#it was hit out of sheer anger and defiance at not being able to play the way he's used to

[bluespring864]

Grigor Dimitrov hits a slam dunk during the 2024 Paris Masters quarterfinals

He knew he was going down. And so he did what he does best and went down in style.

[nathjonesey-75]

2021 in Electronic Music: A New Hope?

A long time ago in a galaxy far away…there was the nineties system. In that system, folk came together in happiness to celebrate together at places called nightclubs, where DJ masters would enthral, guide and entertain the folk by composing and conducting a range of sounds. The people would dance throughout the time of the stars, until the great star would rise – and folk would rest. Or they would fly to another dimension and be led by other masters to more happiness.

                                                ____________________

 It all sounds like a fairy-tale, doesn’t it? The world which was once a reality feels like it needs Jedi-style leaders to save it from the abyss, otherwise known as traditionalist business hell. The abyss which sees concrete futures made without character, without expression, art or creativity – where culture could be as one-dimensional as the spurious garbage emanating from the mouths of those supposedly in charge of moving nations to brighter futures.

 Also, without too much finger-pointing, 2020 in itself has been like a meteor which has hit the creative world like an alien rock with no direction. Furthermore, without conspiracy theorising (about custom-made laboratory viruses in secretive lands – oops, got sucked in there) and observing the hard, indigestive facts of October 2020 – where no end date is presentable as to when the uninvited virus will be vanquished. Can we either look to the future with hope for electronic – and indeed, all live music? Or are we to fight the good fight for as long as we can, to abate the ‘dark side of the force’ in corporate-led governments and cold business?

 During the damaged and lost eighties – socially and politically – times were hard unless you were a yuppie whose “enterprise” in the way of sole trading was rewarded on the stock exchange. Yet, what came from that mass hardship for everyone else – was what made us not only dream – but live out our dreams. Make dreams for others.

 Music was in the post-punk, electro-pop era. Hip-hop was sky-rocketing across the world, from New York – across the USA and over to every Western nation. As was House Music. As was Techno. The DIY ideal which once applied to Punk Rock in the mid-to late seventies now had been adopted by DJs. Is that a pair of Technics 1210s? Is that a Roland synthesizer? Ok, let’s do something.

 As Resident Advisor’s mini-documentary “How Punk Shaped Electronic Music” - about the two genres’ correlations – it says

      “The most radical part of it was an idea – if you want to make music, You don’t need a big record deal; a big, fancy studio – or even much musical talent. You just need the sheer force of will - to get out there and do it.”

This was never more prevalent than in both Chicago, where House Music was developed – and in Detroit, where technology’s advances in electronic devices saw Techno appear in the latter part of the decade. Still, the concept of not having to possess “much musical talent” was not necessarily true when it applied to some of the most celebrated electronic musical doctors. Larry Heard played several musical instruments from a young age. Underworld played instruments even before forming their first band, Screen Gemz – back in 1975. Sasha was a classically-trained pianist before ever seeing a DJ. I could go on.

So, in light of recent debates as to whether these performers, their industries and followings are “viable” for financial support during this degraded and destructive year  – I don’t need to revisit the figures of economic value for which our industry produces. As for The Stranglers’ Hugh Cornwell interview on Good Morning Britain on October the 9th – he said, “House Music is the worst song writing….there isn’t any song writing skills in House Music, for me.” Regardless of his own successes in the late seventies and early eighties – this is as moot a point to be found, as would be for anyone over sixty-five who have never understood – or tried to understand electronic music. Except by now, you must have been self-isolating from the wider world out there, where times have moved on from only guitars in song writing.

   Larry Levan was instrumental in writing music for Grace Jones, while The Stranglers were at their peak of popularity. Why did Madonna recruit both Sasha and Paul Oakenfold to help compose her tracks over twenty years ago? Why did Danny Boyle curate the 2012 Olympic Games opening ceremony with the musical aid of Rick Smith from Underworld? Why did Kendrick Lamar win awards for tracks with lyrics which read; 

"Shit on anybody, I'm a rappin' Porta-Potty/And I probably gotta dump right now". 

Hardly poetry. You could throw mud and hit anything if it’s about “bad” music nowadays. Ironically, John Holmstrom, founding editor of Punk magazine described that genre as "rock and roll by people who didn't have very many skills as musicians but still felt the need to express themselves through music". Except Punk Rock lives on in this anthem-led society of 2020. 

While Cornwell’s empty shot at House Music was filmed seemingly at home in West London, I would urge him to use his ideal location and visit the Design Museum in Kensington, where the Electronic Music exhibition is held until February 2021. The opinion of lack of skills required in writing songs – would surely be under further threat at the display of Jeff Mills’ instrument engineering, or Aphex Twin’s multi-level track and video choreography. The words “out of touch” are, I feel – valid in this case. Granted, every genre has producers who don’t try hard but write cheap, catchy songs – think of all the one-hit-wonders in the seventies and eighties. “Shaddap You Face”, “Star Trekkin”, “Puppy Love”…

These were songs made for either fun, children’s television, or for undisclosed reasons by each composer – suffice to say that none involved House Music. Yet over thirty-five years of House Music walking in unison with the rise of technology and evolution of nightclubs and festivals – has meant that all instruments and now software are taught and developed at schools, colleges and universities across the world. I would be highly confident of being able to write a cheesy, tacky and bad track in one day – whether I wanted the financial profit from it or not – would be a matter for my bank balance after 2020 (wink-wink, nudge-nudge…)

For future reference, with mists of all colours being spread across the musical galaxy as we enter the last two months of what has been an abysmal anomaly year, the anger generated by punk was closed down quickly by the governments of the late seventies. It was beyond saving as a regular, viable movement by the time the eighties commenced. Its direct anti-establishment nature would have made sure of that, were it in the situation we now face. 

But that did not stop its musicians from carrying on making music. Post-punk continued its energy and old regime defiance through bands inspired by what came before. Bands such as New Order, Public Image Limited, Talking Heads and The Fall - all had messages and attitudes carried from previous years. Genres were reinvented and music adapted. Moving into the unknown may be unclear and unnerving right now. Yet, fighting for what we can recreate should be a binding motive for DJs, promoters, clubbers, electronic artists and everyone involved in our scene. 

From recently looking back at a haul of 1990s editions of Mixmag and Ministry magazines I had stowed away, it’s clear we had it “damn good” at that time. We may – and highly likely never will return to that level of hedonism, heights of being spoilt rotten for wealth of music heard for the first time, the talent and progress of the producers guiding us through, skills of DJs and grandiosity and grunginess of clubs which we visited. We do, however, have these imprints on our brains and know what works. Living solely from memories is not what I am advocating – using memories and what we have today, as a global community to post flagposts of how the “underground will live forever” – in believing our clubs can be reopened and that celebrating our own culture at future parties, is worth the time spent in doing so. Do it yourself can work, as was ever the case. 

[superfreakerz]

Congrats on ur followers! I’m thinking of Lucy almost risking her life to save Natsu from something and he got mad at Lucy cause she risked her life and she could’ve died,, then Lucy recalled how many times he saved her life and wanted to do something for him. Sorry if u don’t understand this, I just mainly need angst lmao

Thank you for the request, I hope you like it! :D

“What Were You Thinking?”

