#Sean Lock biography

[manwalksintobar]

Biography of LeBron as Ohio // Sean Thomas Dougherty

When is a poem one word? Even at 17 he was Baraka            on the court, Coltrane gold toned, a kind of running riff, more than boy-child, man-child, he was one word like Prince.             How back in those drunken days when I still ran in bars & played schoolyard ball             & wagered fives & tens, me & my colleague the psych-prof drove across Eastern Ohio              just to see this kid from powerhouse St. Vincent, grown out of rust-belt-bent-rims, tripped             with the hype & hope & hip hop blaring from his headphones, all rubber soled             & grit as the city which birthed him. We watched him rise that night scoring over 35,             drove back across the quiet cut cornfields & small towns of Ohio, back to the places             where we slept knowing that Jesus had been reborn, black & beautiful with a sweatband crown rimming his brow.             He was so much more than flipping burgers & fries, more than 12-hour shifts at the steel plant in Cleveland.             More than the shut-down mill in Youngstown. More than that kid selling meth in Ashtabula.             He was every kid, every street, every silo, he was white & black & brown & migrant kids working farms.             He was the prince of stutter-step & pause. He was the new King. We knew he was coming back the day after he left             his house in Bath Township. He never sold it. Someone fed his fish for years. Perhaps our hope? Fuck Miami. Leave Wade to wade through the Hurricane rain. LeBron is remembering that woman washing the linoleum floor, that man           punching his punch card. He drives a Camaro, the cool kid Ohio car driving through any Main Street. He is the toll-taker, &             he is the ticket out. He keeps index cards documenting             his opponents’ moves. One leans forward before he drives. One always swipes with his left hand. The details like a preacher             studying the gospel. He studies the game like a mathematician conjugating equations, but when he moves he is a             choreography, a conductor passing the ball like a baton. He is a burst of cinders             at the mill. He is a chorus of children calling his name.             The blistered hands of man stacking boxes in Sandusky, the long wait for work in Lorain. A sapling bends             & reaches in all directions before it becomes a tree. A ball is a key to a lock.             A ball is the opposite of Glock. America who sings your praises,            while tying the rope, everyone waiting for Caesar to fall, back-stabbing media hype city betrayed             by white people with racist signs.             I watch the kids play ball in the Heights, witness this they say. We will rise. I watched             LeBron arrive & leave, I walked, I gave up drinking as he went off & won a ring. The children’s chorus calls out sing             brother, sing. Everything is black. Storm clouds gather out on Lake Erie. But the old flower-hatted women             at the Baptist church are heading out praise cards, registering teenagers to vote. To turn a few words into a sentence. He is a glossary of jam, & yes he is corporate             chugging down green bubbly Sprite, running in Beats head phones, he is Dunkin his donut, he is Nike, witness, ripped.             On a spring day in Akron a             chorus of children is chanting his name on the court by the chain-link fence. He is forged steel, turning his skinny body into             muscle, years of nights lifting, chiseling, cutting, studying. Watching the tape. To make a new kind of sentence. He is passing             out T-shirts, this long hot bloody summer he was returned to the rusted rim along the big lake. He is stutter-step. He is             spinning wheel. He has a cool new hat. He is speaking of dead black children. He is giving his time. To make the crowd             sway like wind through a field of corn.             Does LeBron think of dying?             Does the grape think of dying as it withers on the vine by the lake? Or does it dream of the wine it will become? He is wearing a shirt that says I Can’t Breathe. They said he was arrogant. I said he was just Ohio.             He married his high school sweetheart. Bravado laid out on the court. No back down, he is Biggie with a basketball inside             of a mic, no ballistics, just ballet. He is Miles Davis cool, quietly cerebral, turning his back, tossing up             chalk like blue smoke, blue notes, blues. He is Akron, Columbus, he is heart & Heat turned to lake effect blizzards,             freighters frozen in ice, looking for work & no money to eat. He is Ashtabula & Toledo. He is carrying so many across the             river, up through Marietta.             The grapevines are ripe in Geneva.             He returns, Man-child, Man-strong, Man-smart, Man- mountain, Mansfield to East Akron, minus into Man, or should we             say Mamma raised? Single mother fed, shy child, quiet child who grew, who suffered & taught his body to sing, his             mother worked how many shifts, doing this, doing that, never gave up for her son. He is third shift at the rubber             plant in winter, he is farm hands & auto parts piecework & long nights the men at the bar, eyes on the television.             The lake tonight is black as newly laid asphalt. There are no ellipses. He is turning paragraphs             into chapters. Long ago the hoop Gods made this deal at the crossroads, Old Scratch is flipping the pages             of his program & waiting high in the stands—to belong to a place most people would call             nowhere, to show the world how tough we truly are, twelve-hour shifts at the Rubber plant in Akron. How he is, how             he is a part of this asphalt court we call Ohio, & how we suffer, & how we shine.

#poetry #Sean Thomas Dougherty #Ohio #LeBron James #basketball #Cleveland Cavs #NBA #sports poems #Bath Township #america #BOA Editions #ode

[kenneth-carson]

Name: Kenneth Sean Carson Title/Occupation: Lord (Gentry) Magick Status: Mundus but possessed by a demon! (not that anyone knows that.)

Biography: There was nothing remarkable about the Carson family as far as society went. They were well off but rarely found themselves in the middle or even on the fringe of a scandal. They were, for lack of a better term, rather boring! Their parties were perfect, their estate pretty but well to do, and those that lived on their land found them to be fair.

Of course karma had to hit them for the worst at some point, didn't it?

A tear had opened up in the land across from the pond that sat on their estate. The geese had been rather vocal about it, as well as the dogs, so they had sent their eldest off to see what it was.

He had returned after having disappeared for a few days, with a layer of dirt covering him and with a different air about his countenance. Then when he started speaking nonsense, they grew worried the odd thing across the water had made him go barking mad! So they locked him away in the barn, trying to figure out what to do with him.

It was then, over the course of a few weeks, that they learned their son was possessed by a demon.

In the hopes of keeping this from...well everyone, they have let their connections and friends know that Ken is sick and they are looking for someone to help him in town. Which isn't a complete lie, they just haven't told anyone about what exactly that sickness is and that they hope the church holds the answers they need for their problem.

#srrp #srrpprofile

[shayarionhindi]

If you are a fan of sean lock then definitely click on this image and read this small article

Click Here 👇👇👇

#Sean lock #Sean Lock Quotes #Sean Lock Funny Jokes #Sean Lock Died news #Sean Lock news #Sean Lock biography

[universitybookstore]

Congratulations to the 2018 Pulitzer Prize Winners!

Fiction: Less by Andrew Sean Greer (Little, Brown and Co.)

History: The Gulf: The Making of an American Sea by Jack E. Smith (Liveright/W.W. Norton)

Nonfiction: Locking Up Our Own: Crime and Punishment in Black America by James Forman, Jr. (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux)

Biography: Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder by Caroline Fraser (Metropolitan Books)

Poetry: Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016 by Frank Bidard (Farrar, Strauss and Giroux)

Drama: The Cost of Living by Martyna Majok

#Pulitzer Prizes #Fiction #Less #Andrew Sean Greer #Little Brown #History #The Gulf #Jack E. Smith #Liveright #W. W. Norton #Nonfiction #Locking up our own #James Forman Jr. #Farrar Strauss and Giroux #Biography #Prairie Fires #Caroline Fraser #Poetry #Half-Light #Frank Bidart #Drama #The Cost of Living #Martyna Majok #2018

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Diodoros Vidalis AGE & BIRTH DATE. 28 & September 8th, 1992 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/Him SPECIES. Witch ( fire + healing ) OCCUPATION. Nurse Practitioner FACE CLAIM. Sean Teale

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death ) Delivered in the midst of a late Summer storm, the night that Diodoros was born, his mother Anastasia was plagued with visions of a God wading in from the sea. Electric blue eyes splintered the tide as the babe he carried wailed over the crash and boom of the storm. When she awoke, a newborn had been abandoned on her doorstep. The witch was young, still only in her mid-twenties and next in line to inherit the mantle as leader of the Delphi; she did not question that the Gods had willed this child into her arms for a reason, for even then she could sense the quiet bloom of magic that flourished within him.

Duly named as a child of Zeus, Diodoros was a colicky baby, inconsolable to anyone. He refused feedings from his wet nurse, his tiny fists would push and shove at anyone who tried to hold him, and all through the night he would wail and wail from his bedroom. That is, until. Anastasia would take him into her arms. She soothed him, sang to him, he was a true son of Greece and had the temperament to go along with it.

As he grew, so did Diodoros’s temper ease, the fire that burned in his belly quelled as Anastasia taught him to channel his discontent towards passion. Without a doubt, the oracle who would one-day take over the coven was powerful, and respected, from a long line of women who could trace their roots back to the Delos of antiquity. There was a warmth that Dio exuded, a power that came through touch alone; he eased other’s pain, their troubled mind, their aching spine. Diodoros’s fiery temperament brought with it a warmth and understanding, a presence that could reassure most anyone.

As Diodoros grew, so too did the expectations that rested on his shoulders, Anastasia too was being groomed to take over her mother as leader of the Delphi, and as a result the woman had less and less time to oversee his training. Gradually, this fell onto the shoulders of others, the coven’s healer, fellow witches, family, and friends. Anastasia was not the mother to give praise often, but it was in the way she guided his hands, how she corrected his spell craft, her airy nature fanned the flames of his witchcraft and as he felt the woman around him, Diodoros never questioned that she was always meant to be his mother.

