right?!” I shrug.
The guy smiles crookedly at me, and I find myself enjoying his smile, “I wouldn’t know about that. I’m the baby of three brothers, and the only thing I got away with was learning how to wrestle and spring awesome comebacks on the fly… the brutes kept me on my toes,” he chuckles.
“Three boys? Sounds chaotic. Your poor mother!”
“Yeah… life’s chaotic.” He averts his eyes for a second, his smile goes away. I’m afraid I’ve said something wrong, but he suddenly looks back at me, and confesses, “I’m not into clubbing either.” His eyes sparkle, despite the awful, dim, blue lights bathing the place.
I smile, “Look at us wallflowers, bonding over drinks and sibling shenanigans,” we clink our drinks together and sip. I’m chatty and relaxed, so unlike myself; I guess the two beers I’ve had are starting to get to me. “I’m Katniss, by the way.”
“That’s pretty,” he says, shyly; makes my chest warm up. “Nice to meet you, Katniss. I’m Peeta.”
I arch my eyebrows, “Peter?” I repeat, because I’m pretty sure I miss-heard him over the obnoxiously loud music.
The guy shakes his head, “Pee-ta… like the bread?” He chuckles. Then adds, “Family name. Everyone on my dad’s side are bakers.”
I snort-laugh, “Punny!” I say, taking another sip. Yup, beer’s getting to me, I’m not this cleverly funny. “My dad was into survivalism and botany… I’m named after a plant also known as Duck Potato, so I win the weird name competition!”
“Hey, it’s something else to bond over,”
“Cheers to that!” We clink our drinks again, and partake in our booze.
He orders another whiskey neat when he’s out… sounds both snooty and distinguished at the same time. Goes well with his put together image, though: nicely trimmed beard, nicely combed hair, nice polo shirt with what I believe is a tiny loaf of bread embroidered on the chest, and dark-wash jeans… I think. It’s hard to tell under the black lights of the club.
He offers to get me another drink, and I order an appletini.
“J.D. from Scrubs always drank one,” I explain, swirling the coctel in my hand, “I’ve always been curious to try, but didn’t wanna spend my own money experimenting on a drink I could potentially hate.”
“Makes sense,” Peeta says, “So… what’s the verdict?”
“Is pretty good, actually. But I think I’ll stick with my Miller Light,”
Peeta nods, “I honestly don’t enjoy alcohol that much.”
I giggle. “Then, what brings you to this fine establishment tonight, sir, if you’re not much for clubbing, or drinking?” I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
I like that when he smiles, his eyes crinkle in the corners.
“I lost a bet against a colleague.”
“Oh,” I’m suddenly self conscious and a little uncomfortable. I give the guy a scrutinizing look, and ask suspiciously, “what was the punishment exactly?”
The man rolls his eyes. “I have to spend one whole hour in the club, without criticizing anything, like the bitter old man I am,” he grins, “My friend’s words. Not mine!” He raises both hands, claiming innocence.
I laugh at the face he pulls, “Well, you’ve just defaulted on that punishment,”
“How so?” He beams.
“With the look in your face! It spoke volumes!”
“Am I that transparent?”
“You read like a preschooler’s board book, pal!”
We both laugh, I drink my beer, and he throws back his whiskey neat.
“So…” he makes a show of looking at his watch, “I still have 33 minutes to kill before I’m allowed to run out of this place… I know I’m not a Med student, co-Ed, sister of yours, but… would you, um, like to dance with me?” He sounds adorably hopeful.
I glance at the man sideways, toying with my bottle.
He smirks, mischievously, “I promise, spirits make me more coordinated on the dance floor. I become this amazing dancer when I have a couple of drinks on… or so my brain believes. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m too goofy to know the difference. You’re welcome to be the judge it for yourself,”
I take my sweet time finishing the last dregs of my beer, and wrinkle my nose, “You sure you wanna dance to this shit, kids call music nowadays?” I smirk, pointing a finger up, motioning wide circles into the ether.
Peeta gives a full belly laugh.
I really do like his laugh!
“Isn’t it our only choice?” He ventures.
Not if you follow me home, my thirsty brain supplies; my lips on the other hand, just let through a hint of a smile, because I’m buzzed, but not drunk enough to proposition a total stranger. I’ve never been one to sleep around anyway.
“Okay,” I say, too enthused. “As long as we both agree that this isn’t music,”
“Oh no, this just barely passes as noise!” Peeta agrees readily.
He guides me to the packed dance floor, and we start moving to the booming, deafening tunes playing overhead.
I’m not sure if one could call this dancing. Everywhere I look people are writhing against each other, like a pack of zombies without grace or rhyme.
I’m not sure Peeta will get an accurate assessment of his dancing skills, compared to what I’m seeing, he’ll probably look like a professional; plus, it’s too dark and busy in here to really appreciate anything, really, but after a few minutes of just shifting in place, robotically, I snatch two bottle beers from a waitress walking by, offering one to my partner, hoping that’s enough to get us loosen up. The waitress stares at me until I rummage on my crossbody mini purse and toss a crumple ten on her tray.
The liquid boost works. Before I know it, I’m grinding my hips against his. Peeta’s just the right height for his thigh to fit between my legs and brush against my front. I get tired of undulating my arms in the air, so I drop them around his shoulders, and feel just how firm and broad he is under my touch.
Our chests are tightly pressed together, and I’m at the right angle to just stare at his plush-looking lips. I turn around before I do something brash, like kiss him in the mouth. Peeta doesn’t question it, he just places his hands on my hips, and starts moving to the music’s beat.
I bring the beer to my lips, but the bottle’s empty… oops! It doesn’t matter, I’m having the time of my life!
Peeta’s swaying guides me. I basically drape my back over his front, and bump my ass into his groin. I feel the hint of a bulge there, and press my rear into it again, just to confirm if I felt what I hope I felt.
Peeta’s fingers tighten on my hip, emboldening me to keep going until I’m practically twerking into him, and his slight bulge morphs into a full blown hard-on.
I twist in his arms to face him, my lust idled brain barely thinking rationally, “Are your 33 minutes done yet?” I yell into his ear, so he can hear me over the noise.
He doesn’t even look at his watch, “To hell with time! I‘ll stay here all night, if you want me to,” He answers loudly.
“Come on, then!” I push off his chest, and snatch up his hand before he can reply.
Leaving the dance floor is surprisingly easily, considering the crowd bouncing in place together.
I make no conscious plan on where we’re going; I’m arguably familiar with the layout of this place from my many visits since Prim turned 21; I’m only mildly surprised when we navigate across the club, all the way to the restrooms. It’s like my clit is making all the decisions tonight… good for it!
There’s a line of disgruntled women waiting to get inside the Ladies Room, but the Men’s Room is available, and Peeta lets me guide him into it, like one of those pull toys children have.
“It stinks in here,” I comment blandly, but make a beeline for the last stall with a door.
There’s one guy at the urinal, but he doesn’t even look up from his pants, so I just shrug it off and yank Peeta into the stall with me.
The space is tight, but once inside the stall, I push Peeta into the door, and attack his mouth.
He makes a startled noise at the back of his throat, but his hands and arms immediately press me into his body more fully. My own hands trek down to his belt, where I fiddle with the buckle until it’s undone, and I can access his pants’ button and fly.
He hisses when my fingers graze his warm erection, and bucks into my knuckles. I’m in the process of sticking my hand inside his boxers, when Peeta growls, sucking my lower lip into his mouth, and letting it go with a wet pop.
“Switch places,” he pants against my mouth, and hoists me up, until my back hits the door and his hands grab my hips possessively, jutting my pelvis forward, “I’m hungry, would you mind if I eat you out?”
“Okay,” I gasp.
Thank you for forcing me to wear your tiny, clubbing dress, Prim!
“You’ll allow it?” He asks, incredulous, rubbing circles on my hips with his thumbs.
“Yes… I’ll allow it!”
His smile is sexy, his stare is hypnotic. Damned my drunken ass! I can’t believe I’m willing to do this in a smelly bathroom stall!
Peeta sits on the toilet and licks his lips while staring up at me. His hands disappear under the stretchy material of my skirt, bumping my purse out of his way. He skims his fingers under the elastic of my panties, and I bite my lip, nodding eagerly.
Slowly, Peeta slides my underwear down my legs, the tips of his fingers follow, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced!
Once he brings my panties to my knees, his hands rush back up my thighs, pushing the flimsy skirt around my waist. My underwear drops to my ankles on their own.
Peeta’s level eye with my crotch, and I squirm restlessly. “Beautiful… absolutely soaked,” he whispers in a daze, he inhales pulling me closer, “You smell divine!” He descends, nose first, into the thatch of dark curls between my thighs, making me moan. He ruts his face against me, and suddenly drops to his knees, grabbing my calf to pull my leg up.
But the movement gets prevented by my stupid underwear, tangled in my ankles. Without missing a beat, I toe my panties off, so Peeta can maneuver my body however he wants.
He drapes my leg over his shoulder, opening me up to his ravenous mouth. He grunts, burying his face into my core, and finally, FINALLY, his tongue swipes between my folds.
“Fuck!” I squeak.
My hands fly to tangle into his soft, perfectly coiffed hair. I nearly smother him, holding his face to my pussy, but he’s doing wicked things to me with his tongue: lapping, sucking, and nipping at my labia; drawing number eight figures around my clit with the tip of his tongue, to then sinking it deep inside my core. I can’t stop bucking into his mouth over and over.
