#i should film a time lapse of me making one sometime

[yunogf]

Hello! I love your game covers! I wanted to ask how you make the quality of the pictures look like old video game graphics? It's such a thorough effect!

hi hi thank uuuuuu 🥰💕💓💕💗💞💖💕💓💕💓💞 aside from any coloring adjustments that i make i apply filters from the filter gallery 1) paint daubs and 2) poster edges but sometimes the colors will look really blotchy so i add an extra adjustment layer of posterize if i need things to look more seamless

here's an example that came out really well imo:

the first one is just the pictures themselves with base editing - the second one is with just the coloring/adjustment layers - the third one is with both filter gallery effects applied

this is a less "crunchy" turnout but i really like this effect as well (this is the first one i ever did <3) and it follows the same steps as the taeyong one!

this was a trial and error process wherein most of the time everything came out looking overedited but i think i've found the process that works best for what i'm looking for <3

it works best on high quality well lit pictures but i use a lot of screenshots from music videos too so i play around w the levels of the filters and then the adjustments until i like how it comes out

also it's a better practice to edit the pictures separately as smart objects and then add them to the main project as pngs so that you don't lose quality as you change the size of each picture buuuut i end up taking the lazy route and edit everything in the same space 😅😅😅

[honeytonedhottie]

studying methods + tips⋆.ೃ࿔*:･✍🏽

LEITNER SYSTEM ; an effective way to study with flashcards

create flashcards

all ur flashcards should begin with box one or whatever box number (check the example)

for example ; in a box/pouch you'd label it ; box one cards to be reviewed everyday, box two cards to be reviewed every other day etc.

review each flashcard, quiz urself on what u recall/explain the info on each side

if u answered correctly move the card to box two and if u answered incorrectly, move the card to box one

the time frame should be dependent on the amount of time before ur quiz/test that u have to study.

HOT TIP ; treat studying like it's a job and you're getting paid for it. work agreed hours and take arranged breaks as though its a real job.

MORE WAYS TO STUDY ;

add color or diagram your notes and if ur not taking notes, TAKE NOTES

summarize your notes and summarize concepts (if u can explain a concept, thats how you'll know if u studied it enough)

make a concept map

pretend to be a teacher and ur explaining a concept

HOW TO MOTIVATE YOURSELF TO STUDY ;

i watch time-lapse studying videos to motivate myself to study bcuz then it feels like im studying with another person. or i'll set up my phone and film my own time-lapse of me studying to motivate myself.

implementing something that u love into studying. for me i love pink and just being a girly girl so i implement pink into my studying by using super cute stationary and that rly motivates me to use my pink tools.

i dont always study in the same locations, sometimes i'll study in a cafe or in the library instead of just studying in my room bcuz sometimes, all we need is a change of scenery.

[tealeafsoda]

HYPERFIXATIONS AND HORROR

Pairing: Vil Schoenheit x reader (platonic or romantic)

Content: requested, gn reader (you/your), autistic reader, fluff, 570 words

Notes: me and the bad bitch I pulled by being autistic <- u and Vil

•Vil insisting on you becoming his main consultant during any horror-themed projects that the film studies club takes on. (Not only that, but indirectly introducing you to other students with the same passion as you in the crew/cast). Even if you have anxieties about messing up, him seeing far too much potential in you to just leave it alone.

•The club itself experiencing an increase in horror-themed short films (Vil insisting it's just because there are so many versions of one genre to explore, but expanding your horizons to work on more than just one type of horror film is a bonus).

•Vil also bouncing ideas off of you (whether you have time to reply or not). And valuing that you're straightforward in your replies (even if others would think its rude, to him it just gets the process done easier).

•Him not just keeping you to one specific job. So far, you've done assistant directing, scripting and costume/ character designs, and him having no plan on stopping there (lighting and set design look tempting for you next) (the 10 fussy members totally not being part of the reason, it's just convenient) (well, maybe a little). Which has given you a better understanding of your strengths and weaknesses.

•But if the set is too hectic, there always being an easy way out to breathe for a few minutes. As his intention is never to overwhelm you.

•Vil being open to any suggestions for making the experience less stressful, as art should be available to all.

•But the strict timetable when it comes to filming also acting as a reliable routine.

•If you're uncomfortable talking face to face, communication online becoming more common in discussions. Or at least talking whilst working on something else.

•Making mood boards together when designing characters and monsters. Hyperfocus coming in handy to get the smallest details down to a tee.

•Him always sending you behind-the-scenes pictures. But it increasing drastically when working on darker shoots. (In the time-lapses of his makeup process that the crew sometimes film for advertisement/ social media content, something that doesn't go unnoticed by fans was how much time he spends on his phone instead of inspecting his makeup in the mirror like usual. What they don't know is that he's sending you full paragraphs on what's happening, complaints and any other thing he can think of).

•When a director for a horror advert he agreed to film allowed him to take a prop from the set, Vil having to stand and hold it whilst you stimmed so hard it tired you out (after that, him trying to get you props more often).