To the human world the Delphi coven, and Vidalis family was clearly incredibly well off, maybe a bit odd considering the breadth and size of the mostly-adopted family. But to Diodoros the Delphi was always home, in public school he was the subject of teasing, while he did fine at sports, and it was easy for him to make friends, Dio’s preference was to stay bent over some  book. He had high aspirations for his magic, and the expectations that came along with the Vidalis name were sublime. His presence was relaxing, his touch soothed pain, and for this Diodoros began to realize that finding out who truly liked him was difficult.

After high school Diodoros wanted to make use of his magic and went into the medical field; nursing was a natural calling for him, though parlaying from the emergency room into the locked wards of Corinth’s psychiatric field was more unexpected of the Vidalis, by the time he was ready to graduate university for the final time, healing the physical body was a skill he had now mastered. Instead, Diodoros focused on the fractured minds of some of Corinth’s most vulnerable, while many cases were too far gone, he could at least ensure that their state did not degenerate any further.

Diodoros dove head first into work, though it was not long after he found his calling that the Delphi summoned him to fill the role that Anastasia had long laid out for him. His predecessor and former mentor at last passed on and left a void in the coven’s healer position, between his responsibilities to the coven, and his job at the hospital, Diodoros is stretched thin. Intimately familiar with at least one of the members of the Argos, prior to Katerina’s death, Diodoros suffered his own loss because of it. News of Katerina’s death only broke his heart that much more, for he knew what she meant not only to the Argos, but to Anastasia as well. He hopes now that those who remain are still well and wishes desperately to mend the rift that her death and the recent events within the city have left not only on Corinth, but Anastasia as well. 

PERSONALITY

+ altruistic, hardworking, dependable - self-sabotaging, cautious, finicky

PLAYED BY SHANE. EST. He/Him.

#male #witch #sean teale #diodoros vidalis #taken

[elizasvintagemoviesblog]

Dirk Bogarde: Denial and daring...a star with a secret never told

https://static.independent.co.uk/s3fs-public/thumbnails/image/2011/07/16/16/624945.bin?w968

David Benedict on an actor, soon to be celebrated at the BFI, who let his choice of roles do the talking

Sunday 17 July 2011 

Hot Hollywood agent Diane is in crisis: her cute movie star client Mitchell is on the rise, on magazine covers and, to her horror, on the brink of coming out. It's time for straight-talking. "Are you British? Do you have a knighthood? If not, shut up!"

The laugh that gets in Douglas Carter Beane's 2006 play The Little Dog Laughed reveals its truth. Take Sir Ian McKellen and Rupert Everett out of the picture and now try naming another out gay male movie star. You can't? That's because there aren't any. None. With secrecy and the fear of discovery still engulfing gay actors in 2011, is it any wonder that the career – and life – of the entirely closeted Dirk Bogarde was a conundrum and a contradiction?

A seriously handsome, bona fide star who had made 35 films by the age of 40, Bogarde was both British and knighted and made more arrestingly bold choices than any actor of his generation, taking name-above-the-title roles in The Servant and Accident with Joseph Losey, Death in Venice and The Damned for Luchino Visconti, The Night Porter for Liliana Cavani, Providence for Alain Resnais and Despair for Rainer Werner Fassbinder. All that from a man who as early as 1958 was the biggest draw at the British box office – pulling bigger audiences than Marlon Brando, Marilyn Monroe, Frank Sinatra, Audrey Hepburn and Elvis Presley.

In addition, by the time of his death, in 1999, he had reinvented himself. He published six novels, plus collections of correspondence and criticism, and, crucially, seven best-selling volumes of memoirs throughout which he staunchly claimed to be straight. Actress Glynis Johns, a contemporary most famous as the suffragette mother in Mary Poppins, tartly observed, "I never believed more than one sentence of what Dirk wrote." She should know: she was once married to Tony Forwood who had divorced her and subsequently lived with Bogarde as his "manager" for almost 40 years.

Bogarde's position was, initially, understandable. Born in 1921, for his first 46 years homosexuality was against the law. Any man caught in "homosexual acts" faced imprisonment. That prohibition was ruthlessly policed. In 1955, 2,504 men were arrested for "homosexual offences", ie, about seven people every day. Even Ian McKellen, 18 years younger, didn't come out until 1988, when he was 49. Bogarde never did.

Although fully entitled to privacy, his blanket denials on television, radio and in print post-1967 legalisation became, for me, increasingly hard to stomach. Posthumously, the man behind the painstakingly maintained mask was uncovered in home movies and commentaries from family and friends in a BBC documentary The Private Dirk Bogarde (2001) and John Coldstream's biography. The great irony of Bogarde's position, however, is that no other screen actor has given such affecting and extraordinarily powerful gay performances.

Even now, the industry regards playing gay as being potentially career-damaging, an act so "brave" that your Oscar virtually comes with the contract – step forward William Hurt for Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1985), Tom Hanks for Philadelphia (1993), Philip Seymour Hoffman for Capote (2005), Sean Penn for Milk (2008). Probably the only reason Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal didn't win for Brokeback Mountain was that their dual presence cancelled one another out.

Regardless of the authenticity – or lack thereof – of those performances by straight actors, they pale beside the still astonishing impact of Bogarde's shockingly truthful performance back in 1961 as a barrister embroiled in a secret gay affair in Victim.

Bogarde plays married barrister Melville Farr who discovers that a blackmailed young man who loved him has hanged himself in police custody rather than reveal their relationship. Realising Farr's intention to uncover the plot, the blackmailers threaten to expose him. In the central scene – whose dialogue was rewritten to more explicit effect by Bogarde himself – Farr is confronted by his distressed wife (played by Sylvia Syms).

Shot in high-contrast black-and-white, edged with the darkness of a sitting-room at night but trapped in a fierce spotlight, Bogarde is mesmerising. Crisply suited, dry-voiced and on the edge of tears, he painfully stifles the emotion threatening to destroy him. With the camera locked in close-up, he lifts his chin ever so slightly in defiance, his eyes widening into a glare of triumph that costs him everything.

"You won't be content until I tell you, will you, until you've ripped it out of me. I stopped seeing him because I wanted him. Can you understand – because I WANTED him."

I can still remember being transfixed – and terrified – by that moment when I first saw it by accident on television one night. It was the 1970s, I was a guilt-ridden, fiercely closeted teenager and I had never, ever seen or heard a man on screen or off express such piercing desire for another man. I felt physically torn between an absolute need to keep watching and the cramping fear that my parents would come in and instantly understand why I was watching something so incriminating.

Bogarde always maintained that the camera photographed thought. Nowhere is that more true than in that scene. It wasn't just this teenager who recognised the staggering truth behind that performance and its implications for the actor.

In a television interview to promote the film, he was asked the not-so-veiled question: "You must feel very strongly about this subject to risk losing possibly a large part of your audience by appearing in such a bitterly controversial film?"

With manufactured insouciance, Bogarde counters, "I don't think so, no. This is a marvellous part and in a film I think is tremendously important because it doesn't pull any punches: it's quite honest. I don't have to use any old tricks for the fans, it's a straightforward character performance."

Necessarily disingenuous as that was, in hindsight it's also seriously unconvincing due to his immensely camp "who me?" manner, his left eyebrow arched, his fingers playing with his ear and chin.

Being able to pinpoint a scene that changed a career is rare, but that's what that Victim scene did. And having just engineered his release from his constraining 14-year-old contract with the Rank Organisation, Bogarde accelerated to an international reputation taking on increasingly complex roles with adventurous directors. Contrarily, the finest of those performances were in roles amplifying his hidden sexuality.

He was memorably viscous as the vicious Barrett, the manservant manipulating imperilled, upper-class James Fox into sex-and-power games in Losey's superbly elliptical (and Pinter-scripted) The Servant. And, in 1971, he crowned his career with Death in Venice, playing a man who falls fatally in love with the ideal of beauty exemplified by a beautiful boy. With almost no dialogue, the film amounts to a 125-minute reaction shot. As casting director Michelle Guish observed of Helen Mirren the day after the first Prime Suspect aired, no other British actor could have played that role that well because no one else had that depth of screen experience.

Was it arrogance that pushed the controlled Bogarde to the brink of self-exposure in this and other defining roles? He destroyed almost all of his personal papers, so we'll never know. Whatever conclusion we try to draw, the screen evidence survives.

'He Who Dared', a two-month Dirk Bogarde retrospective, begins at the BFI Southbank on 3 Aug

source: independent

#DB #Dirk Bogarde #a charming man #article #vintage collection

[misshoneybee]

⟣ 𝑊𝐸 𝐿𝐸𝐴𝑅𝑁 𝑇𝑂 𝐿𝐼𝑉𝐸 𝑊𝐼𝑇𝐻 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑃𝐴𝐼𝑁 ⟢

— 𝑉𝐼𝐼𝐼. 𝐼𝐹 𝑂𝑁𝐸 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐻𝐴𝐷 𝐵𝐸𝐸𝑁 𝐷𝐼𝐹𝐹𝐸𝑅𝐸𝑁𝑇, 𝑊𝑂𝑈𝐿𝐷 𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐵𝐸 𝐷𝐼𝐹𝐹𝐸𝑅𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝑇𝑂𝐷𝐴𝑌?