When was the last time I was given head? Fuck if I know! Darius probably, he was decent, but didn’t do it often. And Thom was so boring at it, I actually preferred he didn’t do it. But this guy is amazing! A real expert in the matter!
“I’m so close! Please… I’m so close,” I wail like a cat in heat, writhing against the door.
Peeta looks up, and despite the horrendous lighting in the room, I realize he’s got the deepest blue eyes I’ve ever seen… too bad I can’t hold his gaze too long, because he starts rubbing my clit with his thumb, while fucking my hole with his tongue, and is all I can do not shout and scalp him in my delirium.
He doesn’t stop drinking my juices while I convulse above him. On the contrary, he retrieves his thumb, but keeps his mouth busy, lapping away all the slick I give him.
It’s too much.
I tug on his hair to pull him off of my sensitive privates.
Peeta takes one last lick with the flat of his tongue and looks up at me, smiling wolfishly, “Was that good?” His beard’s dripping with me, he wipes some of it off on his sleeve.
I snort, unsexy and definitely rude. “You made me cum so hard I saw stars… yeah, it was good. Better than good, really!” I smile down at him, and try to pull him off from the floor.
All the gel holding his curls in place is gone now, rubbed off on my palms. His hair is sticking up on the top and towards the back of his head. I reach up to try and smooth it back, “I’m sorry, I seem to have made a mess of your hair,” I giggle. It’s adorable, but I feel bad that I ruined it.
“You can mess my hair any time you want, Katniss.” He says, almost shyly, he places his hands on my waist, over the bunched up dress.
It’s a big turn on to me, how his words are so flirty, but he delivers them so sweetly and awed. Is unexpected and endearing… which is odd, because I don’t usually find people endearing at all!
We both chuckle.
He licks his lips, and I feel heat pool in my lower belly again.
“Come’ere!” I wrap my hand around his nape, and pull his lips to mine.
He responds immediately, licking the seam of my mouth. I suck on his tongue when he slides it against mine.
He moans.
“Fuck me, Peeta,” I rasp into the kiss, palming his dick through his jeans.
He groans, “Are you sure?” He barely holds back another groan when I squeeze his clothed erection.
“Cock. In me. Now!” I command through gritted teeth, trying to pull his cock out of his pants with one hand, while taking his hand, and splaying it on my boob.
“Okay… shit… this is… surreal! This has never happened to me before!” He kneads my tit, gently.
I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that, so I pretend I didn’t and turn, facing the door to wiggle my ass, in an attempt to convince him.
Peeta makes a noise in his throat, quickly followed by the sound of shifting clothes, and a metallic thump from his belt buckle hitting the toilet.
I whine when Peeta’s warm, heavy cock caressed my bare ass cheek. “Please don’t tease me,” I beg.
“Fuck, Katniss… do you really want this?”
“Yes, Peeta… put your cock inside my cunt, and fuck me all the way to next week! Now!”
His warm body cocoons mine, “Anything you want, sweetheart,” he whispers into my ear, and I feel the blunt head of his cock parting my folds, coating himself with my natural lubricants.
He finds my entrance, pushing inside just the tip. He gasps, “Fuck!” One big hand wraps around my hip to keep me steady, bracing his other arm on the door, above my head.
“Peeta… Please!” I wiggle my ass, making him sink another inch deep.
“Hold still,” He hisses, “I’m trying to hold back… not ramming in too roughly… embarrassing myself, cumming too fast,” His hot breath warms my nape. “You feel like heaven!” He growls, tightening his hold on me.
I’m torn, wishing he’d drill into me without mercy already, while another part of me is grateful he’s trying to stay under control… I don’t know which I want more…
When was the last time I had sex?
As if reading my thoughts, Peeta shares haltingly, “It’s been such a long time for me. I want it to last, but I’m
Not sure if I can,”
I don’t have time to second guess myself, because Peeta’s moving, and he’s massive!
“Don’t hold back!” I bleat, “I want it rough… I want it fast!” I gasp, clenching down on him. I paw at the door for purchase, trying not to face-plant on the cold, hard surface, while Peeta’s fat prick stretches me to the brink of pain! I can’t stay put for him any longer; I buck into him.
“I said to hold still!” He slaps my ass, hard. It stings, but it’s a welcomed feeling.
I moan and melt, finally relaxing enough for him to penetrate me all the way to the hilt. He stays there a moment, breathing harshly into my neck, squeezing my hip on and off.
“You’re so tight. So warm. So wet, Katniss.” He nuzzles my ear, “I’m gonna move now, I apologize beforehand in case this ends too soon for you…” He drags himself slowly out of me, just to plunge right back in with a swift, hard thrust.
I squeak; he grunts..
Peeta holds me by the waist, “You’re so pretty and sexy, Katniss. I can’t decide if you’re real, or the most vivid wet dream I’ve ever had…” he’s fucking me like a jackrabbit in rut.
I’m speechless, vaguely wondering if I didn’t dream him instead?
His cock head hits a spot deep inside me I’ve never reached before. I start babbling nonsense— mostly praising his cock and his strength— I don’t really know what I’m saying, but he seems to be enjoying it thoroughly by the increase in his speed and the volume of his grunts.
I’m joisted up and down his shaft like a rag doll; I wish I’d thought of hanging my stupid little purse somewhere before we started, because now it’s bumping on my thighs, distracting me from the great ducking I’m getting; it’s no matter… I can feel my orgasm building in my belly.
“I’m gonna cum, sweetheart… I want you to cum too,” He nibbles on my earlobe.
“Yes, Peeta! Please make me cum, I’m so close!”
One of his hands slides around my waist to play with my clit, while his other tweaks my nipples over my dress and bra. That, added to the sensation of my g-spot being prodded repeatedly, sends me spinning over the edge.
I must’ve screamed or something, because he clamps his hand over my mouth, and then he’s grunting, digging his forehead between my shoulder blades, and pulling me back against his unyielding body.
“Fuck…” he gasps and shivers behind me. I feel his dick pulsing, his rhythm faltering, and then he goes still.
Peeta sags a little, wedging his shoulder into the door to keep from falling. I’m surprised he still has the strength to hold me up too; I have to be dead weight at this point, since my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my arms gave out a minute ago.
We both try to catch our breaths, too spent and weak for much more, at least for a few minutes.
Peeta stirs. “Are you okay?” He breathes out, ruffling the loose wisps of my hair with his breath.
I chuckle, leaning my sweaty temple on the cool door. “I can’t feel my toes… which is excellent!”
“Good,” he sighs.
Three heart beats later, he straightens up and pulls out of me. An indecent amount of spend flows down my legs as soon as his cock dislodges from my pussy, but Peeta shoves something soft between my thighs quickly, before I have time to freak out about the mess.
I look down mildly curious, staring at an embroidery of a tiny loaf of bread. Vaguely, I wonder if that’s his uniform? He said he was a baker, right? At least he’s named after bread or something. I giggle. “Is this your shirt?” I ask, widening my stance to gracelessly wipe myself clean.
“Yeah,”
“Thank you,” I say, dazedly, turning sideways to smile at him gratefully.
He’s wearing a simple, white, cotton t-shirt when I return the polo to him, now spoiled with cum and slick. I’m caught off guard by how broad shoulder he is, and by how nice he smells… cinnamon and sweat. Weird combination, but pleasant. I wonder if he baked any bread today?
“Um… would you… would you like to put these back on?” He asks awkwardly, leaning down to pick up my discarded panties from besides the foot of the toilet bowl.
I wrinkle my nose, “Not really,” I mumble. “Who knows when was the last time that floor got cleaned. Gross.”
Peeta smiles and shakes his head, “Here,” he grabs his polo, covered in our juices, and wraps my underwear in it. “Now it’s hidden.”
My body is finally catching up with the advanced hour, the beers and the two amazing orgasms. I’m starting to feel sore everywhere, and my eyelids are getting heavy. “Wow… think I’m officially all partied out,” I chuckle weakly.
“Ditto,” Peeta agrees, his smile is shy. “So… there’s this little dinner about two blocks from here,” he starts, eyes downcast; the space seems to shrink around us, now that the frenzy of our physical activities is done with. “Would you like to grab a pancake or som—“
My phone rings, startling us both into silence. I frown, but scramble to find it in my purse, to check who could be calling me… apparently at 2 a.m.!
My frown deepens. Prim’s smiling face flashes on the screen. She was supposed to be getting some herself! “It’s my sister,” I whisper, tamping down my rising panic. I don’t ask if it’s okay to answer, I just do it. “Prim?”
“Where the hell are you?!” I have to pull the phone off, or risk eardrum rupture by my sister’s screeching. “I’ve been texting and calling you! I’ve been worried sick!”
I scowl at the wall, confused and little annoyed, “Prim… Prim, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come get you somewhere?” I try to ask.
“What?! No. I’m home! But you aren’t, and I’ve been scared shitless trying to find you!”
I give Peeta an apologetic grimace, and blindly feel around for the lock to get out of the stall. “Um… why are you home so early? Last time I heard from you, you were getting a ride,” I’m trying to sound unaffected; It’s all I can think to say in my mortification.