Rated T.

Summary: After putting herself in harm’s way to save Natsu, Lucy wakes up to an earful from the irate dragon slayer.

What Were You Thinking?

Lucy clutched her arm, watching as Natsu fought a group of bandits on his own. Even though they weren’t as strong as him, their sheer numbers alone were giving him trouble. It didn’t help that the enemy was smart enough to send their troops in waves so that one group would always follow another after being defeated.

She gnawed on her lower lip. At this rate, he was going to run out of energy. There wasn’t any fire around for him to consume, and it wasn’t like she could make any herself. With his devastating flames that could lay waste to anything it came in contact with, she was surprised that the enemies kept challenging him. They should’ve been running with their tails between their legs!

Staggering to her feet, Lucy wobbled towards Natsu in an attempt to help. She had already run out of magical power, barely even able to walk. Still, she couldn’t just sit back and watch as Natsu carried the burden on his shoulders. She couldn’t stand to see him get hurt.

Just as she was approaching Natsu, she saw one of the bandits brandish a dagger. He used his magic to camouflage into the background, allowing him to sneak towards Natsu. The dragon slayer could’ve easily been able to smell him coming, but while dealing with everyone coming at him all at once, there was no way he was going to be able to dodge.

Mustering whatever energy Lucy had left, she made a mad dash towards the bandit, throwing herself in harm’s way. She jumped between him and Natsu, wincing as the blade pierced her side. A pained cry slipped past her lips as the attacker withdrew his blade, crimson blood splattering against the pavement. Falling, the girl pressed her hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. Tears pricked her eyes as it stung.

“Lucy!” Natsu’s voice called out.

With blurry vision, she looked up to find Natsu’s body engulfed in flames. He fought with more tenacity, bringing the villains to their knees. As her eyes began to droop closed, she heard Gray and Erza shouting as they ran up to them.

Then she lost consciousness.

As sunlight filtered through the cracks of her curtains, Lucy’s eyes finally fluttered open. Groaning, she pressed a hand to her throbbing head. She moved to sit up, only to hiss in pain as she had reopened her wound.

“Lay down,” a low voice demanded. She could recognize that voice anywhere.

Looking to her bedside, Lucy found Natsu sitting in one of the kitchen chairs he pulled up to the bed. Happy was dozing away in his lap.

“Natsu!” the girl exclaimed, a bright grin bubbling up to her lips. “You’re safe! Thank goodness!”

“Yeah, I’m safe alright,” Natsu replied, his brows furrowing as the corners of his lips tugged downwards into a disapproving frown. “What the hell were you thinking, Lucy?”

“Huh?”

“Why the hell did you take the hit?”

Lucy tilted her head to the side, confused. Was he really mad at her? “I did it to save you!”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” Natsu sneered, his voice sharp enough to startle Happy awake.

Happy glanced between the two. Their brows were slanted in anger, and after having to hear Natsu complain for the past day, he knew just what they were arguing about. It was going to get ugly. Without saying a word, the exceed flew straight out the window before he could get caught in the crossfire.

Now that Happy was gone, Lucy turned her attention back to Natsu.

“I know that you didn’t ask me to, but it doesn’t change the fact that I had to do it,” Lucy said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What makes you think you had to do that?” Natsu asked, bewildered by her answer.

“Because you were too busy fighting! You wouldn’t have noticed! If I didn’t step in, he would’ve stabbed you, probably in a worse spot than he stabbed me!”

Natsu shot up from his seat, knocking the chair back. “None of that matters, Lucy!”

“What do you mean it doesn’t matter!? You could have died!”

“You could have died!” Natsu shouted, loud enough to make Lucy flinch. His face was etched with fury as he continued, “What if you miscalculated your jump and he ended up stabbing one of your vital organs? Did you even calculate your jump? What if he stabbed you in the heart, Lucy? You’d be dead!”

Natsu panted, blinking back tears as he stared at the blonde in front of him. Her head hung low as she fisted the blankets.

“I just wanted to save you for once,” she mumbled, hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

“What?”

She whirled a tearful gaze onto him. “I wanted to save you, okay? Do you know how many times you’ve saved me? You’re such a hypocrite, you know that? Anytime there’s something dangerous, you’re always putting yourself in front of me! Or when someone is trying to hurt me, you fight them and get hurt instead!”

“Lucy-!”

“No, don’t! Did you ever stop to think that maybe I don’t want to see you get hurt? You’re my partner, my best friend, and so much more. You’re everything to me, Natsu, and that’s why I jumped in the way and that’s why I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I needed to!”

Natsu’s fists trembled at his sides. “I don’t want you doin’ that for me, Lucy!”

“And why the hell not?” she shot back, eyes shining with defiance.

“Because I don’t want to see you get hurt again!” he shouted. His shoulders rose each time he panted. The dam that kept his tears at bay finally broke. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the tears cascading down his cheeks.

Lucy’s brows shot up. “Again? What do you mean?”

Natsu’s voice shook as he answered, “Th-That time when we were in Crocus, and Rogue tried to kill you. He did kill you.”

Her lips immediately curled into a frown. That was a day she’d never forget. “Natsu, he didn’t-!”

“I tried to catch the knife or at least jump in the way, but I… I wasn’t fast enough, Lucy. Next thing I saw was your blood. I lost you right in front of my eyes because your future-self jumped in front of the way. I never wanted to see anything like that again, but here we are… And this time it’s my fault.”

Lucy choked back a sob as she shook her head. “That’s not true, Natsu. It isn’t your fault at all.” Patting the bed, she gestured for him to take a seat beside her. Once he did, she took his hands in her own, squeezing them tightly. “Let’s recount all of the times you saved me, shall we?”

“Lucy-”

“No, come on. Let’s do it. There was that time when we first met, and you saved me from Bora. Then there was that time on Galuna Island when Sherry dropped acid over the village. There was the time with Phantom Lord. Oh, and we can’t forget all of the times on Tenrou, the battle with Tartarus, the war against Alvarez, and every other moment in between. You may not have been able to save my future-self, but you’ve saved me countless of times.”

Natsu wiped his sleeve over his eyes. “It’s not good enough. I should’ve saved you back then, too.”

“You did. By defeating Rogue, you gave me my future back. Because of you, I’ve been able to share so many memories with you, Happy, and everyone else.” She squeezed his hands, giving him a wet smile. “I will always be grateful for that, which is why I really wanted to return the favor and save you for once.”

Natsu playfully scoffed. “For once? Luce, you’re savin’ our asses all the time. Too many times to even count. Seriously, you’re strong as hell.”

Warmth crept up to the girl’s cheeks, her smile deepening. “So, are we okay now?”

He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Yeah, we’re okay. Sorry about yellin’ at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry for reminding you of what happened back at Crocus. Though, I can’t say that I won’t jump in the way to save you again. I’ll always try to save you, and I’m sure you’ll do the same for me.”

“‘Course I will. Now, c'mon. We should probably let Happy know we didn’t kill each other.”