Masterpost — OFC Biography — Playlists — Chapter VII — Chapter IX

❧ Pairings | Post-Infinity War!Steve Rogers x Original Female Character, Minor Original Male Character x Original Female Character

❧ Warnings | Mature content, explicit language, canon-typical violence/injury, themes of mental illness (depression, anxiety, ocd, ptsd), light sexual content (between two original characters!)

❧ Wordcount | ~7.8k

❧ Disclaimer | Dividers are by firefly-graphics. If you are a minor, or do not have your age in your bio, and I catch you interacting with this, you will be blocked. If you believe you were blocked unfairly, send me an ask with your url.

And if you wanted me, you really should've showed, And if you never bleed, you're never gonna grow, And it's alright now ( The 1 | Folklore )

March 23, 2019

'What the fuck was his name?’

Maggie usually didn’t make it a habit to learn the names of Poppy’s paramours. It wasn’t a malicious thing, but there was typically little need to remember them because she’d probably never see them again. Her biochemist best friend was constantly on the move and, ever the social butterfly, easily found connections across the globe. She’d met an assortment of the men and women that Poppy had dated over the years, but this was the first time she’d seen her best friend seeking out something more than a partner for just the evening or weekend.

The bubbly blonde had called earlier in the week and coyly inquired about setting up a double date with Maggie and her new beau. In a stroke of luck with everyone’s schedules aligning, they’d found themselves at a quiet, gastropub on a Friday night. Ben’s arm rested comfortably around Maggie as she leaned into him, listening to the conversation bouncing between the three scientists as she tried fruitlessly to recount the aerospace engineer’s name.

‘Shane? Sean—No, Seth! Yes, okay. All clear.’

“Mags, ladies’ room?” Poppy slowly stood from the small booth and nodded towards the back corner of the dimly lit bar. “Then we can head out!”

“Be right back.” She pressed a kiss to Ben’s scruffy cheek before standing and locking arms with Poppy. The tittering, waningly tipsy women made their way to the powder room but as soon as the door closed, Poppy rounded on Maggie.

“What do you think?” Her emerald eyes burned with anticipation and Maggie could swear that she was all but vibrating with her excitement.

“He’s cute, Pops!” She couldn’t help but smile at her eager friend’s enthusiasm as she approached the sinks.

“Right? He’s got that sort of,” Poppy paused, thinking as she leaned against the wall beside the mirror in which Maggie was touching up her lip color, “Quiet but really fucking hot thing going on and he’s just so brilliant and—ugh.” Poppy cut herself off with a groan, closing her eyes as she tilted her head back to rest against the exposed brick wall.

“Just your type then, hm?” Maggie grinned teasingly, slipping the lipstick back into her bag. Seth was unlike any ex-lover of Poppy’s that Maggie had met before. His reserved, sarcastic nature was a huge departure from her best friend’s typical type: big-hearted, social butterfly jocks that dabbled in academia. She also couldn’t ignore that the cool, collectedness that he gave off was no match for the energy of Hurricane Poppy.

The new couples idly chatted as they walked down the block to the subway stop that would take Poppy and Seth back to his apartment in Williamsburg. As they waited for the train, Maggie shifted uncomfortably as she listened to the hollow echoes that bounced around the terminal. The city that never slept had fallen into a deep hibernation over the past year. When she was in college, she could recall the train stops being packed at this time of night with everyone having to squeeze on to the trains like sardines in a can. Now, there were only a handful of people sprinkled across the quiet platform just waiting to be taken to their new destination.

She heard the train before she saw it; the cars flew into the tunnel sending a strong gust of wind across the stationary passengers as it slowly came to a stop before them. Maggie wrapped her arms around her taller friend tightly as she murmured, “Love you. Tell me when you’re home!”

“Love you too.” Poppy squeezed her back before releasing her and pulling Seth towards the doors that had slid open. She called over her shoulder, “And you text me when you get home.”

“Just check the ‘find your friend’ thing that you made me turn on!” Maggie whined, stepping back from the painted line on the ground. While she was always adamant that Poppy let her know when she was home safely, she tended to forget to do the same.

“You wouldn’t have had to turn it on, if you’d just learn to use your phone!” Poppy laughed, speaking quickly before the sliding doors closed and formed a barrier between the two friends. Maggie rolled her eyes good-naturedly as Poppy made a face at the sassy response.

With one last wave, Maggie watched as the blonde and her new boyfriend were swiftly swept away with the rest of the commuters. Ben stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, his chin on her shoulder as they watched them leave and suddenly the platform was empty again and they were alone, save for a few stragglers.

“Ready?” His deep voice murmured in her ear before he pressed a soft kiss to her neck. Maggie let out a quiet giggle as his stubble tickled against her soft skin, humming a soft affirmation to his question. He unwound his arms from her waist and laced their fingers together as they ascended the stairs back to street-level. Thankfully, the small and slightly pretentious spot where they’d met for drinks had only been a few blocks from Ben’s townhouse.

When she’d parallel parked in front of the building earlier that afternoon, she saw Ben leaning against the brick-wall as he awaited her arrival. They spoke several times a day, but their work schedules hadn’t exactly allowed the new pair to see each other in person during the week. Ben opened his arms as she approached, and she happily stepped into his embrace that she’d quickly become accustomed.

“I missed you.” He’d murmured against her lips, pulling her body closer to his.

“I just talked to you last night!” She had laughed softly, leaning back to look at him with a brow raised in amusement.

“Yeah, but I can’t do this over the phone.” Ben’s impossibly wide grin had grown larger as he leaned back down to find her lips again.

After the two had parted, several minutes and catcalls later, Maggie finally had a chance to look at his home. She’d only seen bits and pieces of the inside as they facetimed but in person, the historic building was breathtaking. With ivy sprawling across the brick, there were ornate designs and swirls that had been carved into the stone meticulously beside a heavy, oak door that separated the living space from the outside world.

As they arrived in front of the familiar wooden door once more, he gave a theatrically sad sigh as he pulled her close. After a moment, she heard him mumble into her hair, “Are you sure you want to drive back tonight?”

“I have to get home.” She let out a laugh as he clung to her even tighter at her statement. “I don’t have an overnight bag with me!”

Ben huffed, feigning thoughtfulness as he pulled back to inspect her face, “Well, as a doctor, it’s my professional opinion that you may be slightly inebriated. So, may I suggest eight hours of sleep? Preferably under a doctor’s supervision.”

“Any doctor or just you?” Maggie raised an arched eyebrow while hiding a smile as she played along with his game.

His voice was low as he murmured softly into her ear before pressing a kiss to the spot beneath it that made her feel dizzy with want, “Stay the night with me.”

With her forehead pressed to his shoulder, he couldn’t see her eyes go wide but he felt the breath catch in her chest at his suggestion. It had been two weeks since they began seeing one another and things had been going well but, aside from several, very touchy, make out sessions in the car, nothing physical had happened between the couple. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, but the timing hadn’t been right. Neither had slept over at the other’s place and it was hard to get their schedules worked out when they could only see one another on weekends.

Maggie hesitated before she pulled back to meet his eyes, “I want to… just not yet.”

He was quick to follow-up, not wanting to pressure her or make her feel like he wanted anything less than a relationship. He was all in. “Babe,” Maggie wasn’t sure if she liked the pet-name yet, “you could just sleep here. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I don’t want you to—”

“I know.” She cut him off, brushing a hand over the side of his face with a half-smile. Of course, she didn’t expect anything less from him; she knew he wasn’t a short-term relationship type of guy and he’d told her as much on their first date. “But don’t you have a flight you need to catch tomorrow?”

Ben groaned, leaning back against the wall but keeping her tight in his arms. He’d been contacted by his alma mater to do a guest lecture series and he was due to fly out of La Guardia early the next morning. “For two weeks. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Of course, you can. Go shape the minds of tomorrow or whatever.” Maggie slipped her arms back around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest as she worried her bottom lip. Her voice was soft as she suggested, “What about when you come home, we have a date night in…and I’ll stay the night.”

He looked down at her, his wide eye gaze searching her face for any uncertainty. “Are you sure? Because we don’t—”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Her golden eyes glimmered with amusement at his cautious excitement, “Unless…you don’t want to?”

“No!” Ben’s voice was a little too loud, and he chuckled before speaking again at a lower volume as he leaned down to her once more, “I very much want to.”

“Good.” She beamed, standing on her toes to press one last kiss to his lips; she threaded her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until they both needed to part for air once again.

“Good.” He repeated with a hazy, enamored look in his gaze as she pulled away.

It was past midnight when Maggie finally arrived home, slipping off her heels in the elevator to avoid waking Steve or Nat as she stealthily moved through the apartment. After her year in residence, she’d come to know everything about the space. She knew what temperature to set her room at so it would be a comfortable level of cool, she knew that the third stool behind the counter had a wobbly leg, and she knew which floorboards creaked if they were stepped on just right.

“Fuck.” She hissed as the elevator let out a loud ding when the car arrived at the floor, shattering the silence that had fallen across the home. She hadn’t accounted for that.

“Someone’s home late.” A deep voice floated from the dimly lit armchair in the corner of the living room.