“Never mind that! Why aren’t you home already? I thought you had to work in the morning and then go to sch—”
While Prim rages at me, I place a hand on the phone and turn to Peeta, still in the stall, awkwardly facing the wall, I assume to grant me some privacy. I’m sure he can hear my sister’s frantic chastisement from where he’s standing. “I’m sorry… you’d think I was a teenager instead of a grown ass adult,” I roll my eyes.
Peeta waves me off good naturedly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry for keeping you so late,”
I’m about to say something else, but Prim yells loudly, something about calling the police and checking the hospitals for me, which truly prompts a reaction from me, “Calm down! I’m still at the club, exactly where you left me!” I cover the phone with my palm again, and turn to him. “I’m… I’m gonna go? Before she threatens to send the marines in,” I try to joke, but our situation takes all the levity out of it, and my attempt dies off, lamely.
Peeta nods, smiling softly; somehow I can tell it’s not genuine.
“Little sisters, right?” I offer halfheartedly, twisting my lips.
“Can I… walk you out at least?” He asks quietly; Prim hasn’t stopped nagging this whole time.
“I… it’s not necessary, but thank you…”
Peeta nods again, looking disappointed.
I don’t get to tell him a proper goodbye, because two dude-bros come in the bathroom, letting the noise from the club filter in; one of the idiots elbows the other, and both start making some lewd comments about me, but Peeta steps in, eyes wild with anger, and tells the guys to knock it off. Prim hears the whole thing of course, and goes nuts herself asking what’s going on?
Peeta looks at me, and motions his head towards the door.
Message received, I step outside the bathroom and book it out of the club, “I’ll be home in a bit. I’m gonna call and Uber,”
“Call me as soon as you’re in it!” Prim demands.
“Fine! Now stop nagging me, will you?!”
I don’t realize I never looked back at Peeta to wave my goodbyes until I’m in the car, heading home. Regret truly is a bitch. I can’t help feeling like I just lost something important, but I have no idea what it is.
>>—————> * <————<<
It’s been a very long Monday. I’m mainly running on caffeine at the moment, and can’t wait to get home and pass out in my fluffy bed, to see if I can catch up on last nights lost hours of sleep.
I enter my last class of the day and find a seat in the middle of the third row. I pull my laptop, a writing pad and my mechanical pencil out of my bag, and watch as my classmates start filtering in one by one, greeting each other and finding their places, lazily.
I’m the oldest student in this class, which is not surprising. I’ve only just come back from my extended— 5 year— sabbatical; and did it only after I was completely sure I could handle my workload and the financial strain of both me and Prim going to college at the same time, without giving myself an early grave.
It’s been hard, but I’m glad I came back to finish my schooling, I only need a handful of credits to graduate, which is great!
I check my watch. We still have a few minutes to kill before class starts. The professor— Dr. Mellark, according to the copy of my schedule— is not here yet, so I pull up the banking app on my phone to give it another glance. The balance is still the same as the last two times I’ve seen it, but it doesn’t hurt to be extra careful when one is on a tight budget. I scheduled payments for the power, gas and rent to go out in the next few days, and I want to make sure there’s enough money in the bank to cover them. We’re looking fine for the month, financially speaking.
The door to the classroom swishes open, and I start signing off my app.
“Good afternoon ladies and germs; I’m doctor Mellark, and provided you’re in this room for an English class, I’ll like to welcome you to the amazing world of Classic Literature!” Says a deep, male voice I find oddly familiar. “By the way, don’t any of you dare to disagree with me on the awesomeness of classic lit… I’m a doctor, I know what I’m talking about… unless you ask me about medicine, then please be free to disregard everything I say, because I’m not ‘that’ kind of doctor!”
A murmure of little chuckles fills the room; even I smile, silencing my phone and putting it away, before looking up at the professor.
I choke on a strangled gasp when I finally set eyes on the man I assume is the teacher, dumping a worn, leather, messenger bag on the desk near the podium. He’s the last person I would’ve expected to have as a professor.
Oblivious to my predicament, Doctor Mellark— or as I know him: Peeta!— keeps introducing himself.
“I’ve been teaching this course for 14th years, but I’m always pleasantly surprised to hear the different points of views my students bring to our discussions on the classics we study, which in a nutshell, is the beauty of this class.” He pulls a ream of paper out of his bag, and gives it to a student in the front, “Please take a syllabus, and pass the rest to the next person, and so on… thank you!”
My face is burning. I think I’m gonna faint.
“But enough about me,” his voice booms, making my whole body shiver. “I don’t normally do roll calls or care about attendance, as long as you’re not missing assignments, and are here during discussions, so this is the first and last time I’ll be reading this list,” he rises a piece of paper above his head, I surmise has the students names on it, and he instructs, before reading, “I’ll call your names, and you’ll introduce yourself, briefly, that way we can all get acquainted with each other, yes?”
Ugh!
He can scratch my name off that list right now! We’re more than acquainted with each other.
Bile rises to my throat. An intrusive, bitter thought pesters me: how many of his students has he gotten ‘that’ familiar with?
But the thought dies off quickly. An even worse, more worrisome thought springs front and center in my mind: Did we use protection?!
Panic rises in my chest, a nervous queasiness settles in my belly; a distant memory of warm goo sliding down my legs comes to mind… Oh shit!
Oh shit, oh shit! We didn’t use a freaking condom? Who does that?!
Oh shit!
Would a Plan B still be effective right now? It’s been less than 24 hours…
Peeta’s reading names. People stand from their seats and talk about themselves. I haven’t heard one word they’ve said, but I’ve been watching how some of the female students bat their eyelashes and speak all breathily, smiling coyly at him… Peeta seems oblivious to the flirting, but I still feel a cocktail of unpleasant feelings in the pit of my stomach.
I realize, I’m jealous!
My ass is frozen in my sit, I’m not even breathing. I don’t think Peeta’s seen me yet, but… what will he do or say once my name comes up? I send a quick prayer to heaven, he won’t recognize me since I look nothing like I did last night at the club, with my hair down and my face all made-up. Right now and plain ol’ me… the rub is gonna be my name. Darn my dad and his awful naming whims!
Soon enough, he reads a name that makes him stutter, “Kat…Katniss? Everdeen?” He does a double take, “Katniss Everdeen…” his eyes are the size of saucers when he scans the lecture hall, swiftly. When he finds me, he looks back down at his paper, and says the name out loud again, unsure, “Katniss Everdeen?” Like he doesn’t believe what he’s reading.
I stand up woodenly, my voice cracks a little, “I’m—I’m Katniss Everdeen… hi!”
I’m about to drop back into my chair, but Peeta kinda mumbles, “You know, Arrowhead, or Katniss is a water plant? The root is edible… like a swamp potato?”
There are quiet little giggles all over the place.
Peeta clears his throat, his eyes flit away; his face’s blank of emotion, but his cheeks seem pinker than a second earlier, “I just read that online, believe it or not. Interesting facts about local flora, people. Reading is knowledge, but so is learning from one another… what can you tell us about yourself, Miss Everdeen, besides that you have a very unique first name?”
“I…” I harrumph, avoiding eye contact with Peeta at all costs, “I’m a part time student. Majoring in Botany. I took this class to fulfill my last English credits requirement for graduation. I do love books and classic literature, in particular.”
“Thank you… Miss Everdeen,” he rasps.
I sit down, clumsily, hoping this horrible, horrible moment is just a nightmare and that I’ll wake up any second now, drooling on my desk, with indentations of my notepad on my cheek, because anything would be less embarrassing than what I’m going through at this point.
Mercifully, Peeta calls a different name, and then another, and then another. I don’t look up from my notepad once.
Peeta for his part, sounds stiff and monotonous— or so I’d like to think— no more jokes or clever sayings. Maybe he’s not as affected as I am about this ordeal, and I’m just making it a bigger deal than it really is? Maybe he does have experience sleeping with students— I mean, it’s not unheard off, right?— Not that either of us had any idea we were engaging in a teacher-student affair last night…
Although, calling it an affair is generous; it was a measly one night stand. A chance encounter. Two people letting off steam before a busy week ahead.
I’m getting increasingly angry with all this thinking… and the class seems to drag on. It feels like an eternity, and my mind keeps churning up all kinds of questions: Why would he not say he was a teacher at this particular college? Did he lie about being a baker? Is his name even Peeta?
I scoffed at the thought.
To my horror, I hear him ask, “Anything to say, Miss Everdeen?”
Looking up at him requires a great deal of bravery and self admonishment, but I do my best and face him— he’s wearing glasses now, which makes my belly tightened for inexplicable reasons— “No, Doctor Mellark, nothing of consequence anyway,” I retort as venemosly as possible, without alerting anyone else there’s something weird going on between me and the professor.
Peeta grimaces slightly. Then looks away, “Very well, as I was saying, we will start with the basics: The Iliad and Moby Dick, since those are High school level works, I expect your reports to be sufficiently well researched, and your personal ideas on the text somewhat fleshed out. It doesn’t have to be in-depth. I’m just looking to determine everyone’s style and needs for the semester ahead…” he continues his spiel, and I feel free to go back to my stewing and my musings.
Before I know it, Peeta’s dismissing the class, wishing everyone a good rest of their evening.
I jump into action, packing my stuff with my head bowed, but then I hear him again.
“Miss Everdeen, a private word, please?” It’s much too quiet to have been said from his podium. I still startled when I look up and find him standing right against the first row of desks, directly in front of me.
His face is not quite stern, but he’s definitely less smiley than when we met.