Lucy blinked once, then twice. “Umm, in case you’ve forgotten, I can’t exactly leave bed.”

Natsu chuckled. “Oh, right. I forgot. Ehh, he’ll come back to check on us eventually. In the meantime, you wanna play some games? I can bring them to the bed.”

“Sure. But first…” Lucy leaned forward, pressing her lips against his in a chaste kiss. Pulling away, she smiled at him. “I love you, Natsu.”

He mirrored her expression. “I love you too, Luce. Now c'mon. It’s time I finally kick your ass at this game.”

[son-of-the-omega-blog]

#SL #PlayTime 

#TriggerWarning #Abuse #Violence #Torture 

 Written by @Son_OfThe_Omega and @ToTheGrahve

Mentions @OffKeyDeviant @Qhuinn_BDBFM @Dehstruction

*~*~*~*~*

Grahve: Every breath hurt. Granted, that probably had something to do with the knife that’d punctured my lung like a fucking balloon. My blood was a flavor I was tired of tasting, but every rattled breath only pushed more of it up my throat. I wanted to hurl, but the gag in place made me fight the reflex. The bag over my head wasn’t much better.

I could still see the look in his eyes. The sheer, unparalleled delight as he’d buried that blade to the hilt, savoring my shock and horror. My fists clenched in the chains holding them above my head, the soft rattle the only sound other than my labored breathing. Fury licked through me, and only half of it was toward the male who’d trapped me. The other half was all for me.

How could I have been so stupid… I wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact I’d become so emotionally compromised and entangled, or the fact it had led me to make one poor decision after another. Until I was here, in what had to be a Lesser hideout, if the smell was anything to go by, bag or no bag. Yet the male who’d lured me, flirted with me, had definitely ‘not’ been one of the Omega’s minions. No matter how emotionally blind I was, there was no masking that rot.

Which meant…

I closed my eyes beneath the bag and tried not to sag in the chains, my mind turning over the only possible conclusion and feeling my dread curdle into nausea.

Lash.

The son of the Omega. The one who hounded the Brotherhood and sought to destroy them. The one who’d helped corrupt Blaylock. The one who’d kidnapped and tortured an angel.

No wonder he’d looked so pleased with himself as I’d choked and struggled. I’d never seen his face before. Never known his scent. A trainee so oblivious to who he was had wandered into his web. And now here I was. Helpless. And furious.

Lash: [Watching the male hang as each breath cost him valuable energy, I gave myself a pat on the back. Ever since my little encounter with Queen Beth, the Brotherhood has been totally ghost on the streets of Caldwell. And it left me quite bored. When I'd walked into the club tonight, I hardly expected to come out with such a prize. Granted the male wasn't a Brother, but still, a trainee was better than offing civilians all night as a draw.

The look of shock on Grahve’s face was worth the effort as the knife incapacitated him, but it didn’t stop the male from trying to get his own pound of flesh. Even unarmed, the male had made a formidable opponent based on pure spirit alone. The few hits he managed to connect with would have been enough to loosen the teeth of any civilian, but I didn't have time to waste playing the games of posturing young.

The struggle in the alley lasted less than a minute before I had tucked the half-conscious male into a stolen car, courtesy of some halfwit human who’d left the vehicle not only unlocked but with the keys tucked into the visor.

The longer than necessary ride looped around the south of Caldwell, dumping us at a dead end road turned narrow deer path that led deep into the woods. Steel chain link fencing surrounded the new compound wasn't just to keep the wildlife from setting off the motion sensors and cameras; any errant nosy human who happened to get too curious for their own health would have found themselves on the business end of a shovel, six down. Not that it would be hard to disappear a body out here, but time was a commodity I didn't want to extend if I didn't have to.

The few Lessers I had around the place served as my watchdogs, the beyond-pale fuckers that had been inducted many decades ago were the last of my Prime squads, well seasoned and hungry for Brotherhood blood. New recruits were being added weekly, courtesy of the Omega, the last of the more experienced Lessers in charge of their training.

Leaving the knife in the male's side during transport was a game; he wouldn't have been able to dematerialize regardless, but it was fun to watch him squirm and pant for breath each time I reached over and gave the blade a twist. I upped the ante and added the element of darkness via a black hood over his head. One more sense of his compromised. Even more so as I strung him up in chains and lifted him until he was barely balanced on the balls of his feet. I was letting gravity do the rest of the heavy work on Grahve's muscles. The pull would only serve to weaken him further, and unlike the angel, sunlight wasn't going to miraculously bring him back to near full health. No, the male would need a female's blood for that.]

Tell me. How's mine cousin, Qhuinn. Still besotted with the fair Chosen Layla? Or has he turned to finding new bed partners?

[Circling the deadweight with a grim smirk, I reached out and jabbed the male's wounded side with a hard fist.]

Grahve: Holy. Fucking. Hell.

The pain that erupted up my side threatened to send me night night, right before it caused a spasm to tear apart my lungs. I coughed, spluttered, the gag and the hood catching a mouthful of blood. My body struggled to cope as I pulled back against the chains keeping me up, away from where the hit had come from. But with the hood, I was helpless to predict Lash’s next hit. Not that I thought I’d be conscious after a second hit to my ruined lung...

By the time the agony had faded to a dull roaring throb, his question finally registered. I’d never felt my fangs grate against a gag before, the sensation uncomfortable even as a weak growl rumbled in my chest. Which I also regret. Immediately.

I tasted more blood and forced myself to calm down. But the idea that Lash was still gunning for Qhuinn made my blood boil. Regardless of how I felt, of what had happened between him, me, Crhis… all of it, I’d die before I let this miserable prick hurt them. And hey, whaddaya know, if he kept sticking me like a pin cushion and hitting the flesh around it, that death was all but guaranteed in a very short timeline.

I could feel his amusement, his utter delight at my helplessness, and if anything it fueled my rage, my defiance, until I was straightening and clenching my fists in their manacles. My chest hurt like a mofo, but it was all I could do until the gag came out and I could tell him a hearty ‘fuck you’.

Lash: [So, /that/ little query got a reaction from the trainee. Qhuinn must have been tapping more than one ass if this male was so reactive to mere questions. Did this hanging piece of meat know my oversexed cousin had impregnated a Chosen, I wondered; he had to have known. Layla paraded that swollen belly around like the trophy she was. She must have certainly had the young by now. Or dropped into the Fade on her birthing bed. Pacing around the dangling and gagged bit, I had to give him a small props for ‘hanging’ in there.]

Oh, wait. [Leaning in close to the male's ear, my voice was a harsh just-above-whisper.] Let me see if I'm reading this sitch right. Qhuinn gave the fair Chosen more bed time than you, so you turned to bedding another… [Inhaling deep only confirmed the stronger scent of another, a male.] … male.

[Just a guess, even with the scent of the trainee Qhuinn had been making eyes at all over Grahve, it wasn't too much of a stretch because I knew Qhuinn to be a possessive male that liked to take things too far.]