“Dammit, Steve!” Maggie flinched before letting out a short laugh, her hand coming to rest over her pounding heart. She hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this hour, especially Steve. He was typically in bed just after ten and had a firm alarm set for five every single morning. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry.” He chuckled, sliding a pair of black reading glasses from his face. She couldn’t help but smile at the endearing accessory as he rubbed his tired eyes before looking back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Someone looks happy. Good night?”

“Yeah,” Maggie looked down with a bashful smile, playing with the tassel on her handbag as she nodded, “Really good.” She set her shoes beside the door, hanging her keys on one of the small hooks on the hall tree. “What are you still doing up anyway?”

“Reading.” He raised the open manila folder that rested on his lap.

“Anything good?” She stretched her arms high above her head, speaking through a yawn.

“Just some reports that Okoye sent over.” He closed the file with a shrug.

She exhaled a quiet laugh, “Doesn’t really sound like a great bedtime story.”

“No, I guess not.” Steve gave her a half smile. He had to admit, she really did look happy. He’d hear her giggle on the phone or see her smile down at texts throughout the week; she had a new lightness in her step like she was walking on air.

“Well, don’t stay up too late.” She gave him a playfully reprimanding look and nodded at the papers before taking a few steps back towards the hall. She was exhausted and sleep’s siren call was more than alluring.

“Night, Maggie.”

“Night, Stevie.” She called over her shoulder as she turned, making her way down the hall to her room. As the door clicked shut, Steve reached up and flicked the switch on the lamp, sending the living room into complete darkness before making his way quietly to his own room.

April 12, 2019

“You never told me you could cook.” Maggie was tucked into Ben’s side as they absentmindedly listened to the quiet chatter floating from the television. Like they had planned, he’d come home from his stint at lecturing, and it was the first time she was staying the night in his townhouse.

When Maggie had made a move to plan the date, Ben had said he’d take care of everything again and once more, she allowed him to. She had simply assumed that they’d order in and have a quiet night together; she hadn’t expected to arrive and find her boyfriend in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a paella as he garnished it with thin slices of lemon and a sprinkling of chopped, verdant parsley as she carried the wine into the kitchen.

“I am a man of many talents.” He chuckled, looking down and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Oh, are you?” Maggie raised an eyebrow suggestively, turning her body to face his as they rested on the couch.

“I’d like to think so.” With a nonchalant shrug, he grinned at her inquisition.

Slowly, she slid one leg over his, straddling his lap and threading her arms around his neck as the stiff denim of his jeans scraped against her bare thighs. Her tight skirt rode up higher, revealing more skin that he’d not yet seen as her knees pressed into the couch. Her eyes didn’t leave his as her fingers softly played with the ends of his short, dark hair at the nape of his neck. His hands quickly found purchase on her hips as she leaned in, her lips almost brushing his as the sweet, deep amber scent of her perfume invaded his senses.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Maggie whispered softly against his lips before capturing them in a kiss; her lips danced with his, lingering for just a moment before pulling back teasingly but staying close.

She could feel his breath on her mouth when he spoke, his deep voice just slightly thicker, “That’s…a great idea.”

Ben’s lips landed on the corner of her mouth before slowly trailing down her neck and to her flushed décolleté where they were stopped by the plunging neckline of her top and she let out a quiet whimper as he pulled away for a moment. Their caramel eyes met and had a silent conversation; as she nodded, she quickly felt the hands on her hips gathering the silky, champagne fabric of her top and pushing it up. She raised her arms and allowed him to pull it off before tossing it somewhere behind her.

She knew what tonight would lead to and Maggie would have been remiss to not plan ahead. She was nothing if not prepared. Before getting ready that evening, she’d shuffled through the items in her lingerie drawer; the silk and lace pieces hadn’t been touched in well over a year and after some time debating, she’d settled on a deep navy matching set. Simple and sexy without seeming like she was trying too hard. Ben’s eyes landed on the fabric that was contoured to the creamy, pale skin of her breasts, “Fuck, babe.”

He leaned back on the couch, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. She could feel a hardness growing against her thigh and she playfully wiggled her hips causing a groan to come from deep within his chest. Letting out a quiet giggle, she trailed her hands from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt before pressing her lips back to his and mumbling, “That’s kind of the goal, Ben.”

Her dexterous fingers made quick work of the tortoiseshell buttons that secured the article of clothing before pushing it from his shoulders. He leaned forward, careful to hold her close as he pulled it off and balled it up, sending it off in the same direction as her’s.

“You sure about this?” His forehead rested against her’s as he pulled her closer.

“Yes.” Her voice, though resolute, was more breathless than she’d anticipated. Her body felt like a live wire; each touch and brush of his hands and lips sent a jolt of excitement through her. Pressing one last kiss to his lips, she stood, lacing their fingers, and pulling him to stand before slipping her arms around his neck once more. “I want you, Ben.”

At her words, he grinned and lifted her easily; she wrapped her legs around his hips before locking them behind the small of his back with a giggle. She leaned in, finding his lips as he carried her across the floor to his room, silently grateful they’d already made their way upstairs after dinner. He let out a moan as she nipped his ear before her mouth slowly descended to his stubbly jawline.

Using one of his arms to brace himself, Ben gently laid her down on the soft, pillowy duvet that was tucked on the bed as she finally ended the assault on his neck. As she lay beneath him, her arms fell from around his neck to above her head on his pillows, her curls splayed around her head like a dark halo. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

Her face flushed to match the red blush that had spread across her body in want as her knees fell apart further, allowing his body to rest between them comfortably. “Ben, please.” Her voice was little more than a breathy whisper before she leaned back up to catch his lips once more.

She arched her back, pressing her chest into his touch as a warm hand found her breast. His lips trailing from her lips to just above the fabric. Her voice was almost a whine by the time she got the word out, “Off.”

He made quick work of the hooks and easily unclasped it allowing him to finally see her bared before him. She couldn’t help the way she shifted her hips searching for friction as his eyes turned darker. Maggie let out a low moan as he gently rolled a dusky pink, peak between his finger, his lips following in suit as her fingers gently dragged through his short hair.

His fingers trailed between the apex of her thighs gently over the small spot of wet heat that had begun to soak through. As he brushed his finger up and down her covered slit, she bit her lower lip, rolling her hips and searching for any kind of friction she could find.

“Take them off?” She whispered, her eyes not straying from his. He nodded with a crooked smile, unzipping her skirt, and sliding it off before slipping his fingers beneath the elastic of the navy lace. His large hands slid back up her legs, grazing softly up her calves and beneath her knees before moving to her inner thighs and spreading them wider.

She allowed herself to fall back on to the pillows, her fingers clutching the soft sheets, wrinkling them, but she couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything aside from his touch. As his thumb brushed up her slit to collect some of her wetness, he ghosted it against her bundle of nerves. She whimpered and bit her lower lip, trying to stifle the sound as her hips gave a sharp jerk at the stimulation. Quickly, she rolled on top of him and allowed her legs to straddle his hips, giggling at his surprised expression at their change in position.

At some point on their journey across the apartment, he’d shed his jeans and was only left in a pair of boxers with a sizable bulge as he stared up at her with a hazy grin. With their cores pressed together, she couldn’t help but teasingly roll her hips against his, slowly back and forth against his hardness. His hands drifted up and down her sides before wrapping around her tightly, a wide hand on her back pulling her back down and pressing their bodies together. Her forehead was pressed against his shoulder watching as one of her hands trailed down his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, down his stomach and dipping gently beneath his waistband causing his breath to catch in his throat before a deep groan passed through his lips. “Fuck, Maggie. I want you.”

She couldn’t keep the smirk from her swollen lips at seeing him just a little bit desperate for her; it made her feel powerful. She was in control now. Maggie nipped his ear softly before murmuring into it. Her sultry voice was low as she prompted him teasingly, “Then take me.”

The sound of dishes clinking roused Maggie from her sleep, and she let out a soft sigh as she burrowed deeper into the blankets that surrounded her. Before she could drift back off, the bedroom door opened quietly, and she cracked an eye open to see Ben carefully carrying a tray into the room. Seeing her gaze follow him, he sat the tray beside her before kneeling on the plush mattress and leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her lips, “Good morning, beautiful.”

“Morning.” Her face was flushed as she sat up, keeping the sheet tucked tightly around herself as she crisscrossed her legs. Despite being clad in one of his shirts that fell to her thighs and a pair of cheeky panties, she couldn’t help but still feel incredibly exposed.

Ben wore almost less than she did; a pair of plaid pajama pants were slung low around his waist and his torso was bare aside from the small smattering of hair across his chest. He returned to the spot that he’d vacated before she woke and easily pulled her back into his side before pressing another kiss to her temple and murmuring, “I brought breakfast.”

At his words, she finally looked at the tray that he’d prepared with a spread of pancakes, various fruits, and coffee. She let out a quiet moan as the pungent, bitter scent of the brewed gold finally reached her nose; she picked up the warm mug and slowly lifted it to her lips as she shook her head with a fond smile. “How are you even real?”

May 10, 2019

“Maggie, I told you—”

“I know, Steve!” Maggie spat, annoyance seeping into her words as her cheek pressed against the mat. She was flat to the ground, her arm twisted and pinned behind her back, held in place by Steve as he kneeled beside her. When she’d come at him just seconds before, he easily flipped her over his arm and to the floor as if she were just a rag doll to be tossed around. “I fucking know. I’m supposed to fight offense instead of defense.”