I force down a gasp, because under the better lighting of the lecture hall, and close up, I can see a plethora of details I missed at the club; like the arresting blue of his eyes, the slight reddish of his neatly trimmed beard, peppered with silver whiskers all over, while his perfectly combed hair is almost all silver on the temples, and ashy blonde on the top. His shoulders are even broader than I remember.
He’s overall stockier than I originally thought, and just a smidge shorter, which is fine, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree—
I shake my head off the intrusive, lecheros thoughts. I’m literally lusting after my teacher, for goodness sakes! This is beyond a silly schoolgirl crush!
Peeta arches one dark blonde eyebrow at me, expectantly.
I nod curtly, because my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and gesture for him to lead the way.
I shove my laptop into my bag, and hastily shoulder the straps, hugging my writing pad to my chest, following my professor like a chastened little girl.
My stupid eyes find his ass, and I blink twice, at the exquisite sight in front of me. I groan internally.
He grabs his own bag, takes off his spectacles and slides them into his shirt pocket.
How old is this man?! He said he’s been teaching this class for 14 years, when do professors start their teaching careers? How did I never see him before now roaming campus? Is his age the reason he ate pussy like a master?
I shake my head, cursing my horny brain.
Peeta opens a door I have no idea how we came across, and then stands aside, gesturing for me to go in first.
I duck my head and step into a warmly decorated office, with a small desk and two chairs in the middle of the room. Bookshelves full of tomes line the office. A handful of pictures and framed diplomas hang from the only available wall space in the room, but I don’t get to study them before he catches my undivided attention.
“Let me start by apologizing,” Peeta stars, closing the door behind himself, “I assure you, it wasn’t my intention to cause you any stress, or embarrassment out there.” He pauses, “Would you like to sit?” He offers, wincing. He doesn’t wait and steps around me, to pace on the other side of his desk, “I… um, never been in this position before,” he scowls, “I’m not sure what assurances I can offer at the moment, except, that I will start the process to recuse myself from this class immediately, to not interfere with your academic—“
“Recuse yourself?” I cut him off, “what do you mean?”
Peeta squirms a little, and sits down heavily on his chair. My bag slides off my shoulder, and I just dump it in the empty chair I was offered a moment ago.
“Well, Miss Everdeen, it’s the right thing to do, given our circumstances. We’ve breached the appropriate boundaries of our pupil and teacher positions, and staying in the same class together will put you at a disadvantage… is a power imbalance situation, that calls for action.”
“Can you stop calling me ‘Miss Everdeen’? It’s weird…”
“I’m just trying to maintain an acceptable level of decorum between us,” he says sheepishly.
“That ship has already sailed,” I say tiredly.
“Perhaps, but it’s my responsibility to still try,” he rubs his forehead. “Anyway, I’ll call my department and see what is next. Stepping down myself is the only fair solution I see so far… it would be terribly unfair to ask you to switch classes. Simply disrespectful, but we both can agree this uncomfortable situation needs to be nipped in the bud, for both our sakes, Miss Everdeen.”
“This is bullshit!” I snap, “What happened in that club, isn’t that terrible of a problem! What we really need to do is stop acting so stiffly and guilty. By the way, you sound like a walking thesaurus!” I accuse, looking him in the eyes for the first time since he called my name at the lecture hall. “Stop it!”
Peeta inhales deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Miss Everdeen, our actions last night may have been honest, and even innocent in nature, but they still carry consequences… unexpected ones, especially in light of the facts. And the facts are, that it would be unethical for me to remain in a position of authority over you. In any case… if you feel the need to report me to the school administration, for… harassment or inappropriate behavior or anything else, I won’t dispute any claims. I promise to distance myself from you and give you space so you can continue with your education without interference, in a safe environment.”
I grunt, “I’m not going to report you, because you didn’t do anything wrong. Sure, I thought you were a baker… I mean your story about your name, and that little loaf of bread embroidered into your shirt, I thought it was your uniform,” I shrug one shoulder.
“Sorry about that… I never meant to mislead you,” he says bashful.
I ignore him, “Either way, I was the one pulling you into that bathroom. I threw myself at you. I begged you to do things to me, and you just granted me my wishes…” like a sexy gentleman, “The sex is on me. I’m 26 years old, I’m not some bumbling teenager who hasn’t learned to take responsibility for her actions, so, please… stop trying to shield me, or protect me, or whatever it is you’re doing,” my arms flap around in frustration. I finally push my bag off the chair, and sink into it. “Look, Peeta—“
“Professor…” he corrects, frowning a little.
I roll my eyes, if he knew he’s just making it sound kinkier than it already is, he wouldn’t be so adamant about the freaking titles.
“Fine… Doctor Mellark,” I enunciate, pettily. “I specifically chose your class as my last English elective for two reasons. One: it’s exactly the amount of credits I need to graduate at the end of the semester. And two: it fits my schedule to a T, which is important, since I do have a full time job when I’m not a college student. So, I’m sure we can both be adults about this unfortunate situation, and simply forge on. There’s no need for you to recuse from teaching this class, and I have absolutely no intention of switching. We both can wear our big people britches, and pretend last night was a… what did you call it?” I wave my hands, as if the answer will materialize from thin air, “A vivid wet dream? And leave it at that!”
Peeta glares at me, looking aggravated for the first time since I met him. “It’ll be unethical to continue like everything is normal, Miss Everdeen.” Peeta argues, stubbornly.
“Nobody has to know about last night,” I say, exasperated, then a horrifying thought flashes in my mind, “Unless you bragged about it already!”
“No!” He straightens in his chair, looking offended, “I would never do something so vile,” He looks indignant, “plus, the fact still remains that something did happen last night, and I know about it! I can’t, in good faith, be your teacher.”
“Are you planning on showing me favoritism because you know what my pussy tastes like, Peeta?” I deadpan, “Or are you gonna blackmail me into doing it again?”
“Stop calling me Peeta!” He growls through his teeth, his very thick fingers clenching into fists on his armrests.
I blink at his reaction owlishly, realizing I’m truly pushing it this time.
“I’ve always prided myself on keeping my nose clean. Being a decent man and tutor. Never in 17 years of teaching have I slept with a co-ed, let alone a student in my own class.” He breathes deeply, then pins me to my chair, with those arresting blue eyes of his, burning with controlled anger, “I would never extort you or anyone for sexual favors, Katniss. While I don’t really want to lose my tenure or face other disciplinary actions from the school authorities, the one thing I truly don’t want to damage are my personal standards, and my self image.
“Katniss, I’m already biased when it comes to you. Being your professor won’t be exactly fair to anyone. I’m not saying I would give you A’s willy-nilly, nor that I would grade your papers any differently than I’d do your peers or that I’d be less critical of your work,”
“That’s reassuring,” I roll my eyes. “You’re telling me that if I bring you a shit essay, you might not be persuaded to let me redo it?”
He sighs, “I don’t know…” he scratches the back of his neck, “I’ll most likely hover over your desk a disproportionate amount of time compared to your classmates. There’s also a chance I’ll call on your name more often than the rest of them?”
“I still don’t hear one unscrupulous, wrong reason, why you can’t do your job, and teach this class.”
We sit there, staring at each other, at an impasse.
“Why are you so set on keeping me in that room, Miss Everdeen?” He asks, softly.
Finally, I relent, relaxing my tense shoulders, and exhaling tiredly. I raise my hands in defeat. “I don’t know, Peeta. Because I want to protect you, the same way you’re trying to protect me. But… recuse yourself if you have to. I still believe you’re a better man than your urges.”
Peeta relaxes in his chair too, “Thank you, Katniss.You didn’t have to say that, specially because you don’t know me. It still means a lot.”
I chew the inside of my lip, calculating stuff in my head. “You’re right, I don’t know you, but I consider myself an okay judge of character.” He opened this door, it’s time for me to walk through it, “Can I ask you some stuff?” I ask innocently.
Peeta arches his eyebrows. “Shoot,” he says.
“How old are you?”
“45. I’m sorry. I knew you were young last night… I just didn’t quite grasp just how young,” his eyes shift downwards, sheepish and uncomfortable.
“I’m an adult. I’ve been the head of my family for years. At this point, age is irrelevant for me.” I state, dismissively.
“What about your family?” He asks, tilting his head sideways.
It takes me a minute to answer. I cross my arms over my stomach, and exhale, “It’s been only Primrose and I for five years now. My mother had cancer. My father passed when I was eleven.” I rock in my chair, slightly, “That’s why my sister was being such a clingy bitch last night. She can’t bear to lose anyone else. Neither can I for that matter.”
Peeta leans forward on his desk. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Katniss.”
I sit back, feeling like a huge weight just got lifted off my shoulders. “It’s okay, really. I’m back in school, about to finish my last semester, Prim is doing great in university, the only debt we have right now is Prim’s car and my Target card… we are actually okay,” I smile, meekly at him.
“That’s… that’s good, Katniss. Admirable, really.”
“Peeta?” I start cautiously, “Would you really remove yourself from the class because of me?”
He looks me right in the eye, sincerity emanating fro his eyes. “Absolutely. Without hesitation. As soon as you leave, I’ll email my Head of Department, explaining my situation. Don’t worry, I won’t mention any names or details—“
I shake my head, vehemently.
Peeta squints, studying me cautiously, measuring me.