And mine cousin didn't appreciate the turn of your.. [Grabbing the back of the hood and jerking it off the male's head, the cold anger blowing off him in waves, hurt evident in his eyes as he twisted, bloodied and bruised before me.] .. attention to another. So you decided to drink away your broken heart. [Reaching out and cupping the male's face in a firm grip then patting his cheek hard, I slid fingers back to loosen the gag.]

Grahve: Layla. Hearing a Chosen’s name on Lash’s filthy lips made my skin crawl, but I wasn’t about to correct him on the little scenario he’d invented in his head. Especially if it kept my partner off his radar. Instead I narrowed my eyes at him as the hood was torn away.

It didn’t seem fair that someone so evil had a face like that. I’d never wanted to break something beautiful so badly in all my life. The memory of his lips on mine, of the way he pressed down my body and made me ‘feel’...

I spat out a wad of blood and spit the second the gag was gone, and whatever self preservation instincts I had left kept me from spitting it ‘on’ him. Though the temptation was definitely fucking there.

“Congratu-fucking-lations. You have it all figured out. Go you,” I sneered, wishing I’d had a lot more to drink. Maybe then it would numb the pain that was sure to follow. “I’d pin a gold star on your collar but I’m a little tied up right now. So how bout you fuck right off and do it yourself? There’s a good lad.”

In my head I ran down my list of options. Insulting Lash for as long as possible definitely made the list, and pretty close to the top I might add. Holding out for a rescue, though, was pretty far /down/. The nausea in my gut curdled into a dread realisation as I recalled the Lockdown, the fact that no one was supposed to be out on rotation at the moment to even notice me not showing up, and that after everything with Crhis and Qhuinn? No one was going to be looking for me…

A spark lit up my nerves. The realisation was so bright I struggled to keep it off my face, out of my eyes, so Lash didn’t see the kindling of hope.

Adrian.

The angel would surely notice I was gone… right? I’d made a promise to stay put and broken it. Sure, he might look for me back at the manse, but if I didn’t turn up he’d raise the alarm. The Brothers… they’d at least know the scent of Lash. Realise, maybe, what had happened. And even if they didn’t find me before I died… it soothed something jagged in me to know they’d at least be looking. That someone, somewhere, cared enough to notice I was gone.

“Considering how fancy you like your clothes,” I tried again, looking around, “I thought maybe you’d have a nicer place. Dad not covering your costs?”

Lash: [Pacing behind the male, my hand snapped out to grip the male's throat and tip his head back, his breath staining from the tension as I spoke.]

Oh I got more than a gold star. [My tongue slid up the side of his neck tasting anger, anguish, and a fainter hint of fear. Now that he'd figured out who /I/ was, most of the arrogance had been knocked out of his sails. Hence the hint of fear.]

You were more than willing to give it to me, weren't you… you cannot deny that scent of fucking you were giving off.  The male you'd been fucking must have been quite the tasy little treat. [A slow, hard bite to his ear, fangs drawing that much more blood, coupled with a rut of my hips against his ass for emphasis and I stepped back around to face the trainee, brushing my hands off.] And yet you went to the club looking for more ways to drown yourself.

[I hadn't missed his initial outburst made, I barely contained the giddy feeling inside, and grinned fiendishly at the way his body tensed and grew cold at the mention of the Chosen and his sappy broken heart. I knew I'd hit a low sore spot that I could use to against him.

Ignoring his baiting comments about my attire -mental note to swap out to leathers once I'd returned to the compound, no sense in ruining an Armani- I delivered a hard fist to his fine nose, the burst of fresh coppery iron wafting across the breeze as it dripped in rivulets down his chin.]

See? We're going to have lots of fun.

Grahve: The feel of his tongue against my neck earned a disgusted shudder, my stomach revolting even as I swallowed down a fresh wave of bile. I barely felt it as his fangs pierced my ear, blood scenting the air. His hips bucking against mine brought to mind all the ways we might’ve tangled in the sheets, when I’d been willing, and the reality was so much worse. What would the Brothers say? I’d been about to fuck the enemy… Sweet Scribe… and all because I’d let myself fall for and give a shit about the males in that manse.

What had I become?

Trying to shake off the darkness that flooded every molecule of my miserable being, I adopted a sneer, forcing myself to remember the times I’d been completely alone in the world and survived. I could be that guy again.

“Next time I’ll just look for ways to actually drown. Probably a better outcome than ‘this’ one,” I point out coolly.

My last smart ass comment. Right before he broke my nose.

My head snapped back. I tasted blood. As I blinked through the haze and the pain, I sagged forward and spat a fresh mouthful onto the floor. Well, mostly the floor. Pretty sure a nice bit of it landed on his pants. And shoes. N’awwww…

“No wonder you weren’t in the training program long…” I panted and heaved in a breath with a broken, bloody smile, “what with a weak ass punch like that…”

Lash: Think you're funny? [The mangy fuck had the audacity to chuck a mouthful of blood at me. Growling low, I spun the male around and drove my fingers into the knife wound, pushing deep until his body swung off the ground and something popped and the male cried out.

Movement at the doorway barely registered enough to draw my attention away and only served to piss me off even more. The growl that tore from my throat spoke only one word to the brainless fuck that had the balls, -figuratively-, to interrupt me. Death.

Liquid energy rolled down my arm, pooling in my bloodied hand as I turned to decimate the motherfucker that dared interrupt my playtime. The lesser stood his ground but the fear dripped off him like a sliced carotid. In his hands shook a female body, a black canvas hood bunched around her head and shoulders, doing nothing to staunch her whimpers.]

You're fucking lucky, you know that. [The immediate impact of the sudden additional present hit me, a smirk kicking up the corner of my mouth as I glanced at the strung up trainee. Oh yes, this was going to work so much faster this way. She wasn't a Chosen, but female blood was female blood.]

String her up. [Pointing with just a look, the Lesser nodded without a word and did as told. The female's struggled, nearly freeing herself when her body suddenly slumped, loose-limbed, the lesser having knocked her cold with a fist to the temple. A hoarse growl and muffled rattle of chains fueled my smirk.]

Oh wait. [I glanced at the male dangling by his wrists and then at the female and back to the hanging meat.] My bad. Where are my manners. Are you thirsty?

Grahve: I didn’t know pain like this existed without unconsciousness following. As Lash buried his fingers in my flesh my whole body jerked and twisted to escape it. I wasn’t even aware I was doing it, every animal instinct in me screaming to get away when something gave out. Probably a lung.

The room swam as blessed darkness crept into the edge of my vision. But it didn’t linger. As Lash withdrew, my mind returned. It was just in time to catch the whimpers of a woman - a female. My spine stiffened, my fingers curling into fists in their chains.

Of course. The lock down. With no Brothers on the street, Lash had free reign on the species. Nausea coiled in my gut as I watched him tie her up, and when she resisted, the demon struck. She crumpled as a snarl bubbled up my throat, wound be damned.

“You don’t seriously think I’d take blood from some helpless female?” I growled, glaring, furious at my helplessness. How was I supposed to help her when I couldn’t even help myself right now? It didn’t matter if her blood would heal… me…

I closed my eyes and dropped my head.

It doesn’t matter if I don’t want to… He’ll force feed me if it means he gets to keep playing. The idea is revolting.