•Vil appreciating it if you talk about the nuance of characters in horror films. Especially villains, as they're the ones he gets cast as (even if they're typically other-worldly beauties or breathtaking tempters, reputation and critical thinking are greatly valued by him when it comes to the approach of these characters).

•Going through films to find antagonistic characters/ villains who aren't just one-dimensional to watch together.

•But also watching the classic thrillers and you both pointing out the details and writing that have affected the horror franchise.

•Trying to find different ways to approach traditional horror tropes.

•Searching through indie films for more character-based horrors.

•Your enthusiasm influencing Vil's approach to horror films, and him finding that he always enjoys working with you (and subsequently becoming fonder of the genre).

[mystery-moose]

Reading more and more Gonchposts (and enjoying the vast majority of them) and it’s starting to pull together a lot of feelings in my head about art and experience and analysis and stuff, and the big one is that I wish that the collection of ideas the collective tumblr consciousness was pulling from to create Goncharov was based more in… like, actual knowledge and experience and history and critical thought of the thing they’re building, rather than the vaguely defined and perpetually regurgitated cultural assumptions of what that thing is.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s fascinating to watch all this bubble up and sort of collect into a meaningful “canon.” It’s especially wild seeing tropes and ideas pop up that are absolutely based in trends within the genre and even from within Scorsese’s own filmography, knowing that most people aren’t even aware that they’re being that insightful! All that kind of shit is incredible and creative and cool and probably needs at least one good academic treatise written about it.

But at the same time, I can’t help but keep coming back to the thought that people should experience art itself and not be satisfied with vagueries and preconceptions about that art.

Like I’m becoming a broken record about this but… please watch great movies! Please engage with great art! I’m not saying you have to love it, I’m not even saying it’s by necessity “great,” really (I got some thoughts about a lot of so-called classics in a lot of mediums) but I am saying there’s value in seeing it and forming your own opinion on it. Not just ignoring it because you think it’s dumb, or boring, or ugly, or ignorant, or overrated. If you are way into Goncharov right now, and I know we all are, I am begging you to watch The Irishman! Or Gomorrah! Or Heat or The Sting or Goodfellas or The Godfather or… whatever you want, really!

And I know, I KNOW what the culture around those sorts of movies has been like, I’ve been on fuckin’ Letterboxd, the film bro is real and exists. But the unfortunate part is that sometimes he’s onto something! And if you let him stop you from enriching your life, if you let him gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss you from watching great movies? Then the film bro has truly defeated you.

None of this is to say that “important��� art isn’t often problematic, for the record! Or that “important” art should distract you from art that is, by some circumstance or another, ignored and marginalized but no less meaningful. But I think we must be mature enough to admit that, sometimes, the cultural consensus (however warped and twisted by systemic and historical forces it may be) can highlight some pretty extraordinary works. And taking the time to experience these things, to examine them and think critically about them, is an incredibly valuable experience that more people should have! Even if that ends with you deciding you hate it, that it’s not that important, or that the things it is important to are totally worthy of your dismissal.

To be perfectly honest I think the reason this is frustrating me is that the core idea of “Goncharov” as a bit? It’s really very simple: it’s a great mafia movie by a great filmmaker with themes and symbolism and nuanced performances and memorable sequences and artful composition and much to think about, that no one has seen because it’s so obscure. But that movie exists! It exists a thousand times over! If the joke for you is that you would ever take an interest in such a thing, like “imagine me watching a three hour long Scorsese movie with a focus on male relationships and tons of lapsed Catholic themes, ha ha couldn’t be me”, then I encourage you to think of it as more than a joke. Who knows, you might find something that strikes you, challenges you, makes you reconsider your preconceptions, changes your mind in some tiny but meaningful way! Or maybe it won’t and your preconceptions will be reinforced. But even then, those ideas will be more meaningful to you, more solid, because you have genuine experience and analysis and thought to buttress them!

I don’t know, I’m rambling, it’s late, I’m tired and hungry and worn out after a long day. Maybe none of this bothers anyone but my dumb ass. Maybe I’m frustrated over nothing, or picking up on vibes that aren’t really there. But I gotta vent my guts out somewhere and it sure as shit can’t be twitter anymore, y’know?

[noforkingclue]

How He Feels (Sam Wilson x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Summary: It was clear to everyone apart from you that Sam liked you. Maybe with a little encouragement Sam would tell you how he felt before it was too late.

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary

Warnings: Angst, angst, all the angst and unrequited love!

Author’s Note: Prequel to Come Back

“You should tell her.”

Sam jumped when he heard Steve speak. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard him approach. Steve gave him an amused look as Sam folded his arms and looked away.

“Tell who what?” he asked

“Y/n,” Steve nodded out at the figure watching the sunset, “It’s obvious.”

Sam looked at Steve out of the corner of before sighing and looking away. He ran a hand over his face and said,

“That obvious?”

“To someone who knows you, yes.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey,” Steve clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, “You need to tell her.”

“That would only make things worse.”

“How?”

“You know her rule, no dating team mates.”