“Please… stay with me…”
Something in my tone catches his attention, and he eyes me curiously. “I’ve already told you why I can’t,” he says, almost soothingly.
I stand up. Go around my chair, and drop back down into it. I start shaking my leg nervously. “I had this feeling in my gut since last night. Like I lost something precious, I just couldn’t put a finger on it… I still can’t, to be honest. All I know, in my loins, is that I can’t let you step down from your position, and I sure as hell won’t walk away on you without figuring out what this…” I wiggle my fingers, pointing to the mouth of my stomach, “feeling is about.”
He stares at me.
I stand up again, and this time I just pace, to the wall with the pictures, and stare at a bunch of faces, too similar to Peeta’s not to be related to him somehow.
“I know I’m not making sense, but I just needed to say that.”
He watches me for a long beat, weighing his options no doubt, before answering, “I can’t be your teacher, Katniss…” he sighs, and rubs his forehead, “because I’m afraid seeing you every week, without being able to touch you will be absolute torture.”
“Really?” I bite my lip, giving him an open once over, not feeling one iota self conscious about. “How come?”
Peeta huffs, avoiding my eyes. “I’d be wondering what your breasts look like the whole time.” He confesses, flatly. “I didn’t get a chance to see them last night, and it kept me awake an indecent amount of time.” He twists his lips, “I’m gonna be pinning the whole semester, whether you’re in the classroom or not, craving the taste of your juices in my tongue, and worse of all, I’ll probably embarrass myself, giving me involuntary hard on’s just fantasizing about you.”
I practically prowl towards him. “You poor thing,” I coo, pouting. “Would you go home to masturbate on the soiled pair of panties I left behind on that dirty, bathroom floor?” I ask… more like, purr, really.
Peeta chuffs out an incredulous laugh, covering his face with both hands. He grunts, “Aw, fuck! That sounds so… it’s probably exactly what could happen. I’d try to stay professional in the classroom, but in the privacy of my home…” he chuckles weakly, shaking his head.
“What kind of fantasies are we entertaining here?” I ask, invested, and sit on the corner of his desk.
Peeta thins out his mouth, “Katniss… that’s a slippery slope you’re trying to climb,” he warns.
“Humor me?” I cajole.
He takes a stuttering breath. “I’ll bring you into this office, same way I did today, except I’ll rip your clothes off, throw you on the desk and take you hard and fast. From behind.”
I can’t stop a small sound at the back of my throat, nor the need to rub my thighs together.
I clear my throat, “I expect you’d want to fuck me on every surface in this office?”
Peeta pulls on the collar of his shirt, his face turning crimson, “And probably the lecture hall as well,” he adds conversationally.
I nod, scooting closer to where he sits. “I’m curious too you know. I didn’t get to see ‘any’ part of you naked. But my muscles still are deliciously sore from last night. A girl has to wonder… just how big a dick has to be to cause so much wreckage?”
It doesn’t take much effort at all to work him up. Peeta’s pants are tented in what looks like the most uncomfortable erection ever; he shifts in his chair to try and hide the effect my words have on him, yet, his hands remain folded on his lap, white knuckled with the effort of keeping himself in check. He’s really committed not to touch me while I’m still his student, but he rasps a question, full of concern.
“Did I hurt you?” His eyes search me, earnestly. “I’m sorry I was too rough, really,”
My heart gives a little somersault. “No, Peeta. You were pure perfection. I loved how you handled me.”
His lips twitch, and I’m amazed at how expressive his face is, even partially hidden under his near facial hair. “You said you were hungry last night before you got on your knees…” I murmur, “I think, next time I’ll return the favor,”
“Next time?”
I slide closer to him, but we both keep our hands to ourselves.
I lick my lips, resisting the urge to drop on my knees between his legs and gobble up his cock. I didn’t lie about wanting to see him in all his naked glory, but I can show the same level of restraint he does; I respect him for trying to keep a moral and ethical compass.
I smirk at him, slyly. “Are you sure you wanna abandon your post as my professor, now that my education is on the balance? We can wait a handful of months, Doctor Mellark… I promise not to tease you,” With that, I mean, I promise not to aggravate what could potentially be the worst case of blue balls in the history of slow burns.
Peeta hisses a mirthless chuckle, “You’re too much of a temptation, even if you don’t actively try teasing me, Katniss,”
I start playing with the end of my braided, dark hair. “You know what I’m most really looking forward to, from when I’m no longer your student?” I pose, shyly, “Going to that dinner you mentioned last night.” I shrug one shoulder. “I’ll let you buy me a stack of pancakes to celebrate my graduation. I’ll probably introduce you to my sister, Primrose… and we’d go from there… if you wanted to…”
Peeta smiles, disarmingly. “I’d love that too, Miss Everdeen.” He says quietly.
I let go of my braid, and hug myself, “Stay in the class?” I practically beg one last time. “We can do it, I know we can. We can have a platonic, completely innocent teacher-student relationship until I’m done with college,”
Peeta shakes his head. “We’ll see after I talk to my head of department. Who knows, maybe all the schedules are already locked in place, and I have no other choice but to stay put. There’s no guarantee a replacement is available for me.”
“We’ll make it work!” I say enthusiastically.
“Maybe…” he sighs, not entirely convinced.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to check the time. Time is running out, I gotta get to the pharmacy before my window of opportunity closes.
“Hey, Peeta… um, invasive, weird question?”
I wait for him to nod.
“Have you by any chance, have gotten a vasectomy at any point?”
“Mmm no, never had. Why?”
Aw shit!
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Hopefully no reason.” I say quickly, too nonchalant for my own good, and he catches on it, I can see the gears turning in his brain, “Okay,” I make a big show of yawning and stretching my arms, “I have to run some errands before going home and crashing for the night.”
Peeta cringes, “Are you… okay? Really, okay? You said you were sore?” His eyes rove over my face full of concern.
“I’m fine,” I smile, “nothing a long soaking in Epsom salts can’t cure.”
“Okay,” he says, unsure. “I don’t want to overstep any worse than I already have, but… I’ve been anxious, wondering if you were alright, if you got home fine to your sister since you left the club. Which, obviously you did… but, I wanted to kick myself for not asking your number, just to be able to check on you… and this is frown upon, a d completely unethical, but—“
“I’ll email you,” I say quickly. “Nothing explicit. But I’ll let you know I’m home and okay.” I’ve spoken to people in code before, this shouldn’t be a problem, and really, sending my professor an email with a time stamp and some innocuous question about the syllabus doesn’t have to be nefarious at all.
“Alright… Just let me know if there’s anything wrong, okay? I swear this won’t become a routine thing or anything, just this time, to give me peace of mind, and because it is late… and well, yesterday…”
“It’s fine, professor. I don’t mind. And… everything will work out,” I say shouldering my bag and pocketing my phone, “everything will work out, even if my Plan B doesn’t,” I smile and scurry out the door, before the puzzlement in his face has time to settle.
After all, a semester is only 15 weeks long, give or take… that’s plenty of time to figure things out.
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Smokey band Movie Reviews: Wowza
The Suicide Squad is the best film DC has made since The Dark Knight. That’s it. That’s the review. If you want to know why i can say that with unassailable confidence, you can continue reading but from this point on, i am literally just going to gush about this f*cking thing like a straight up school girl. It’s that good and you should go watch it right now. This is about to be a love letter to the best film I've seen all year, mostly because i haven’t seen any A24 flicks, but this thing is a fantastic consolation for that glaring disappointment.
The Inspired
The writing in this movie is easily the best the DCEU has to offer. I say that knowing there are some people who believe BvS is f*cking Shakespeare and MoS is Hemingway. They’re not. They’re both dogsh*t. The Suicide Squad absolutely is everything the neckbeard fanboys want those films to be. I marvel at how well the events blend, how organically the character interact, how real they feel in a movie with a giant kaiju space starfish as the driving conflict for the plot. It’s f*cking inspired and lays solid ground work for very exceptional aspect of this movie going forward. Your film starts on the page and James Gunn understands that sh*t very well.
The emotion in this movie is palpable. I literally teared up toward the end. That’s rare for me because I'm kind of an emotionless monster but that line, “I’m a superhero!” f*cking gut checked me. Gunn has done that to me three times. “WE are Groot.” "He may have been your father, boy. But he wasn't your daddy." It wasn’t Pete swinging in after the “On your left.” in Endgame but it was close. Dude is too good at that sh*t and it’s weird that Marvel is willing to let him go. They better lock that dude the f*ck up!
Chemistry is everything for an ensemble like this and this cast definitely has that. I bought their interactions without having to suspend my disbelief, not like in other, lesser SKWAD films. I particularly like the relationship between Ratcatcher II and Bloodsport. That sh*t was sweet and brought a legitimate smile to my face.
I mentioned how well this film was written but, aside from the brilliant plot that made all of these misfit killers relevant, the character work really goes a long way to selling this narrative. Like, you absolutely fall in love with Polka Dot Man by the end of this thing. They made Peacemaker an irredeemable bastard. Like, do you know how well you have to develop a character played by John f*cking Cena, for people to hate him? He’s the White people version of The Rock! That’s near impossible but they definitely pull it off. It’s like Gunn watched the first SKWAD, saw what they did with El Diablo and just decided to do that. And when i say “do that’, i mean actually write these f*cking characters as people instead of stereotypes and tropes.