“…it doesn’t matter if I say no, does it?” I mutter blackly, disgust laced through every word.

Lash: [Ignoring the trainee’s disgust, though I don’t know why, the female wasn’t bad on the eyes except for the fat lip and swollen eye and she smelled fucking delicious, I indicated to the Lesser he needed to make sure she was easily within reach without having to loosen her bonds. There was little chance of her finding escape, but it was better to overly cautious. Past experiences were still biting my ass in the form of the Omega each time we had those sire-son talks.]

Absolutely, I think that you’ll do it willingly even.

[Stalking over to the female and gripping her chin, tugging it up enough to confirm she was still indeed alive, I let the supple slumping of her unconsciousness hang from her place near the trainee and stepped back to admire my haul without giving anything away. This was going to change my plans only slightly, in the manner that I’d be able to keep the trainee longer than I first anticipated. If my Lessers could obtain another female within a few days, unharmed enough to be of use, I’d be able to send the Brotherhood quite the set of messages. Piece by fucking piece.]

And if you want the female to live beyond the next rising sun, I suggest you feed when you’re told to.

Grahve: I wanted to curse, to snarl my disbelief; as if he wasn’t going to kill her - fuck - kill us both, but what other option did I have? If I refused… he killed her now. If I took her vein, maybe I got enough strength to get us out of this. Maybe I buy us both time.

Biting back the slew of responses, all of which would probably go down about as well as a lead balloon, I went with the smart option. Even as my insides shrivelled in repulsion and shame.

“Fine.”

The word tasted nasty as I dropped my gaze to the blood spattered floor. My blood. It dribbled down my side as I heaved in a breath through the agony of a burst lung. And my broken nose.

“But let’s not kid ourselves…” The words slipped out even as a small part of my brain screamed to STFU. I met his gaze again. “How long are you gonna do this before you get tired of me? I’m just a toy for you to play with till I break, right? Then let’s get it over with. Just do it.”

Lash: [Strolling back to face the male, I gave a minute nod to the Lesser that had positioned himself behind the trainee. The pale fucker began cutting away the male’s clothes, starting with his shirt.]

Looks like it hurts.

[Grinning, I eyed the jagged edges of the bright red and purple wound as he was stripped down. And thought of the angel Lassiter. How his scars were MY mark on his body. Scars I created, a signature of sorts. What kind of signature could I put on the trainee? Mentally waving it off, I knew it would come to me when the time was right.

The male’s body was definitely impressive, well muscled and lean, as a fighter’s body should be. Once he’d been stripped of all his clothing, the bloodied pile on the floor.. wait, was that.. Tipping my head a bit, my grin pulled the smirk routine. He was blushing! Face flushed, aside from the fact of how pale he was starting to look from blood loss, there was no mistaking the traineed was embarrassed at being so exposed.]

Oh come now. [Chuckling darkly, I hardly ficked a finger toward the hanging female and the Lesser that had bared the male’s body of annoying restrictions now worked the same effortless theme on the female.]

I’m sure she’s seen a naked male before, though maybe not one of your particularly appealing form. She’ll be honored to offer you her vein. If she wakes in time.

Grahve: Being left bare before the Brotherhood’s greatest enemy brought whatever blood I had left to my face. I tried not to shift in the restraints and give the game away, but as his eyes raked over me like I was a meal, he smirked and knew. Fuck. Like this could get worse…

My lip lifted in a snarl that bared my fangs (probably the last thing of me that had actually been covered) as the Lesser set about stripping the female.

“Leave her alone. Whatever you wanna do to her, do to me! She’s a /civilian/, right? Not a fighter. Not a warrior. It’s beneath you to hurt her,” I bit out, somehow averting my eyes as the female body was bared, every curve and slender muscle. “Or are you so low I should be shocked you don’t slither and crawl?”

Hey, provoking him probably wasn’t my best idea, but if it drew even a lick of attention away from the female, I’d do it again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go; me helpless and watching some poor female be strung up and humiliated.

Lash: Who do you think I practice on? [I spoke without taking my eyes off the male, the illborne wickedness boiling under the gossamer surface of my form. Even without being consciously aware of what fueled the process, John Mathew had been my first directive. I had paid, and was still paying, for fucking that one up; the Omega never forgave for incompetance no matter the reason.

So I put into practice what I gleaned from each call ‘home’ to my sire. While it was never a fun visit, I did take away new skills to cultivate for my own use. It took too much energy to reanimate my own Lessers in the beginning, so I used whoever they, or I, managed to capture. Like the Chosen Layla. Now /she/ was one that never should have escaped. The Lesser that gave her the opportunity still decorated the wooded copse I’d blasted his carcass across. Or the more frequent random males and females of the species. Human rats were overlooked for the obvious reasons that they would never survive the capture. Let alone a single day/night under my hand.

Realigning my thoughts with the here and now, I waved a dismissal to the pale fuck who was eyeing the naked female with too much drool dripping down his chin at the malicious hunger brewing in his mind. With a sneering smirk, the Lesser skulked back to the corner of the room to await further orders. Just because they were impotent, didn’t mean that the desire to cut and kill died off as well.

The trainee’s compassion for the female negated his own need for survival. But this wouldn’t do. He needed to make the choice to fight to live. Even at the expense of another should the choice come to it, which I’d make sure it would. Many, many times.

Stalking back to the work bench along the far wall I picked up a long flat blade and returned to stand before the female, keeping the male at the edge of my vision. The sharp steel glinting under the lights as I held it up, admiring the razor honed edge before pressing it to the female’s throat deep enough to draw a nice, slow but steady rivulet of blood to run down her neck between her ample breasts.]

Do you think you can stop it before she bleeds out? [I mused to myself, turning to the feral-eyed fury that was the male strung up in chains and licked the blade clean.]

Grahve: As the blade cut into her flesh I felt two things. One, that I hated myself for wanting her blood, and two, that I now knew such hatred that I would gladly lose almost every limb if it meant the last one could plunge a knife into that bastard’s heart.

Her blood perfumed the air the longer it ran, from her throat, all the way down to her naval and down her leg to her toes. My body hungered for it in my injured state, and with sheer force of will alone I made myself focus on Lash. He watched me, watched every emotion that played out on my face, and I found myself wishing I was more like Vishous, or Zsadist, two Brothers who knew how to hide every thought, feeling or desire. Why couldn’t they have taught a fucking class on /that/?

“What, with my tongue?” I glanced at the red river with a flash of panic and wanted to punch something. Pulling at my own restraints - and boy, didn’t that remind me of the whole gauntlet my body had already run - I leant in closer to the female, breathing in her scent. “She won’t die. It’s not enough…”

I somehow managed to regret the words the instant they were out of my mouth. Because even a statement of fact, or a general denial, would undoubtedly seem like a challenge to the demon spawn. The fresh burst of anxiety, the fear that he would suddenly pull that knife back up and whip it across her throat until I was sprayed in blood, opened my mouth.

“Forget it, you’re right. Let me stop the bleeding!” I pulled at my restraints until I could put my lips to the wound, and even as a mouthful, or two, slid down my throat, I lapped my tongue over the wound, trying to seal it.