It was the first time in more than a month that he was subbing in for Natasha during an early morning training session. Maggie had come a long way in the past year and Nat had approached the topic of her beginning to train with Steve once a week so she could have a more integrated fighting style. The younger woman had quickly agreed to the proposal; she hadn’t spent a lot of time with Steve lately and, truthfully, she missed their friendship.

There was something absent in her days without his fun banter or the stories he’d share but as soon as she’d come in with her bag slung over her shoulder, she could tell that he wasn’t in the best mood. The three, ripped punching bags leaning against the wall told her as much. His tone was flat and his responses were curt; even when she had tried to banter with him, he cut the conversation short and would only talk about the activity at hand.

“Your head isn’t in it.” He released her arm from behind her back, hopping up to stand and offering her a hand which she pointedly ignored with a venomous look as she pushed herself off of the floor. He shrugged it off before taking several steps back, spreading his arms and leaving himself open for her assault. “Go again.”

Steve may have been bigger than Maggie, but her small frame and speed made it easy to dodge his punches and subvert his efforts to grab her. With Natasha, she’d begun ballet lessons again several months earlier. The discipline came secondary to the agility and grace that it had afforded her. Over time, she’d come to learn her strengths and weaknesses when it came to fighting. While she didn’t throw the hardest punches, her legs and flexibility had easily become her most useful tools.

Maggie swiftly slipped behind him and wrapped one of her arms under his own, forcing his arm out to the side. He let out a grunt as he reached around with the opposite arm and effortlessly got it around her waist. She knew that if he got her body in front of his, she was as good as done and she’d be pinned in seconds. He had said to fight offense and so she did, not bothering to wait to see his next move.

She was fighting to win now.

Using his shoulder as leverage, she swung a leg up and wrapped it behind his neck, squeezing tightly to keep her body in the air. Using her momentum to swing herself around, she quickly switched legs and used the other to force his neck forward. As he came down, she pulled his body and he fell with the motion, flipping over her leg and to the ground with a grunt as she landed in a crouch beside him, her knee pinning his arm in the crook of his elbow.

“You can’t do the same kind of moves every time.” Steve’s tone was irritated, and it was then that Maggie decided she’d had finally had enough for the day.

It wasn’t even eight in the morning and he was driving her nuts.

She came to stand, not bothering with good sportsmanship and offering him a hand as they usually did, before turning on her heel and going to her bag. She shrugged exasperatedly, “Then tell Nat to teach me something else or do it yourself.” The alarm on her phone chimed as she heard him get to his feet; she was silently grateful for the excuse to finally leave the tense environment. “I have to go to work.”

She removed the wraps from her hand more aggressively than she meant to, rolling them, and shoving them deep into the recesses of her bag in silence. As Natasha came through the doors, she raised an eyebrow at Maggie’s obviously less-than-chipper attitude and Steve’s silent indifference. When she set the training session up, she hadn’t expected it to devolve into an actual fight between the friends.

“See you.” Steve called at her back, busying himself with hanging another, not yet punctured, punching bag from its stand.

“I’ll be back Monday.” Maggie’s response was terse as she carried her bag to the door, keeping her back straight and head high and refusing to turn around. It was a game of chicken that she wouldn’t lose. If he wanted to be a stubborn ass, she did too.

As she came to pass the other woman, Maggie caught her hand and pulled her along. Natasha allowed herself to be dragged back through the door that she’d just entered with only a raised eyebrow. It closed with a firm click, separating Steve from the two women, but Maggie kept her voice quiet as she hissed, “I don’t know what crawled up his ass and died today but just know that he’s,” She jabbed a finger in the direction of the door, “fucking grumpy. He’s in rare form and I don’t know why!”

“I’ll deal with it.” Natasha had a sneaking suspicion that she knew the exact reason that Steve was acting like a jerk. It would come as a surprise to many, but she knew better than most that America’s golden boy wasn’t always the best at regulating his emotions.

Maggie squeezed her hand before dropping it as her second alarm sounded, louder than the first. She grabbed her phone to silence the noise and couldn’t help but smile at the text she’d received while training. When she looked up, she spotted the knowing expression on her friend’s face and rolled her eyes as she took several steps backwards, “I’m staying with Ben this weekend—I’ll be back Monday!”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Nat nodded to her, a faux-serious expression on her face.

“Good to know nothing’s off the table then.” Maggie’s toothy grin widened as she wiggled her eyebrows back at her friend.

“Brat.” She called loudly as Maggie turned the corner.

“Love you!” Maggie peeked back around the wall to see her opening the doors to the gym. Truthfully, Natasha had become one of her closest friends over the past year and she’d carved out a special place in Maggie’s life. While Nat was initially a workout friend, she soon became more: a confidant, an advice-giver, a reality check. She had grown to love the woman like a long-lost sister.

The blonde’s expression softened slightly and the corners of her lips ticked up into a smile as she felt her heart warm at the younger woman’s words. Giving an exhale of a laugh, she looked back at Maggie over her shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. You too.”

As Natasha made her way back into the gym, she watched as Steve beat the unsuspecting punching bag with more pent-up aggression than she’d seen in months; not since they’d been on the run together. Walking past him to make her way to one of the treadmills so she could begin to warm up, she slugged him in the shoulder as hard as she could. The super soldier could easily stand the short sting it gave him.

She gave Steve an exasperated look as he wheeled around to look at the short woman, his eyes bewildered at her assault, “What the—”

Natasha cut him off, not even bothering to allow him to ask the question. Her voice was firm as she climbed on the machine, setting her speed as she watched him, pointing a finger at him warningly, “You need to figure your shit out, Rogers.”

“What did I do!?” He demanded, his face still puzzled.

“You know exactly what you did.” At his dumbfounded expression, she rolled her eyes in annoyance. It seemed as though she was going to have to spell it out for him. “You can’t be mad at her for moving on!” She pointed at the door through which Maggie had left and his chastised expression told her that he already knew what she was saying.

“I’m not mad at her!”

She pressed on, despite his interruption, “You are the one who wouldn’t step up and just tell her how you felt, like I fucking told you to, so you need to deal with this before—”

“I know!” He gave a forceful blow to the punching back, breaking it from its chain as it fell to the floor with a hard thud. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at the broken piece of equipment. He sighed, his voice softening, “Trust me, Nat. I know.”

“Then why are you being such a hard ass?” Natasha wouldn’t let the topic rest until she got to the bottom of it; she couldn’t help but want to protect her friend. As they’d gotten to know one another, some of Maggie’s quips and actions had begun to remind Natasha of her younger sister. It only made the urge to keep her safe even stronger. She knew that Steve wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt Maggie, but Natasha had never seen her so irritated by the man who used to put sparkling hearts in her eyes.

“I’m not mad at her.” Steve insisted before going quiet for a moment. He truly wasn’t. He had seen how happy she’d been in the past months, and he was glad that she was, but there was a part of him that silently resented the man he’d met months earlier. He knew that he didn’t have a right to be upset with her, “I just—I’m mad at myself. If I’d just told her…”

“You wouldn’t have to see her happy with someone else.” Natasha finished for him, nodding slowly as the pieces came together. It made sense that he was jealous; the pair had danced around one another for a year before Maggie had finally broken away and taken a step forward. Neither could blame her.

“Yeah.” He swallowed the lump of emotions that had gotten caught in his throat as he looked down at his hands while unwrapping them, stretching his sore knuckles and squeezing his fingers to regain some blood flow. “Look, I’ll dial it back. But, for what it’s worth, I’m happy for her. Really.” He nodded, still not looking up at his friend lest his expression betray his quiet melancholy.

“Good.” Natasha gave a short nod, pleased that the confrontation had proved to be somewhat fruitful. She couldn’t ignore the nagging need to ask her last question and, after several moments, she spoke again. “But, are you,” Nat huffed, searching for a way to phrase it as delicately as possible without sending him running from the conversation, “still having feelings?” She said the final word like it was something to be weary of.

They both knew why she was asking.

Was he still carrying a burning torch for their mutual friend? Was he going to try and sabotage the delicate, new relationship that Maggie had cautiously built? Steve wasn’t that kind of guy but Natasha, of all people, knew that love (or any of its precursors) could cause somebody to act irrationally. He was silent for several seconds causing Natasha to finally look up to see if he’d even heard her question.

She couldn’t hide her frown when she finally spotted him sitting on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees and his head hung before he finally answered, “I’m trying not to.” He sighed before looking up at her with a sad smile gracing his tired, handsome features as he reiterated, “I’m really trying not to.” His voice was low, as if what he said next was a secret that he wanted to keep to himself, “But I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

“What are you doing up?” Maggie’s voice was quiet as she let her packed bag drop to the couch with a dull thud when she spotted Nat sitting at the kitchen counter.

The blonde turned, spoon in hand, backlit by the dim light above the stovetop with a tired smile, “Couldn’t sleep.” She gave Maggie a small shrug before digging the utensil back into the carton of ice cream that rested on the counter.