The Great
This is an ensemble film, which means it lives and dies by it’s cast. Well, this motherf*cker is living mas! Not a single character was miscast in this. Not a one. From the supporting characters like Alice Braga’s Sol Soria and Peter Capaldi’s Thinker, to the expendable distraction SKWAD. Loved seeing Jai Courtney’s Captain Boomerang again and i even like Pete Davidson’s Blackguard. I can’t stand Pete Davidson. This cast is MCU levels of excellent but, of course, there are standouts.
Joel Kinnaman as Rick Flag does the best work of his career. This dude almost always sucks in the roles he takes on but I'm starting to think that’s because of the direction he’s given because dude kills it as Flag in this. I genuinely liked him this time around. He felt like a real person and not some caricature of whatever the generic US Marine is supposed to be.
Margot Robbie is the live action Harley Quinn. She embodies this character like Ledger did Joker and RDJ did Stark. It’s that good and this version of Harley is easily the best. She feels complete, like she’s finally the Harls in the comics and i love it. This Harleen is who the character should have been from the jump but a lot of that was on Margot. She had to grow into the character, develop her ability because the first time she donned that Puddin’ necklace was rough. She’s come a long way and so has Harley.
I touched on this before but John Cena’s Peacemaker is a f*cking bastard. This casting genius because of the message behind the movie. I’ll get into that later but casting the most All-America motherf*cker to play the villain in a film about US involvement in Sovereign Foreign nations? And for Cena to literally play up his Patriot shtick only to turn out to be an allegory for the sordid reality of America? Bro, this sh*t got over. Cena is outstanding as Peacemaker. This cat really does have the chops to be a movie star. Looking forward to this show they gave him, for sure.
Polka-Dot Man is arguably the best character in this entire film. I love what Gunn wrote for him and absolutely adore how David Dastmalchian gave the character life. He had the best arc in the entire film and i really enjoyed his journey. When he got his moment, i teared up a little bit. Dude deserved that. Dude earned that. For me to have such a visceral reaction to that scene is testament to how well Dastmalchian did his job!
Listen, i love Idris Elba. I do. Cat has all of the swagger. He’s easily as charismatic as Obama and i dig that. However, he just plays Idris Elba. Like, his Bloodsport is literally just John Luther but, you know, murder prone. That’s not a bad thing, it definitely works, but, if I'm being honest, as a character, he’s the weakest of the lot but that’s how good everyone is in this. Idris f*cking Elba is the weakest character in this cast! What?? It’s not even like he’s bad or anything, he just plays the same dude over and over.
And now we get to my favorite character in this flick, Ratcatcher II. Listen, i have no idea who the f*ck Daniela Melchior is, but she is the absolute heart of this film, the moral compass of this team, and she never shirks away from that challenge. She has outstanding chemistry with Elba and the relationship between their two characters is the sweetest sh*t I've seen in a long time. It reminded me a lot of Logan and Laura. Melchior, if he chooses, can have a great career in Hollywood because she’s a real talent.
The Good
The plot to this thing makes sense. It’s not something as intricate as The Dark Knight but it’s head-and-shoulders better than anything the DCEU has produced and objectively sh*ts on the SKWAD that came before it. Destabilizing a small Latin American nation feels more like something Waller would have theses assholes do, rather than trying to kill a f*cking god with boomerangs and bullets. This movie is everything the first SWKAD attempt wants to be.
The violence and gore in this is ramped up to a eleven. There is a lot of grotesque sh*t in this thing and it starts the second Blackguard gets his face blown off. Like, his entire f*cking face. You see ALL of that sh*t and SO much more. Like, it gets grimy and i appreciated that. A SKWAD film needs that blood. This is a team of remorseless killers. We, as the audience, need to feel that and this flick delivers.
James Gunn can direct his ass off. When they announced he was going to be in charge of this film way back when, i knew it was going to be legit. When they announced t was a hard R, i needed it in my life. We’re talking Guardians with murder. Were talking the quintessential James Gunn vision and what a vision it is. Not only did he direct the f*ck out of this movie, but he wrote it, too! Mans has the only writing credit on this production. This is all him! It’s wild seeing the difference between directors on display. Gunn delivered a film that one could argue is the best of the year while Zack Snyder made f*cking Army of the Dead. The discrepancy between the quality of these two films is why i hate Snyder so much and have all of the love for Gunn.
The imagery in this thing is f*cking top tier. There are shot that are legitimate art It's a weird juxtaposition considering how bloody some of these scenes get but, f*ck, is it gorgeous!
I have to mention the editing. I usually don’t bother because it’s always adequate and, admittedly, it feels only slightly better in this film but it’s competent. It’s better than the first and you really feel that sh*t. Like, i watched the movie in preparation for this one and, oh my god, the difference in an actual team of professional film editors really cut a great film. Who’ have thought letting a f*cking trailer house construct your movie that it would end up feeling like a ton of trailers strung together and be bad?
This movie is overtly political. It has a lot to say about the influence of the US abroad. It doesn’t shy away from the realities of our international policy and really hammers home the reality of what the United States is, rather than the way we portray ourselves to be. This culminates in a struggle between Flag and Peacemaker; Both soldiers to the core but on opposite ends of the American ideal. It’s actually really brilliant and, if you aren’t paying attention, will go over your head. This is how you instill your politics into a film. This is how you execute ideals in a narrative. Gunn has a lot to say and he says it in the loudest way, but with the quietest voice.
The Okay
The only beef i can see people having with this is the exposition dumps. There are a few but they kind of stall the overall flow. I didn’t mind them too much because, by the time we get to them, the film has built up so much good will by being just fantastic.
The Verdict
I f*cking loved this movie, dude. Look how long this list of dope sh*t is. I literally itemized all of the reasons why this flick is so great. I can’t articulate it and more clear. I told you at the very beginning, literally the first thing i wrote, that The Suicide Squad is the best film in the DCEU and i mean that sh*t. Grace Randolph is a f*cking hack. Don’t listen to her incredibly bias opinion. Just f*cking go watch it and decide for yourself! It’s in theaters right now and on HBO max for free.
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Shadow of the Tomb Raider: Revisited
It was a dark and stormy night, nothing stirred, not even a creature; except me, stirring my iced tea that night in September 2018 when I first played and finished Shadow of the Tomb Raider. Back then, it left me feeling deeply disappointed and unhappy; probably because I expected too much and let my imagination of what this game could have been get the better of me.
So I thought.
Alas, I decided to give it another chance. Maybe 2.5 years have the power to make me see reason?
Roll intro...
Time for game 👏 review 👏!
Sorry to break the bubble, I’m just gonna say it: my opinion hasn’t changed much. I’m still not vibing with Shadow of the Tomb Raider. Allow me to elaborate.
In preparation for Shadow, I also replayed Rise of the Tomb Raider beforehand - the game I’d consider to be in my top 3 favourite games of all time, and certainly the most polished game among the Tomb Raider reboot trilogy. It just showed me exactly what to compare and how.
Last time, I stated that I couldn’t bring myself to 100% the game because I felt that it wasn’t worth it; this time around, I actually did take the time to do so, and guess what... it didn’t feel worth it, just because it is so much. Too much. Still. Every time I entered a new area, the game seemed to scream at me just how huge it is and how it wants to suffocate me and force me to grind 20+ hours just for a few more percent game completion. Gaming should not feel like a damn chore.
Now, arguably, this may be exactly what people are looking for in a triple A open world game - looking at you, Horizon Zero Dawn, which didn’t fully sit right with me for exactly the same reasons - but it’s something that makes me deeply uncomfortable and pisses puts me off. If I wanted to play a hostile game, I’d play Dark Souls.
The only reason that made me continue to pursue 100% was because I was prepared for these feelings. I forget story details incredibly fast, but feelings I had while playing something are crystal clear in my mind at any given moment.
So, I continued... I continued playing a game that tries so hard to be this perfect game, all with buggy graphics, unresponsive, wonky controls, monotonous pacing and faulty tension-building, and a story that’s convoluted, disjointed, and simply too long. Again, it made an effort to explain the major story bits by unlocking convenient hints and pictures it showed you at the right time, but, once again, I did not know what exactly I was fighting for during the boss fight. And I swear, I paid a whole lot of attention.
Last time, I said I reached the point of no return without having valuable items like the lock pick, rope ascender and the reinforced knife. I knew I had this problem last time and thus this time, I followed my usual path of finishing every side mission in an area before proceeding to the next, which did help; however, I feel like this could kind of pressure the player. Only reason it doesn’t is because the player usually doesn’t even know there’s this super important thing behind a boring errand. Yes, boring, I said it.
Something that was definitely my fault last time was the fact that I perceived enemy stamina as way too high - when in reality, I just couldn’t be bothered to actually upgrade the damage of my weapons. Naturally, I fixed this mistake of mine during this playthrough and had lesser problems. That was entirely my fault and I’m sorry that I bashed the game for this in 2018.
However, the voice acting is still amazing, and again, I loved what the controller triggers did to my index fingers. And the run-away-to-flee-from-a-landslide scenes were pretty cool, gotta admit.
So, what’s the verdict, chief?
Eye Candy. Shadow of the Tomb Raider is pretty, no doubt about it. But a game this rich in lore and environmental beauty needs to do a lot of things wrong to still feel as empty as it did.
Looks are not everything. I hope the next Tomb Raider game will have finally learned that.