I closed my eyes, trying to ignore Lash, ignore my body and the need that was burning inside it, even as the blood started to slow. My fangs scraped against her skin and my stomach snarled, a growl bubbling up my throat. Then I was trying to pullback, my tongue running over the wound.

Lash: Come on, you can reach her. Come on. [The encouragement was sincere enough, I /did/ want to see if he could make it on his own; the pulley system which they’d both been rigged to was movable to any place in the building with the right adjustments. The trainee didn’t disappoint. But I had doubts, I really did. For all of five seconds. And I’d been ready to follow through and gut the female from chin to belly if the male hadn’t stepped up when he did.

I shuffled around the two in a macabre dance, watching the male’s throat work the blood down as quickly as he could, his efforts trying to stop the flow in spite of the need, his body’s need, to keep drinking. I could have played this out far longer than was formally necessary, but I did so enjoy a little drama after a long dry spell. This was merely play time, a warm up session for when the Royal family came to visit. I absolutely could /not/ disappoint King Wrath upon his arrival.

As Grahve’s throat slowed, the working of his jaw indicating he was finished, though I knew he would need more than a few little sips to heal properly, I reached over and patted him on the shoulder for effort.]

Such a valiant effort. Bravo my friend. Bra-vo. See? It wasn’t as difficult as you made it seem. [I paced around the pair once, twice, the female slowly beginning to come to with mumbled whimpers and moans.] Are you sure you’ve had enough?

Grahve: Feeling Lash’s hand on my skin in a fashion that wasn’t torturous was, in itself, a kind of torture. My skin crawled as I shifted away from him, not wanting the contact, the camaraderie sensation. Crhis was my partner. The Brothers my allies. I didn’t want Lash’s praise.

I ignored his question to stare at the female, leaning in slightly.

“Hey, are you okay? My name’s Grahve. Can you hear me?”

I shot Lash a filthy look as the female mumbled and groaned, barely coherent as she struggled in her restraints and shifted in the puddle of her blood on the floor. She seemed to notice that - notice that she was naked straight after. A shudder went through her, then a kind of sob. My chest ached for her; that she’d been dragged into this shithole.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay, I’m here with you,” I murmured, wishing her blood wasn’t still on my lips, helping seal the hole in my lung. “Can you tell me your name?”

Lash: Looks like she’s not that into you, Grahve. [Doing a back n’ forth between the two, I wrapped an arm around both waists, ignoring the fact that the female was starting to really wake up now. The weak tugging on the chains was indicative of the minor blood loss and likely the blow to her head and the trainee’s encouraging tone.]

But don’t worry, I’ll send my boys out to find you something a little more fresh and easier on the eyes. [With that promise, silent shock painted the male’s face, his half-strangled cry caught in his throat as the hot red scent of iron dripped down his face, his chest and thighs. The female’s struggles were more erratic now, twitching really.]

Grahve: Red. It had a smell. I was covered in it. The taste of her was all over me. Her body writhed in front of me. Her throat was a gaping hole. Blood spurted, oozed, trickled and spilled.

“Shit…”

It was the only word that came out. She looked at me, the light in her eyes dying. Betrayal flickered there. Why was she dying. Why was I alive. Why was Lash still holding me…

Bile rose in my throat as I tried to wrench away. From him. From her. I’d failed her. As she gasped her last breath I knew I’d remember the sound until I died.

Hopefully it’d be soon…

[thegildedlady]

Tricks

“Again.”

The word rang in her ears before Ciaragan could hit the ground, face planting into the deep blue dirt. She pushed herself up on wobbly knees, retaking the stance she had yet to perfect. One hand raised in front, she dug her heels in with a twist and gave a curt nod.

A burly Stoneborn warrior barreled towards her, no mercy in her eyes as she rapidly approached Ciaragan, leading with her rock-cut shoulder. Time to think fast.

Ciaragan’s jaw was clenched so tight she feared her teeth might crack under the pressure. She strained to focus all her energy on stopping the tackler from knocking her on her ass for the umpteenth time. Her wrist flicked to one side then another, sparks of magical power igniting the static in the air like crimson fireflies.

Not fast enough.

Her chest nearly caved in when the Stoneborn struck. Ciaragan’s gangly limbs lagged behind her as her body crashed to the ground, dirt and debris flying up around the impact site. She screeched to a halt near the same spot she hit the previous time, covered in fresh scrapes and bruises.

“Again.” Came the voice of a Venthyr just out of sight.

The rage grew inside of her until she could taste it in the back of her throat. They had been at this for hours now, and Ciaragan was not a physical fighter. She never excelled at athletic pursuits, and therefore tended to avoid them at all costs. She was a spellcaster in her core. This exercise was pushing her outside of her comfort zone.

“Get up, whelp.”

She dug her fingernails into the dirt before finally pushing herself back to standing position. The Stoneborn was unbothered by her opponent’s inferiority, taking the time to stretch her winged arms up over her head and relax a bit as they waited for Ciaragan to recover.

Once more, she gave the ready signal.

Once more, she was knocked down.

“Again.”

“Enough!” cried Ciaragan, at risk of retaliation for disobeying an order. Both the Stoneborn warrior and the Venthyr overseer instructing them twisted their faces up in disgust at her defiance. They watched her crawl to her feet, stumble, then rise again as her legs shuddered beneath her, muscles failing. Whatever she lacked in strength she made up for in sheer willpower, driven by a steam engine of spite. Ciaragan turned to face the others and wiped a trickle of blood from her split brow.

“This...this isn’t working.” She half-sobbed. “Let me try something else.”

The overseer stepped into view, slowly descending from a ledge above the sparring field and sneered at Ciaragan as she pleaded.

“You don’t get to decide when we’re done. I do. Again.”

Whether ready or not, the Stoneborn began her charge towards Ciaragan. Rather than brace for impact, this time she was determined to get out of the way and rolled to the side of the path, narrowly avoiding being trampled. She used all her might to stand back up and prepare a counter attack, locking her eyes on the Stoneborn to study her movements as the beastly creature turned to find her target. Like a great horned bull, the Stoneborn snarled before starting the charge again. She closed the gap between them, closer and closer with each passing second. Ciaragan would need to act quickly to avoid another pummeling.

Whatever spell she had been trying to summon previously was discarded by the wayside. With her one good hand outstretched in front of her, the priestess had a new trick up her sleeve. She watched the Stoneborn approach and held her breath until the time was right to strike. When only a few yards between them remained, and the eyes of her opponent came into clear view, she closed her hand into a fist.

Both fighters froze instantly in place, stopping the Stoneborn dead in her tracks. She and Ciaragan’s heads were tilted back at uncomfortable angles, with their eyes rolled up into the sockets. Though her lips were moving, barely any sound escaped Ciaragan’s mouth as she murmured the Eredun curse binding them together. Visions of the Stoneborn’s mind flashed through Ciaragan’s own and vice versa. It was a foul play, and one she had not attempted since she studied the demonic arts several lifetimes ago. Still, she could not afford to bypass any useful tools in her arsenal. Faervell would be proud.