“Been there.” Maggie nodded understandingly as she padded into the kitchen to retrieve her own spoon. She definitely understood the inability to sleep although it had become easier since she’d hit rock bottom a year earlier. Occasionally, Maggie still had trouble falling asleep or waking up from nightmares, but she had to admit that time really had served to heal another wound. She leaned over the counter and scooped up some of the semi-melted confection.

“What are you doing home? I thought you were at Ben’s this weekend.” Natasha raised an arched brow at her friend, watching as her expression faltered.

“There was a really big apartment fire so he got called in to work.” Maggie shrugged, hopping up to sit on the counter and crossing her legs. The pair had been lying in bed together when Ben’s hospital pager began rapidly beeping before his phone started ringing off the hook. “He said I could stay at his place, but he didn’t know when he’d come back and it just felt weird to stay there by myself, you know?” The townhouse was too large for only her to comfortably inhabit it and, though they’d been dating for three months, it still felt like the relationship was too new for her to be alone at his home. She shook her head before giving Nat a small, tired smile and trying to make her voice sound less sad, “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve been home for the weekend!”

Natasha nodded, returning the smile before she raised another spoon of ice cream to her mouth, “Yeah, we’ve missed you.”

The plural pronoun didn’t escape Maggie’s notice. She knew that Nat was referring to herself and Steve although his behavior in training that morning hadn’t exactly expressed the same sentiment. He’d been ornery and short when they had interacted, and she almost felt as though she’d done something to upset him.

Maggie pushed the thought to the back of her mind and gave Natasha a genuine grin as she countered, “Did you miss me, or did you just miss pancake Sundays?”

Nat pursed her lips thoughtfully before shrugging, her voice humorously wistful, “Can’t it be both?”

June 1, 2019

“Chicago style pizza is an abomination!” Maggie cried, her nose scrunched in disgust at Ben’s insistence. They sat on the couches in the living room, the television playing music quietly as they chatted after dinner. Maggie had initially been nervous about having Ben over to hang out with Natasha and Steve, but the evening was going far better than she could have expected—or, as well as it could go as her boyfriend praised the inferior type of food as their boxes sat open and empty on the table between them.

Maggie pushed on, “That's not even pizza. It’s like a gross tomato pie.”

“She’s right.” Steve nodded towards Maggie in agreement. She preened at the support before sticking her tongue out at Ben.

“I think Russian pizza toppings may be worse than Chicago style.” Natasha pointed out, continuing after she received puzzled expressions from the other three, “Usually, it’s fish and onions.”

“Okay, that has to be worse than deep dish.” Ben countered, gesturing towards Natasha and giving his girlfriend an incredulous look.

Maggie and Steve looked at one another and had a silent conversation with their eyes. Since they’d begun training together again, their friendship had slowly been rebuilt and it seemed as though they were finally back on the same page. After a moment, Maggie finally shook her head before looking back to Ben with a frown, “Nope. Chicago style is still worse and furthermore, New York is superior. The crust is perfect,”

Steve chimed in, continuing, “and you can pick up the slice and eat it,”

Maggie nodded, continuing the thought without missing a single beat, “so you don’t have to use a fork—"

“Okay, fine! You win!” Ben tossed his hands up, sitting back in defeat as Maggie and Steve high fived with Cheshire cat grins. He chuckled, shaking his head; he had to admit that it was impossible to win against the argumentative pair. They were both incredibly stubborn.

“We should watch a movie.” Natasha cut in, looking away from the idle television screen.

Maggie and Steve’s eyes met for less than a second before their gazes averted. It wasn’t weird to watch movies with other people; it was a perfectly normal activity but Maggie couldn’t get rid of the slight nagging feeling. Maybe it was because of the location. They were sitting in the same room where she and Steve had had a plethora of deep conversations. She blanched; it was also the same room in which they’d kissed on New Year’s.

‘That would be off-putting to anyone,’ she told herself before standing and nodding down the hall, “Well, let’s use the screening room, at least. Tony put it in for a reason.”

“Sounds fun.” Ben stood, pressing a kiss to Maggie’s temple causing a warm smile to grow on her face as she squeezed his hand.

“Yeah, sounds good.” Steve gave a tight smile before looking away from the couple, “Anyone want anything?”

“Ooh—” Maggie’s eyes lit up, but Steve cut her off before she could give him her request.

“Half kettle corn, half buttered popcorn, and a glass of that white wine you like?” He raised an eyebrow with a knowing glint in his eye as he made his way into the kitchen.

She watched him with a warm, amused expression before she let out a soft laugh, “Yeah.” She shook her head at how easily he rattled off her preference, “Exactly that.”

Ben looked between the friends, and he felt a pull in the pit of his stomach. Jealousy? That didn’t make sense.

Of course, Steve would know what Maggie liked for a movie snack while he didn’t. It was just something that he hadn’t yet learned. It wasn’t like Ben and Maggie had spent much time lounging around the house together anyway. Their weekends were filled with the dates that he’d planned; museums, walks through central park, wineries, and a myriad of other things that New York still had to offer in the wake of change.

“Got it. You guys go pick the movie.” Steve nodded down the hall and got to work finding the bowls and glasses.

Maggie curled up on one of the couches as she let let Natasha and Ben decide on the feature film. Though they hadn’t watched a movie together in several months, she and Steve had made their way through most of the catalogue that they’d curated a year earlier. They settled on a new action-drama and Ben claimed the cushion beside Maggie. Reaching over, he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her towards him. She let out a squeak that turned to a laugh as Ben hummed in satisfaction, resting his chin on top of her head contentedly. “Dork.”

Steve hesitated, watching the tender interaction from the doorway before entering the room. He closed his eyes for a short moment as he heard her melodic laugh and he exhaled quietly before continuing in. Her smile widened when she caught sight of him approaching, “He comes bearing snacks!” She accepted the glass of wine before handing off the bowl of popcorn to Ben, her voice soft, “Thanks, Stevie.”

“Welcome, Mags.” He nodded with a small smile, ducking his head and finding a seat across the room as Natasha started the movie with a knowing look. He settled in, his hand gripping the brown, glass bottle tightly as he watched the opening credits.

Only two hours to go.

“You know, you're an awful movie watcher.” Maggie made eye contact with Ben, shaking her head with an amused smile as she folded the plush duvet down her bed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben raised an eyebrow, flipping the overhead light off as Maggie crawled into bed. He got in beside her, pulling the covers around them as she curled into his side, resting her head on his chest and sliding her arms around him.

“You kept talking and then asking me what you missed because you were talking!” Her shoulders shook with laughter, “You could totally avoid that whole issue by just paying attention to the movie to begin with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tilted his head down to look at her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Yeah, you better.” Maggie poked his nose and he let out a boisterous laugh before rolling on top of her, propping himself up on his elbows as he looked down at her. She raised an eyebrow, sliding her arms around his neck.

“I promise I will.” His voice was low before he pressed his lips to her’s, slowly trailing down her neck. Her skin flushed at the touch, a warmth growing in the pit of her stomach.

“Ben…” Her voice wavered; a part of her knew he was going to leave a mark on her neck and she shied away. Her eyes fluttering shut as she felt one of his hands drift up her side, pushing her shirt up below her chest. She heard the dull noise of a door shut somewhere in the apartment and her eyes shot open before murmuring reluctantly, “Ben, wait. Not here.”

“Why not?” He pulled back, brushing some hair from her face as he searched her eyes.

“I have roommates!” She shook her head, her eyes moving towards the locked door.

“You can just…” Ben trailed off before kissing her lips softly and pulling away with a raised brow, “be very quiet.”

“Not gonna happen, Casanova.” At that, Maggie pushed his body off her’s and curled on to her side, watching as he flopped back on to the bed in defeat.

“You win.” He grumbled, looking up at the ceiling with a reprimanded expression.

“As always.” She smiled, wiggling closer to him once more as she allowed her eyes to drift shut.

Ben chuckled, rubbing a hand down her arm softly, soothingly. They were silent for several moments and Maggie’s breathing had evened out as unconsciousness crept closer. He paused, brushing a finger over the long, shiny, raised pink line that stretched from her collarbone to shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Hm?” Maggie opened an eye as she felt him touch the scar; she hadn’t given much thought to the mark in several years. When she’d initially gotten it, she covered it as often as she could. It was a glaring insecurity that stared back at her everytime she looked in the mirror. She hadn't wanted anyone to see it, but over time, she began to care less, and now, she barely paid it any mind. “Oh. I got in a car accident freshman year of undergrad.”

“We could get rid of it.” He murmured, sitting up and flipping the lamp back on to get a better look as he rubbed a finger over it, like he was evaluating the mark.

“What?” She watched as he stretched the skin gently, tilting her shoulder towards the light. Palpating the mark, he watched as it blanched and recolored, frowning at the way the skin pucked along the bone.

“You know, there are laser treatments we could do to make it go away.” He gave the blemish one last look before cutting the light and resting back against pillows, looking down at her. “A few rounds of CO2 therapy and you'd barely know it was ever there. You should swing by the office sometime.”

“Yeah.” Maggie swallowed, her throat dry as she leaned over to flip the switch on her own lamp. The room went dark and she didn’t have to hide the slight flicker of hurt that crossed her face as she mildly agreed, “sometime.”

#fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers x oc #steve rogers x ofc #steve rogers x original character #steve rogers x original female character #steve rogers #original character #original female character #oc #ofc #misshoneybee: mosaic broken hearts #misshoneybee: we learn to live with the pain #misshoneybee: series #wltlwtp #did the love affair maim queue too? #marvel smut

[wellesleybooks]

2018 Pulitzer Prize Winners

Congratulations to all the winners and finalists

Fiction

Less, by Andrew Sean Greer (Lee Boudreaux Books/Little, Brown and Company)

A generous book, musical in its prose and expansive in its structure and range, about growing older and the essential nature of love.

In the Distance, by Hernan Diaz (Coffee House Press)

The Idiot, by Elif Batuman (Penguin Press)

History

The Gulf: The Making of an American Sea, by Jack E. Davis (Liveright/W.W. Norton)

An important environmental history of the Gulf of Mexico that brings crucial attention to Earth’s 10th-largest body of water, one of the planet’s most diverse and productive marine ecosystems.

Fear City: New York’s Fiscal Crisis and the Rise of Austerity Politics, by Kim Phillips-Fein (Metropolitan Books)

Hitler in Los Angeles: How Jews Foiled Nazi Plots Against Hollywood and America, by Steven J. Ross (Bloomsbury)

Biography

Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder, by Caroline Fraser (Metropolitan Books)

A deeply researched and elegantly written portrait of Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the Little House on the Prairie series, that describes how Wilder transformed her family’s story of poverty, failure and struggle into an uplifting tale of self-reliance, familial love and perseverance.

Richard Nixon: The Life, by John A. Farrell (Doubleday)

Robert Lowell, Setting the River on Fire: A Study of Genius, Mania, and Character, by Kay Redfield Jamison (Alfred A. Knopf)

Poetry

Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016, by Frank Bidart (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

A volume of unyielding ambition and remarkable scope that mixes long dramatic poems with short elliptical lyrics, building on classical mythology and reinventing forms of desires that defy societal norms.

Incendiary Art, by Patricia Smith (TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press)

semiautomatic, by Evie Shockley (Wesleyan University Press)

General Nonfiction

Locking Up Our Own: Crime and Punishment in Black America, by James Forman Jr. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

An examination of the historical roots of contemporary criminal justice in the U.S., based on vast experience and deep knowledge of the legal system, and its often-devastating consequences for citizens and communities of color.

Notes on a Foreign Country: An American Abroad in a Post-America World, by Suzy Hansen (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

The Evolution of Beauty: How Darwin’s Forgotten Theory of Mate Choice Shapes the Animal World—and Us, by Richard O. Prum (Doubleday)

#pulitzer prize winning books #pulitzer prize winners #books

[menagerie-rpg]

STRATUM: Two AGE: Twenty-four to twenty-eight OCCUPATION: Human Resources Assistant  SUGGESTED FCS: Sean Teale, Taylor Zakhar, Bob Morley

CREATURE FORM.

WILL-O'-THE-WISP is described as a ball of blinding light, believed to be the spirits of those who were locked out of both heaven and hell. They are known for a cruel nature and leading those fooled by their innocent appearance into dangerous situations.

ABOUT. 

Boy turned man, always almost complete. Almost with a family, almost with a home. Even almost a legacy in the Menagerie; your mother as the first to escape, with just you, back to a father only to earn his cold shoulder. The streets as the only one with welcoming arms, teaching the art of survival. In lies, in money stolen under noses, in keeping afloat even when mother disappeared. Boy they say will do anything for money, with a smile you'll believe; boy almost drowning in greed. Boy who runs back, not in a search for home, or escape, but Metzger heard you were a clever thing (and talent never comes for free.) 

BIOGRAPHY.

Up to player.

#*dimitri bio #open

[thebiographys]

[blog-cdaleyoung]

The 2018 Pulitzer Prizes in Letters, Drama and Music

Fiction: Less, Andrew Sean Greer.

Drama: Cost of Living, by Martyna Majok.

History: The Gulf, by Jack E. Davis.

Biography: Prairie Fires, Caroline Fraser.

Poetry: Half-Light, by Frank Bidart.

General Nonfiction: Locking Up Our Own, by James Forman Jr.

Music: DAMN., by Kendrick Lamar.

#pulitzer #award announcement #2018 #andrew sean greer #kendrick lamar #frank bidart

[sciencespies]

How the Alphabet Got Its Order, Malcolm X and Other New Books to Read

https://sciencespies.com/history/how-the-alphabet-got-its-order-malcolm-x-and-other-new-books-to-read/

How the Alphabet Got Its Order, Malcolm X and Other New Books to Read

Throughout history, alphabetical order has acted as an unsung agent of democratization, providing an organizational framework based not on social hierarchies, but an easily memorized string of letters. As historian Judith Flanders argues in A Place for Everything: The Curious History of Alphabetical Order, “The religious no longer automatically took precedence over the secular, kings over subjects, or man over animals.”

In today’s Western world, the A-B-Cs are as self-evident as 1-2-3. But the adoption of an ordered Latin alphabet (the system used in most European and English languages) was far from straightforward. In fact, writes Flanders in the “first-ever history of alphabetization,” the protracted path toward alphabetical order spans millennia, involving such diverse entities and individuals as the Library of Alexandria, philosopher John Locke and George Washington.

The latest installment in our series highlighting new book releases, which launched in late March to support authors whose works have been overshadowed amid the Covid-19 pandemic, explores the history of alphabetical order, the woman behind Wolf Hall, the life of Malcolm X, secrets of urban design and chance’s role in shaping the world.

Representing the fields of history, science, arts and culture, innovation, and travel, selections represent texts that piqued our curiosity with their new approaches to oft-discussed topics, elevation of overlooked stories and artful prose. We’ve linked to Amazon for your convenience, but be sure to check with your local bookstore to see if it supports social distancing-appropriate delivery or pickup measures, too.

A Place for Everything: The Curious History of Alphabetical Order by Judith Flanders

The invention of the alphabet dates to some 4,000 years ago, when merchants and mercenaries in Egypt’s Western Desert developed a phonetic system of symbols that could be rearranged into words. “Just as money was a stand-in for value,” notes Joe Moran in the Guardian’s review of A Place for Everything, “so the alphabet was a stand-in for meaning, separating words into letters for ease of reordering” and allowing humans “to shape whole universes of meaning out of a small number of letters.”

Derived from an array of earlier alphabetic systems, the Latin alphabet gained traction across the ancient world following its invention in the seventh century B.C. But a widely accepted alphabetical order remained elusive. As Chris Allnut points out for the Financial Times, Galen, the second-century A.D, Greek physician, took a subjective approach in his On the Properties of Food, organizing listings by general category and level of nourishment. The Library of Alexandria, meanwhile, used first-letter alphabetical order to organize certain scrolls, but “this was just one system among many,” according to Flanders. Later, medieval monks elevated the sacred over the profane; one European abbot wrote his English dictionary in descending order, beginning with angels, the sun and moon, and the Earth and the sea and concluding with weapons, metals and gems, per the Times’ Dan Jones.

The rise of the printing press in the mid-15th century furthered the cause of alphabetization by sparking an unprecedented explosion in the dissemination of information. Still, widespread adoption of alphabetical order didn’t simply follow “hard on the heels of printing,” according to Flanders. Instead, she writes, “[T]he reality was less tidy,” owing much to government bureaucracy, librarians and an array of fascinating historical figures.

A Place for Everything is peppered with tales of such individuals. Among others, the list of alphabetical order’s early proponents (or detractors) includes diarist Samuel Pepys; poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge; George Washington, who kept his records in an “alphabetted” ledger; and 13th-century Dominican monk John of Genoa, who prefaced his alphabetized Latin dictionary with a note stating, “I have devised this order at the cost of great effort and strenuous application. … I beg of you, therefore, good reader, do not scorn this great labor of mine and this order as something worthless.”

Mantel Pieces: Royal Bodies and Other Writing From the London Review of Books by Hilary Mantel

In March, Hilary Mantel concluded her much-lauded trilogy on statesman Thomas Cromwell with The Mirror & the Light, which follows the last four years of the Tudor minister’s life. Her next work—a collection of 20 essays previously published in the London Review of Books—expands the universe inhabited by Cromwell, deftly detailing Tudor figures like Anne Boleyn’s infamous sister-in-law, Jane; Henry VIII’s best friend, Charles Brandon; and 67-year-old noblewoman Margaret Pole, who was brutally executed on an increasingly paranoid Henry’s orders.

Mantel Pieces also moves beyond 16th-century England: “Royal Bodies,” a polarizing 2013 essay that employed Kate Middleton, Duchess of Cambridge, in its broader discussion of how the media, royal family and public treat female royals, appears, as do meditations on Madonna (the pop icon), the Madonna (or Virgin Mary), Britain’s “last witch” and a pair of 10-year-old’s headline-grabbing 1993 murder of 2-year-old James Bulger.

The author herself—the only two-time woman winner of the United Kingdom’s highest literary award, the Booker Prize—takes center stage in several personal essays. Tackling events including her first meeting with her stepfather, a showdown with a circus strongman and the aftermath of a major surgery, Mantel demonstrates that “[a]s a memoirist, [she] is without parallel,” per Frances Wilson of the Telegraph.

As Wilson concludes, “It is only when her essays are laid out like this that we can see the inside of Mantel’s huge head, bulging with knowledge and a million connections.”