I still don’t hate the game. I just can’t hate it. But I heavily dislike what it stands for... if that makes sense.
Ok, I’m done. I said what I said. You’re cordially invited to look at me weird and leave hate mail in the tags.
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Sam help. I saw a post, I think on your blog, about what people should use for their Robin Hood style heist fics (not paintings but jewelry instead I think was the verdict?) but I can't find it again and need it as a reference for a friend. Do you remember this at all? For more detail: the aim was to find something to steal worth money but wouldn't harm innocent people (the rich not being innocent in this scenario)
It sounds like a discussion we may have had at some point, but I’m afraid it doesn’t ring any specific bells, Anon. I tried looking through /search/heist on my tumblr but that’s....a lot of content, I love a good heist. :D Which is why I can offer you some insight even if I can’t offer the post.
FWIW, stealing a painting from a wealthy person would arguably be a good deed if you found some way to liberate it, ie if it could go from a private collection to a public display, so for example stealing back a painting that had been looted in WWII, or stealing a painting that had been stolen and fenced and returning it to a museum. However, that would not earn the thief any significant cash unless, for example, they were somehow able to profit from the museum making a lot of money in ticket sales. If you restored the lost paintings of the Gardner, for example, the GARDNER would make bank, but it’s difficult to profit from that because it is, well, a non-profit. And the problem with stealing a painting and selling it on the black market is that paintings are one-of-a-kind and their market value is very low. You might get 40% of the value at best. Most stolen art ends up being used as loan collateral in drug deals, which is not ideal since most drug dealers do not know how to care for paintings properly (or would bother with the expense if they did). Mind you, if you could steal a great work, buy a shitload of drugs with it, and efficiently dispose of them, that’s a good way to make a lot of money. There’s an off-chance if you stole a painting you could ransom it back through the insurance company, but that’s extremely risky -- it’d be more straightforward just to rob a bank.
Jewelery would be the far better option if you stole the right kind of jewelery, because again a unique piece would be hard to fence. Ideally you would want something you could disassemble for value -- gold to be melted down, large gems to be recut, and certainly gems that weren’t serial-numbered or watermarked in any way, which most of them are now. A large, iconic gemstone would only be worth stealing if you had access to someone who could recut it or, again, if you were going to hold it for ransom. And it’s likely that to really make the work worth it you would need to steal a number of pieces, like a whole sack of gold.
If you were going to rob someone who is midrange-wealthy (ie someone who is maybe a millionaire but definitely not a billionaire, and probably in the low millions) you’d want to hit some large cash reserve they hold, like an emergency fund in a bunker or something. The problem there is that while you might come away with a couple hundred thousand in easily laundered bills, it wouldn’t really hurt them, since anyone who has enough money to keep a few hundred thousand to a million as a cash reserve can afford to burn that money. They might be angry or annoyed but it wouldn’t do material damage. Then again the same can be said of material objects -- anyone wealthy enough to own an Old Master or an enormous diamond is wealthy enough to have it insured.
So if the idea is to rob and really hurt someone, you have to steal something that either has great emotional weight, or you have to fuck them monetarily, which moves out of the realm of a heist and into the realm of financial high crime, ala Neal plotting to wipe out Moreau’s hedge fund in White Collar -- which despite the glamor Jeff Eastin managed to place on it is generally actually extremely boring. If the idea is just to get your bank and get gone, jewelery or cash would be best.
Hopefully this helps :D But yeah, the upshot is that a stolen painting is hard to profit from, and stolen jewelery has to be essentially broken down to component parts, but from there is very easy to dispose of as long as you have access to someone who can cut the gems. Good luck to your friend!
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Book Review: “Queer City” by Peter Ackroyd
Thanks to @kyliebean-editing for the review request! I have a list of books I’ve read recently here that I’m considering reviewing, so let me know if you’re looking for my thoughts on a specific book and I’ll be sure to give it a go!
2.5 ⭐/5
Hey all! I’m back with another book review and this time we’re taking a dip into nonfiction with Peter Ackroyd’s Queer City: Gay London from the Romans to the Present Day. Let’s dive right in.
The good: Peter Ackroyd is a hugely prolific writer and a historian clearly trained for digging through huge archives of history and his expertise shows. This particular volume--his 37th nonfiction book and 55th overall published work--provides a startlingly comprehensive timeline of London’s gay history, just as promised. Arguably, the book’s subtitle short sells the book’s content; Queer City actually rewinds the clock all the way back to the city’s origins as a Celtic town before it became Roman Londinium. From there, Ackroyd’s utilizes his extensive historical experience to trace proof of gay activity through the ages. From the high courts of medieval times to the monks of the Tudor era, the gaslit back alleys of Victorian London to the raging club scene of the 1980s--gay people have lived and even thrived in London for literal millennia, and Ackroyd has the receipts to back it up. If you need proof that homosexuality has been a staple of civilization since the Romans--and the homophobia has often recycled the same arguments for the same period of time--then look no further.
The mediocre: All that being said, Ackroyd’s “receipts” often tend towards the salacious, the scandalous, and often the explicit. It seems that legal edicts and court cases made up the foundation of his research, so us readers get to hear in full detail the punishments levied against historical queer individuals, from exile to the pillory to the gallows. Occasionally, Ackroyd dips into the written pornagraphic accounts of the time to describe salacious sexual encounters, which add little to the overarching narrative except proof that gay people do, in fact, have sex. Later down the historical record, once newspapers became more common, we also receive extensive account of the gossip pages of the day, complete with rants about the indecency of “buggery” and the moral decay of “the homosexual.” Throughout the book, ass puns and phallic wordplay run rampant, so much so that it occasionally feels like it’s only added for shock value.
While I’m not a professional historian, as a queer person I can’t help but feel that there must be more to the historical record than these beatings, back alley hookups, etc. In focus on the concrete evidence of gay activity--that is, gay sex and all the official documents surrounding the subject--it feels like Ackroyd neglects the emotional side of queerness in favor of the physical side. Even the queer poetry excerpts or diary entries of the time (which I’m nearly positive exist throughout the historical record, though once again I’m not a professional) sampled in this book are all focused on the physical act of sex. No queer person wants a pastel tinted, desexed version of our history--but we also don’t need to hear a dozen explicit accounts of gay park sex. Queer love and queer sex go hand in hand and to focus on one without the other is disingenuous, not to mention dangerous in promoting the idea that queer people are hypersexual and predatory. Admittedly, I do think the omission of queer love is an unintentional byproduct of Ackroyd’s fact-checking and editorial process. He may not have intended to leave out tenderness, but his intentional choice to focus on impersonal records--court cases, royal decrees, newspapers, etc.--rather than personal ones--diaries, poetry, art, etc.--meant that emotion was largely excluded anyway.
The bad: Though Queer City does a good job of following queer history through the ages, Ackroyd fails to connect his cited historical examples with larger sociocultural movements of the time. He discusses queer coding in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales but not the larger (oft homoromantic/homoerotic) courtly love traditions that Chaucer drew on. He describes the cult followings around boy actors playing female parts in Elizabethan and Jacobian London but neglects to put those theaters and the public reaction to them within the context of the ongoing Renaissance. Similarly, Ackroyd omits explicit connections to the Enlightenment, Romanticism, Neoclassicism, free love, and countless other cultural movements that undoubtedly shaped both the social and legal responses to the queer community. This exclusion, unlike the exclusion of queer love, had to be intentional on Ackroyd’s part; it’s hugely unlikely that a historian with his bibliography accidentally forgot to mention the last millennium’s worth of Western civilization cultural movements. It’s a massive oversight that utterly fails to place London’s queer history within the context of wider history.
And finally, last but definitely not least, oh boy does Ackroyd have some learning to do when it comes to gender, gender presentation, and gender identity. From the very first chapter, it’s apparent that Ackroyd’s research and writing focused largely on MLM cisgender men, with WLW cisgender women as a far secondary priority. While there are chapters on chapters dedicated to detangling homosexual men’s dealings, homosexual women are often pushed to the fringes of London’s queer history. They receive paragraphs, here and there, and occasionally the closing sentence of a chapter, but overall they’re clearly downgraded to a secondary priority within Ackroyd’s historical narrative. Some of this can once again be blamed on the type of records Ackroyd uses; sex between women was never criminalized or discussed in the public sphere in the same way that sex between men was, so it was a less common topic in London’s courts and newspapers. (And, once again, I have the sneaking suspicion that turning to less traditional sources would’ve helped resolve this issue, though in part the omission can likely be pinned on Ackroyd’s demonstrable preference towards male history.)
Additionally, Ackroyd tends to treat crossdressing as undeniable proof of homosexuality. While it’s true that historically queer individuals found freedom or relief in dressing as the opposite sex, the latter didn’t necessarily equal the former. Additionally, if the crossdressing individual in question was female, dressing as a man was often a way for a woman to secure more freedoms than she would receive while wearing traditional feminine outfits. (Also, he tended to use “transvestite” over “crossdressing,” and while I tend to think of the latter as more preferred, the former may be more in use among queer studies circles or British slang). Though Ackroyd briefly acknowledges that women could and may have crossdressed to more easily navigate a misogynistic world, he nevertheless continually dredges out records of crossdressing women as concrete proof of historical sapphics.