Faervell.

The intrusive memories of her brother were destabilizing Ciaragan’s control over her victim. The visions slowed until they were few and far between- a flash in the pan instead of a wildfire- and the Stoneborn warrior was able to take a knee.

“Get out of my head…” came a growl from the Stoneborn’s throat. Time was running out. A new plan was in order.

Ciaragan was less efficient at channeling with one hand instead of two, but hoped that if she could complete her spell before the Stoneborn fully recovered she might survive this fight. Crimson sparks crackled around them, heightened this time by the second wind her adrenaline rush provided. Ciaragan’s hairs stood on end as the jagged and unfamiliar magic of Revendreth pulsed through her veins. Once fully charged, she slammed her open palm down into the dirt, sending a bolt of scarlet lightning skittering towards the Stoneborn. The warrior raised her wing to block the attack, but was almost disappointed by the measly tickle of electricity as it zapped against her stone body. Her strength recovered, she stood at full height and extended her broad wings to their entire span.

“Is that all you can do? Ha! Not even a scratch on my armor,” the Stoneborn jeered, but the mockery came a bit too soon. The problems began when she willed her arms back at her sides and they would not obey her. Panicked confusion fell over the warrior’s face. Her eyes found Ciaragan’s again, and it was then she noticed the deep red shadows that connected them, reaching out across the field like crooked fingers.

“I’m more interested in what you can do…” came Ciaragan’s wicked purr. Her attention back to the attack, she twitched a long digit upward in a single jerk, curious to see what would happen. The Stoneborn watched her own limbs move without her volition as one arm fell lifeless and the other remained hanging in the air. Furious, the Stoneborn shot a look of unbridled anger at the overseer for allowing things to go off-course.

“This isn’t what we agreed to. Aren’t you going to do something?!”

The Venthyr stroked their chin nonchalantly as they pondered the idea. “I might instead wait and see what the mortal is trying on you… then we will decide if intervention is necessary.”

Ciaragan felt the rush of power circulating inside her body and could not withhold the smile stretched across her face. It had been so long since she had any sense of control over her life in Revendreth, the temptation to cause destruction was almost too much to ignore. She would go as far as they would allow her, until death or incapacitation stopped the chaos. The mortal woman’s pent up rage was about to take over.

Her next move was much more violent than a single twitch of the finger; she worked the Stoneborn warrior like a broken marionette, dropping her into painful positions only to snap her back up again. Her limbs moved awkwardly without their owner’s permission. Ciaragan’s brows pinched together as she walked the Stoneborn towards the edge of the field and towards the overseer, one muscled arm reaching up to draw the warrior’s halberd from her back…

“Stop her!” Shouted the warrior, unable to stop herself from what Ciaragan was about to make her do. The overseer rapidly realized what Ciaragan was trying and understood that playtime was over. To avoid meeting their end on the tip of a spear, the overseer dissipated mid-air and reformed in front of Ciaragan. With a swift concordance of unintelligible chants, they pulled the anima powering Ciaragan’s spell from her body and broke her hold over the Stoneborn. It sent the puppet master crumbling to the grass in a spent heap, and saved them from a sheepish explanation to their betters about how two Venthyr tacticians let a mortal overpower them.

“Impressive, for a whelp. Perhaps Andrei’s pet has some teeth after all.”

From the shadows cast over her, Ciaragan’s eyes burned a hot orange flame through the darkness. Gone was the comforting golden glow of a purified Sin’Dorei, instead replaced with something touched by Revendreth whose thirst for blood had not yet been quenched. Her unnerving smile had not fallen completely away yet, either. She rolled her head to the side and took a moment to catch her breath, still reeling from the sudden loss of anima. A clawed hand caught her chin and jerked it back to front and center. The Stoneborn warrior, now back in control, bore down on Ciaragan with fresh hatred.

“Your master will hear about this, you filthy little cheat. That mind trick you pulled wasn’t an approved spell. You’re lucky I don’t-“

The overseer laid a hand on the Stoneborn’s forearm, silencing her without another word. Both of them slipped out of Ciaragan’s vision and backed themselves into the darkness. Their roles were complete for now, and the devil they had twice since named was here to answer the call. Lord Andrei was draped in his usual velvets and furs, a stark contrast to the muddied rags hanging in shreds off his ward, Ciaragan. She was still lying face-up on the ground when his conceited expression came into view, and he smirked at her.

“My, my… That was quite the exercise.” He observed in his deep baritone. “I must admit, I had hoped we might see the results of your rule-breaking play out on the field, but hope... is a dangerous thing.”

Ciaragan felt Andrei’s fingers wrap around her throat and lift her limp body into the air. He inspected her for a while, uncaring as she struggled to breathe and clawed at his grip.

“I permitted you to begin your training with the magic of this world, a privilege generously given, so your weakness would no longer stand in the way of my orders for you. I knew you wouldn’t take such an opportunity for granted... it is the nature of a snake to strike, after all... but I must say, I did not expect to hear a demon’s tongue speak with the mouth of a priestess. The Light must have truly abandoned you here.”

Despite her position she never broke eye contact with him, and stared down death as tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes and the world began to blur around the edges. Before she could exit consciousness, Andrei’s grip loosened and she slipped through his fingers instead. Ciaragan gasped and choked on air until her breathing could steady and her mind regained its sharpness. She forced herself to rise again, despite her shaking knees and the thump of her heart against her rib cage.

Lord Andrei cocked an eyebrow as he witnessed her gather her strength. When she stood at full height, his smile had all but disappeared.

“My...Lord…” she croaked through a crumpled windpipe, then bowed to him as low as she could manage in such a condition. “The Light... abandoned me... long ago.”

She knew that Andrei preferred to watch his victims squirm, and the most effective way to defy him was to simply outlast his torment. Which by no means was an easy or guaranteed thing to do. Andrei was just as sly as she, and kept her tightly under his thumb as he did all denizens of House Iremoore. Pride, however much the Venthyr preached against it, was a potent motivator when directed in a constructive outlet. Ciaragan and Andrei were playing the long game against each other, and Andrei had already made the fatal mistake of allowing her a taste of power. It would come to be his undoing.

@pyrar for mention

[samiraahmeduk]

You never forget your first time. I was 19 years old. I descended into a weird, cramped basement where student actors brought to life a weird, twisted sexual triangle. Going to student drama productions in odd spaces around the University was one of my greatest joys of those years in the late 1980s. But this one was like no other. I knew nothing about author or play. It was like being trapped in a nightmare version of a British tv culture familiar and strange from old sitcoms and Carry Ons and earnest black-and-white archive news programmes. Twenty year olds were dressed in nylon negligees and leather trousers and those weird sixties NHS specs playing a sexually frustrated older woman and man; an Adonis like something out of Richard Hamilton’s 1956 collage Just What is It That Makes Today’s Homes So Modern, So Appealing?

