Caleb Crain writes about the boom, and subsequent crash, of the gay novel: http://nyr.kr/1tCF94A“Shouldn’t the way a sex scene is written, or isn’t written, depend on the aesthetic effects that a novelist is aiming for? After all, if the choice were determined instead by a stereotype that the mainstream has of gay identity, the novelist wouldn’t be functioning as an artist. He would be functioning as a minstrel, acting out a caricature in order to entertain and, perhaps more important, to reassure his mainstream audience.”Above: Castro Street, 1980. Photograph by Paul Fusco/Magnum.
Bucky Barnes doesn’t remember who he is, and Steve Rogers digs his own grave.
2k words, cw: dubcon, knives, general fucked up. For Emily. ♥
You are not your father’s son; you are the son of no one. The blood in your veins is as frozen as the expressions on the faces of the people you (target/deal with/eliminate/kill) and that is how you are made to be by men in lab coats and women with clip boards. You measure their heart rate by the swift thrum of arterial blood, visible to the trained eye on the inside of a human wrist and on the side of the neck and oh, your eye is trained.
The year is —
INSTANT FIC REC