Which brings us to the elephant in the room; in clearly identifying crossdressers as homosexuals, Ackroyd entirely overlooks the existence of transgender and nonbinary people in London’s historical record. This omission, arguably unlike the others, seems definitively intentional and malicious. In the entire book, I could probably count on one hand the number of times Ackroyd mentions the concept of gender identity, and I could use even fewer fingers for the number of times he does so respectfully and thoughtfully. Though he largely neglects to discuss transgender history as a subset of queer history, when he does bring up historical non-cisgender identities it’s often as a component of his salacious narratives rather than a vibrant and storied history all on its own. In the final chapter on modern gay London, Ackroyd’s casual dismissal of the concept of myriad gender identities felt dangerously close to modern day British “gender criticism,” which is likely more familiar to queer readers as TERFism masquerading under the guise of concern for women and gay rights (JK Rowling is a very public example of a textbook gender critical Brit, if you’re wondering). By the end of the book, Ackroyd’s skepticism of so-called “nontraditional gender identities” is so glaringly evident that he might as well proclaim it outright.
The verdict: For a book supposedly focused on queerness, the focus on male cisgender homosexuality is both disappointing and honestly not surprising. This book is a portrait of gay London, yes--but it’s also a portrait of Peter Ackroyd as a historian and a professional. It’s clear from early on that he’s writing from the perspective of an older white gay man (I think queer WOC know what I’m talking about when I say that that POV is very distinct, and his clear idolation of 1960s-1980s gay culture makes his age quite evident as well). As you progress through the book, his blindspot in regards to gender and gender politics become increasingly clear, as does his simultaneous obsession and criticism with transgender identities. Overall, Queer City is a clear example of how “nonfiction” doesn’t necessarily mean unvarnished truth--or at least not all of it--and how individual historian’s methods and biases bleed into their research.
A dear London friend suggested Matt Houlbrook’s Queer London: Perils and Pleasures of the Sexual Metropolis as a more gender inclusive review of the famous city’s queer history. While I take a break from London for a bit, I would welcome any and all thoughts on either Queer City or Queer London, the latter which I fully intend to get to eventually so I can properly compare the two.
#book review#queer history#queer city#text heavy tw#sex mention tw#long post for tw#wow this got really long sorrt#kinda starts rambling by the end oops
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The pioneer, Thurgood Marshall
Early Life and Family
Marshall was born on July 2, 1908, in Baltimore, Maryland. His father, William Marshall, was the grandson of a slave who worked as a steward at an exclusive club, and his mother, Norma, was a kindergarten teacher.
One of William's favorite pastimes was to listen to cases at the local courthouse before returning home to rehash the lawyers' arguments with his sons. Thurgood later recalled, "Now you want to know how I got involved in law? I don't know. The nearest I can get is that my dad, my brother and I had the most violent arguments you ever heard about anything. I guess we argued five out of seven nights at the dinner table."
Education
Marshall attended Baltimore's Colored High and Training School (later renamed Frederick Douglass High School), where he was an above-average student and put his finely honed skills of argument to use as a star member of the debate team. The teenage Marshall was also something of a mischievous troublemaker. His greatest high school accomplishment, memorizing the entire United States Constitution, was actually a teacher's punishment for misbehaving in class.
After graduating from high school in 1926, Marshall attended Lincoln University, a historically Black college in Pennsylvania. There, he joined a remarkably distinguished student body that included Kwame Nkrumah, the future president of Ghana, poet Langston Hughes and jazz singer Cab Calloway.
After graduating from Lincoln with honors in 1930, Marshall applied to the University of Maryland Law School. Despite being overqualified academically, Marshall was rejected because of his race. This firsthand experience with discrimination in education made a lasting impression on Marshall and helped determine the future course of his career.
Instead of Maryland, Marshall attended law school in Washington, D.C. at Howard University, another historically Black school. The dean of Howard Law School at the time was the pioneering civil rights lawyer Charles Houston. Marshall quickly fell under the tutelage of Houston, a notorious disciplinarian and extraordinarily demanding professor. Marshall recalled of Houston, "He would not be satisfied until he went to a dance on the campus and found all of his students sitting around the wall reading law books instead of partying."
Marshall graduated magna cum laude from Howard in 1933. He briefly attempted to establish his own practice in Baltimore, but without experience, he failed to land any significant cases.
Court Cases
In 1934, Marshall began working for the Baltimore branch of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP). In 1936, Marshall moved to New York City to work full time as legal counsel for the NAACP. Over several decades, Marshall argued and won a variety of cases to strike down many forms of legalized racism, helping to inspire the American civil rights movement.
Murray v. Pearson
In one of Marshall's first cases — which he argued alongside his mentor, Charles Houston — he defended another well-qualified undergraduate, Donald Murray, who like himself had been denied entrance to the University of Maryland Law School. Marshall and Houston won Murray v. Pearson in January 1936, the first in a long string of cases designed to undermine the legal basis for de jure racial segregation in the United States.
Chambers v. Florida
Marshall's first victory before the Supreme Court came in Chambers v. Florida (1940), in which he successfully defended four Black men who had been convicted of murder on the basis of confessions coerced from them by police.
Smith v. Allwright
Another crucial Supreme Court victory for Marshall came in the 1944 case of Smith v. Allwright, in which the Court struck down the Democratic Party's use of whites-only primary elections in various Southern states.
Brown v. Board of Education
The great achievement of Marshall's career as a civil-rights lawyer was his victory in the landmark 1954 Supreme Court case Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka. The class-action lawsuit was filed on behalf of a group of Black parents in Topeka, Kansas, whose children were forced to attend all-Black segregated schools. Through Brown v. Board, one of the most important cases of the 20th century, Marshall challenged head-on the legal underpinning of racial segregation, the doctrine of "separate but equal" established by the 1896 Supreme Court case Plessy v. Ferguson.
On May 17, 1954, the Supreme Court unanimously ruled that "separate educational facilities are inherently unequal," and therefore racial segregation of public schools violated the equal protection clause of the 14th Amendment.
While enforcement of the Court's ruling proved to be uneven and painfully slow, Brown v. Board provided the legal foundation, and much of the inspiration, for the American civil rights movement that unfolded over the next decade. At the same time, the case established Marshall as one of the most successful and prominent lawyers in America.
Circuit Court Judge and Solicitor General
In 1961, newly-elected President John F. Kennedy appointed Marshall as a judge for the U.S. Second Circuit Court of Appeals. Serving as a circuit court judge over the next four years, Marshall issued more than 100 decisions, none of which was overturned by the Supreme Court.
In 1965, Kennedy's successor, Lyndon B. Johnson, appointed Marshall to serve as the first Black U.S. solicitor general, the attorney designated to argue on behalf of the federal government before the Supreme Court. During his two years as solicitor general, Marshall won 14 of the 19 cases that he argued before the Supreme Court.
Supreme Court Justice
In 1967, President Johnson nominated Marshall to serve on the bench before which he had successfully argued so many times before the United States Supreme Court. On October 2, 1967, Marshall was sworn in as a Supreme Court justice, becoming the first African American to serve on the nation's highest court. Marshall joined a liberal Supreme Court headed by Chief Justice Earl Warren, which aligned with Marshall's views on politics and the Constitution.
As a Supreme Court justice, Marshall consistently supported rulings upholding strong protection of individual rights and liberal interpretations of controversial social issues. He was part of the majority that ruled in favor of the right to abortion in the landmark 1973 case Roe v. Wade, among several other cases. In the 1972 case Furman v. Georgia, which led to a de facto moratorium on the death penalty, Marshall articulated his opinion that the death penalty was unconstitutional in all circumstances.
Throughout Marshall's 24-year tenure on the Court, Republican presidents appointed eight consecutive justices, and Marshall gradually became an isolated liberal member of an increasingly conservative Court.
For the latter part of his time on the bench, Marshall was largely relegated to issuing strongly-worded dissents, as the Court reinstated the death penalty and limited affirmative action measures and abortion rights. Marshall retired from the Supreme Court in 1991; Justice Clarence Thomas replaced him.
Personal Life
Marshall married Vivian "Buster" Burey in 1929, and the couple remained married until her death in 1955. Shortly thereafter, Marshall married Cecilia Suyat, his secretary at the NAACP. The couple had two sons together, Thurgood Jr. and John Marshall.
Death
Marshall died on January 24, 1993, at the age of 84.
Legacy, Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X
Marshall stands alongside Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X as one of the greatest and most important figures of the American civil rights movement. Although he may be the least popularly celebrated of the three, Marshall was arguably the most instrumental in the movement's achievements toward racial equality.
Marshall's strategy of attacking racial inequality through the courts represented a third way of pursuing racial equality, more pragmatic than King's soaring rhetoric and less polemical than Malcolm X's strident separatism. In the aftermath of Marshall's death, an obituary read: "We make movies about Malcolm X, we get a holiday to honor Dr. Martin Luther King, but every day we live with the legacy of Justice Thurgood Marshall."
Movie
In 2017, the biopic film Marshall was released. Starring Chadwick Boseman, Josh Gad and Kate Hudson, the movie focuses on an obscure 1941 rape case brought by Eleanor Strubing, a 32-year-old white woman, against her 32-year-old Black chauffeur, Joseph Spell. While Spell initially confessed to the crime after 16 hours of interrogation, he later said the encounter was consensual. During the trial, the judge allowed Marshall to assist his white co-attorney but banned him from speaking a single word. Following 12 hours of deliberation, the jury of six men and six women came back with a not guilty verdict. (source)
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