Richard Hamilton (1956)

That performance of Entertaining Mister Sloane and one shortly after of What The Butler Saw sucked me in to a lifelong fascination with Joe Orton, whose plays were hugely popular among students, 20 years after his death. After graduating I would spend evenings after work listening to the audio version of Kenneth Williams’ brilliantly articulate if misleading published autobiography about Joe Orton, and reading Joe Orton’s own graphic diaries alongside them. I endlessly rewatched Stephen Frears’ film of the John Lahr biography Prick Up Your Ears, which remains one of my favourite films of all time, thanks to Alan Bennett’s delicate screenplay.

Most of all I was intrigued by the Malcolm Gladwell-10-thousand hours-esque ten years from RADA to fame. Fifty years after his appalling murder I asked to make a special Front Row for Radio 4 on Friday Aug 11th about this remarkable talent. A working class man of incredible determination and graft, who spent a decade in London reading and writing and honing his skills before fame came. Special thanks to my wonderful producer Ekene Akalawu who did such an amazing job shaping this programme and editing it.

London made John into Joe Orton, but we wanted to go back to people who knew him and to Leicester, the city that bore him.

The house on the Saffron Lane estate is gone. Joe’s sister Leonie told me she’d pleaded with the council to keep just that one house. The replacement bungalow has a tiny shabby blue plaque easy to miss and almost too high to read. As I look at it I think with frustration of the lucrative tourist industry around Paul McCartney’s National Trust owned council house in Liverpool. I wonder why the councillors of Leicester didn’t see that too?

With Leonie Orton at the Pork Pie Library, Leicester 7th Aug 2017

The Pork Pie Library (it wasn’t called that then, officially) is just round the corner. Leonie Orton, Joe’s youngest sister, who’s become his proudest and most generous champion, drove 3 hours from Norfolk, where she now lives, to talk to me. It’s a stunning art deco building which hasn’t really changed at all since Joe first started bringing her – she was 4, he was 11. She leads me to where they’d go – the children’s section. He’d read her Enid Blytons and Alice in Wonderland. She remembers how much he loved reading Shakespeare and Greek classical drama. One time they walked out and he produced a copy of Black Beauty he’d nicked and gave it to her: “Here, you can keep that.” She was too young to be able to really think about what he’d done. It’s not that anyone thinks the theft is alright. What hits me again and again is the breaktaking sense of anger and defiance of authority alongside the self-instruction that comes from every aspect of Joe Orton’s life. It’s a privilege to talk to Leonie for an hour. Sorry we couldn’t fit it all in the programme.

With Sheila Hancock

Sheila Hancock, who starred in the Broadway production and a 1968 BBC film of Entertaining Mr Sloane shared amazing stories of their friendship. Both had been born the same year, both working class and both overlapped at RADA though they didn’t know eachother as students. She fondly remembers walking with Joe around Greenwich village, pushing her pram, having Sunday lunch with her mum. Given his murder by his partner Kenneth Halliwell, she still feels regret at whether her encouragement of Joe to leave Noel Road and move on might have contributed to their arguments. Her insights into why his work has such enduring power and the impact of it in the still very deferential early 60s is hugely valuable.

John Lahr, author of Orton biography Prick Up Your Ears

John Lahr, who wrote the definitive biography Prick Up Your Ears told me he’d come to the conclusion that revenge was what motivated the greatest comedy. He felt it had motivated Orton and also his own father, the actor Bert Lahr. He also reflected on the sheer power of Orton’s eloquence; how his love of precise language is a skill that is being lost in our instant sharing age.

I also asked John about the modern accusation that his biography, framing Orton by his murder, could be seen to have unfairly defined this writer by his sexuality and his tragic death; a gay martyr. John firmly challenged that idea.

With Dr Emma Parker at New Walk Museum and Art Gallery, Leicester

Nor did we shy away from difficult questions about Joe Orton’s sex holidays exploiting teenage boys in Morocco.  Both Leicester University’s Dr Emma Parker and Nikolai Foster, artistic director of Curve theatre, acknowledged how he was a working class iconoclast, who nonetheless displayed a colonial mindset as a sex tourist. Dr Parker does point out that it’s clear from his diaries that he never slept with boys under the local age of consent. And it seems important to acknowledge the importance of British criminal law in persecuting and distorting gay men’s lives.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

In the New Walk Museum and Art Gallery Dr Parker and I took a closer look at copies of some of the remarkable book covers Orton and Halliwell made and reflected on their excessive 6 month jail sentence for criminal damage. If you thought it was just tearing up books and scribbling in the margins, look again. Dr Parker also had some intriguing theory about Orton defacing only the Arden editions of Shakespeare, used by grammar schools and universities, not the cheaper Everyman editions which he owned and loved.

Nikolai Foster, Curve Artistic Director

Nikolai who directed an acclaimed Curve production of What the Butler Saw, starring Rufus Hound earlier this year, is passionate about how much Orton still speaks to modern Britain about class and deference and sexual taboos. We had a wonderful conversation about how Orton and working class talent is still held at a distance by the theatrical establishment; how much of a battle there still is for fair access and respect. Watching many of the films in the BFI archive, some of them being screened at BFI Southbank this month, it struck me that his work really comes truly alive only as theatre including the potential of TV, rather than the cinematic films which tried to open the stories up into other locations. The Bacchae-inspired TV play The Erpingham Camp, about a revolt in a holiday camp, is still remarkable viewing, and connects like an arrow to the world of Chris Morris and Black Mirror.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Like Curve, Soft Touch Arts, a community based arts project, has done fabulous work to engage young people in Leicester in Joe Orton’s work. Jenna Forbes, who grew up on the Saffron Lane estate, like Joe, was wonderfully passionate, thoughtful and articulate about how he changed her life. At the exhibition they’ve put together there’s a boardgame based on his life. Jenna told me today how it was the most popular object on the opening night of their exhibition on Wednesday. There’s also art work by young prisoners and a copy of Generation X – the 1960s book about young people’s attitudes that Joe Orton got quoted extensively in, after lying about his age. Do visit their show, right opposite the Joe Orton exhibition co-curated by Dr Parker at the New Walk Museum and Art Gallery.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Leonie says what really makes her angry is the thought that now, she and Joe would, should have been sharing their stories, and reminiscing. She’s 71; he would have been 84. They should be golden years. Grief must be compounded by an anger we should all feel that he was robbed of all the years he would have gone on to achieve so much more. Her terrific memoir, I Had It In Me, raises important challenges to some of the artistic licence taken in the film of Prick Up Your Ears. It reveals unpleasant truths about how the family was been treated over the years by the literary establishment of agents and lawyers as Leonie tried to take responsible ownership of his papers. I’m most shocked by the fact that the original London diary has disappeared. Only partial typescript copies survive of the original that John Lahr was able to use in his research. The last few days of entries in the days before his murder have never been found. There are theories about whether that was to protect famous names. Perhaps some or all of these papers are sitting in a lawyer’s vault. It still feels as if there’s a middle class attempt to control and limit the raw power if what Joe Orton could do with words.

My Front Row Joe Orton special  produced by Ekene Akalawu is on BBC Radio 4 on Friday August 11th at 715pm and iplayer after.

Filth, fury and the funny way Britain feels about Joe Orton You never forget your first time. I was 19 years old. I descended into a weird, cramped basement where student actors brought to life a weird, twisted sexual triangle.