The Dead Are Arising: The Life of Malcolm X by Les and Tamara Payne

When Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Les Payne died of a heart attack in 2018, his daughter, Tamara, stepped in to complete his unfinished biography of Malcolm X. Two years later, the 500-page tome is garnering an array of accolades, including a spot on the 2020 National Book Awards shortlist.

The elder Payne started researching the civil rights leader in 1990. Over the next 28 years, he conducted hundreds of interviews with Malcolm’s friends, family, acquaintances, allies and enemies, tirelessly working to tease out the truth behind what he described as the much-mythologized figure’s journey “from street criminal to devoted moralist and revolutionary.”

The Dead Are Arising traces Malcolm’s childhood in Nebraska, brushes with the law as a teenager in Michigan, time as a petty criminal in Boston and Harlem, emergence as a black nationalist leader of the Nation of Islam, and 1965 assassination. The result, writes Publishers Weekly in its review, is a “richly detailed account” that paints “an extraordinary and essential portrait of the man behind the icon.”

The 99% Invisible City: A Field Guide to the Hidden World of Everyday Design by Roman Mars and Kurt Kohlstedt

Based on the hit podcast “99% Invisible,” this illustrated field guide demystifies urban design, addressing “mysteries that most of us have never considered,” writes Kenneth T. Jackson for the New York Times. Why are manhole covers round? Why are revolving doors often sandwiched between traditional ones? What do the symbols painted on sidewalks and roads mean? And why are some public spaces so intentionally “hostile”?

Co-written by host Roman Mars and “99% Invisible” contributor Kurt Kohlstedt, The 99% Invisible City is “an ideal companion for city buffs, who’ll come away seeing the streets in an entirely different light,” according to Kirkus. Case studies range from metal fire escapes to fake facades, New York City’s Holland Tunnel, the CenturyLink Building in Minneapolis, modern elevators and utility codes, all of which are employed to illustrate broader points about inconspicuous and conspicuous design, geographic delineations versus designations, and the influence of government regulations on city landscapes, among other topics.

The authors’ enthusiasm for their subject is apparent in both the book’s wide-ranging scope and attention to detail. As Mars and Kohlstedt write in the introduction, “So much of the conversation about design centers on beauty, but the more fascinating stories of the built world are about problem-solving, historical constraints, and human drama.”

A Series of Fortunate Events: Chance and the Making of the Planet, Life, and You by Sean B. Carroll

Biologist Sean B. Carroll opens his latest book, A Series of Fortunate Events, with an anecdote about North Korean dictator Kim Jong-Il, who claimed to have scored five holes-in-one the very first time he played a round of golf. North Korea’s propensity for propaganda, coupled with the fact that golf champion Tiger Woods has scored just three holes-in-one in the entirety of his two-decade professional career, casts immediate doubts on Jong-Il’s account. But the scale of the lie is made all the more evident by Carroll’s employment of hard facts: As he points out, the chances of an amateur golfer achieving four holes-in-one are around 1 in 24 quadrillion—or 24 followed by 15 zeros.

In this case, the odds are against Jong-Il. But A Series of Fortunate Events demonstrates that similarly unlikely occurrences shape individual lives and the fate of the universe alike. “[B]reezy, anecdotal, informative and amusing,” notes the Wall Street Journal’s Andrew Crumey, Carroll’s work renders hefty topics accessible, exploring the perfect storm of events responsible for evolution, the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs and every living person’s conception. (In the scientist’s words, “it’s time to think about your parents’ gonads, and the moment you were conceived.”)

Acknowledging the “razor-thin line” between life and death or existence and extinction may seem like a terrifying prospect. But doing so can also be liberating.

“Look around you at all the beauty, complexity and variety of life,” writes Carroll. “We live in a world of mistakes, governed by chance.”

#History

#History

[narcissuslies--archive-blog]

NAME: "Rhys Chase” AGE: 26 ( Month Day, 1991 ) GENDER + SEXUALITY: Cis Male ( he/him/his ) + Pansexual AFFILIATION: Old Olympus OCCUPATION: Con Artist FACECLAIM: Sean O’Pry

BIOGRAPHY:

His life began at thirteen in a 7/11 restroom. A stolen razor held to his scalp, he ignores every dark lock of his past falling unceremoniously into the sink. The new face in the mirror is longer recognizable, but more importantly it’s still handsome. Within minutes, he’s killed the runaway boy on the missing child posters. Paranoid and careful, he leaves the gas station void of any trace of him, looking cleaner than it was when he arrived. His head feels lighter and his pockets heavy, though they carry nothing more than a few bus tokens and a stack of fake IDs. For now, this is more than enough.

His life began at thirteen, and anything that happened prior is irrelevant. It’s a story he’s erased from history, because it’s a tale that isn’t worth telling. Besides, there are so many better, more interesting legends he’s created himself. There’s Ashley Montgomery, the southern socialite who was disowned from his family after having an illicit affair with a Senator’s son. There’s Keir Ashwood, the illegitimate child of a 27 Club member who is haunted by his father’s tragic legacy. There’s Jay Amory, whose origins were ripped straight out of two F. Scott Fitzgerald novels, but no one’s been smart enough to catch on yet.

The first story is about Cecil Alister, a fresh faced fortune teller who made himself a home out of a traveling circus. His mother was the North Star, his father was the Man In The Moon, and every night they would show him the future in his dreams. Wide-eyed chumps willingly handed the boy their cash just to get a glimpse of those visions, and even skeptics couldn’t help but be enchanted by the mystic aura he was cloaked in. Never mind that he bought his tarot cards from Barnes & Noble or that his predictions were more fantastical than accurate, because how could someone with such a pretty face have anything less than good intentions?

Like the rest of the troupe, he was a performer getting paid to entertain, though it was not the money that kept him around, but the attention. People were literally paying to hear him speak, and it was inside that candle-lit tent where he mastered the art of telling stories - a much prettier word for his nicely-worded lies. Even though the crystal ball he peered into wasn’t made of real crystal, even though he could not read the tarot cards in his hands, people still believed everything that came out of his mouth. His looks drew them in, but his words were what made them draw out their wallets.

Outside the tent, he learned a handful of other useful skills in every city they passed through. In Milwaukee, he’d aptly watch every single one the escape artist’s performances until he learned how to pick locks himself. In Taos, the contortionist taught him how to quickly break into any car in under ten minutes. In San Jose, he finally nicked the magician’s wallet after suffering months of her sleight-of-hand pickpocketing. It was after he learned every secret behind their tricks did he become disillusioned by the manufactured magic of the circus. In his boredom, he killed Cecil Alister, and abandoned the life he’d spent two years creating.

The lifespans grew shorter with each persona, though the ending was usually the same. His attention was always set on the next interesting subject, resulting in him quickly shedding his old skin and adopting a new one. He created and destroyed these characters so quickly there was hardly anytime to mourn them. After several years and several aliases, he became more comfortable behind a carefully constructed mask than he ever did when he showed his true colors. He became a doctor, a scientist, an entrepreneur, a professor, and made a profit off of every fib he told. It’s much easier to be dishonest, to weave tales of deceit, to bury the truth beneath a pile of lies. It gives him control over the story, grants him the upper hand, and leave him with a clean escape.

He likes to think that even without his sharp tongue, he could get by just as far with a smile. It was almost unfair how many advantages he was given in life, but he wasn’t complaining. His looks are a weapon to be utilized, as well as something to take pride in. He can count on one hand the number of people who haven’t fallen for his glamour, but why would he bother? He doesn’t care for those who don’t care for him. A seductive tale and clever lines can take a man far, but an attractive face can take him even further.

There is only one other person in the world who is his equal in beauty and charm, though he will never admit it out loud. Not many people know about the six-year-old girl in New Mexico, who possesses his smile and his eyes but not his last name. She is nothing more than an accident, her mother is nothing more than a past dalliance, and he is nothing more than a ghost. And yet, he’s completely enamored, and has thrown out every rule just for her. He begs her mother for visitation rights, for a phone call, for a picture of a girl he has no right to call his own. He sends her letters and birthday cards, from various addresses and names across the globe. She’s the only person he’s ever cared for, and ironically she’s the only person who wants nothing to do with him. The child has spoken to him only once, her voice so enchanting and not unlike his own, and he can never forget her words no matter how hard he tries: “Leave me alone. I don’t like you. You are not my dad.”

His last creation was Silas Hale, a lawyer who flew into New York in order to offer Mount Olympus his legal services (and snag a few nights in the Presidential Suite). He didn’t think anything of it when he pick-pocketed that old man’s wallet, only later realizing who Harvey Johnson was when he got caught trying to flee his empire. But he did not fear the titan, and was instead confounded by how one man managed to see through his multiple façade. Cronus also saw the potential he held, and sought to utilize those lies and that pretty face for his own gains. So an offer was made: join Old Olympus, and obtain all the power and money he’s desired in exchange for his loyalty.

Rhys Chase was born from this pact, after Cronus asked him for his real name. For a moment, he’d forgotten the title he’d been granted at birth; it was so many lives ago, and that thirteen year old boy died with his name. So he fished out a new one and presented it on a silver platter, his accompanied handshake so confident and firm that he had to be telling the truth. If Harvey had any doubts about believing him, he didn’t show it. After all, he was good at what he did, and in the end greed always won out.