Steve sighed and looked at his friend. Sam’s affection for you was clear, especially to Steve who could clearly see how much you meant to him. Ever since you and Sam had met you had gotten along. The bond between the two of you was clear and while Sam’s feelings were obvious yours were less so. You were naturally affectionate with most people so it was surprisingly difficult to tell your true feelings.

“Besides,” Sam continued, “I don’t want to ruin our friendship. What happens if she doesn’t feel the same way? Things won’t be able to go back to the way they were before. Even if she says we can remain friends it’ll be awkward. There’ll be no going back if she rejects me.”

“Sometimes,” said Steve, “Things in life are worth taking the risk.”

At that moment you looked over at them and beamed. As you started walking towards them Sam’s gaze softened at your smile. He tried to push down the feeling in his stomach when he saw the way your eyes lit up when you saw them. Maybe Steve was right, maybe some things were worth taking the risk on.

 *

 “You’re in love with her.”

Sam looked over at Natasha who was standing next to him. Steve had gone out and you were currently sleeping on the sofa. When you, Steve and Natasha arrived on Sam’s doorstep he didn’t hesitate in letting the three of you in. The exhausted look on you face made Sam want to scoop you into his arms and never let you go. To assure you that everything will be alright and he’ll be there to protect you.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please,” Natasha gave him a pointed look, “It’s obvious.”

“That’s what Steve said.”

“Did he,” Natasha looked amused, “And you still haven’t done anything?”

“Why would I?

“This life,” Natasha looked back at you, “Is far too short to hold anything back. You think that you can put it off for one more day, that you’ll tell her how you feel tomorrow, but when tomorrow comes one of you might not be around to hear it.”

“So what you’re saying is I should tell her because one of us might die tomorrow.”

“Could even be sooner.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re an optimist?”

“I prefer the term realist.”

Natasha gave him a brief smile but Sam kept looking at you. He had initially tried to persuade you to take his bed and for him to sleep on the sofa. Of course it was because it was comfier than the sofa but a small part (a very small part) wanted to see you wrapped up in his sheets. To see what you might look like in his bed, to have a guess at what it might look like to wake up next to you. You turned over in your sleep and the blanket Sam had given you fell to the floor. Immediately Sam moved to place it back over you, much to the amusement of Natasha.

“Sam?”

Sam froze when you said his name sleepily. You looked at him and rubbed your eyes tiredly.

“What time is it?” you asked trying to sit up

“Early.”

“Then why aren’t you asleep?”

“Couldn’t fall asleep,” he said, “You should try and get some more. You sure you don’t want the bed?”

“Positive. Besides your sofa is surprisingly comfy. Night Sam.”

“Night sleepy.”

As Sam walked passed Natasha he ignored the pointed look she gave him. It was better to deny his feelings for you and preserve a friendship he wouldn’t exchange for anything then to confess and ruin it. Even if it hurt him to do so.

 *

 Seeing you, in that moment, made Sam understand why a crush was called a crush. It was because in the end someone’s feelings were going to get crushed. It just never occurred to him that it might’ve been his.

He was watching Bucky awkwardly trying to teach you to dance. A small smile was on you face and your cheeks turned red whenever Bucky touched you. Soft 1940s music echoed around the hideout as Bucky took one of your hands in his. Bucky hesitated slightly before moving his metal hand to your waist. It stopped just above it and you smiled up at him. You took Bucky’s metal hand and placed it on your waist, clearly not bothered by the danger you could be in. Bucky seemed startled by your apparent bravery but you ignore the look and started swaying to the music.

Sam didn’t comment when he heard Steve approach him or shake off the comforting hand he put on his shoulder. He didn’t realise how close you and Bucky had become since he had last seen you. It was something he wasn’t expecting. He had seen you smiled and laugh a hundred times before but what struck him most was the look in your eyes.

The soft, understanding gaze of someone who had found a deeper connection with another person. The way your eyes lit up when Bucky spun you around or when you lost your footing and Bucky immediately wrapped his arm around your waist to steady you. The way you laughed and rested your head against his chest. Sam closed his eyes and walked away not able to stand seeing you and Bucky together. He was vaguely aware of Steve following him but he didn’t say anything until they were out of the room.

“When did that happen?” Sam asked eventually

“They’re not together.” Steve said quickly

Steve gave him a disbelieving looking and Steve shifted awkwardly.

“Not very long, I think,” he admitted, “Not quite sure how it happened.”

Sam was silent for a moment then he ran a hand over his face. Steve stood back and grimaced slightly. Sam’s feelings had been clear from the start but you had always been oblivious to them.

“Look, Sam-“

Sam held up a hand and Steve stopped.

“Not right now,” he said, “What I really need is a drink.”

 *

 Sam had never seen a sunset quite like the one in Wakanda. Colours he didn’t even know that the sky could make were splashed across the sky. You were leaning against the balcony watching the sun slowly set as he walked towards you. The two of you stood in silence until you said,

“Do you ever think he’ll wake up?”

“Who? Bucky?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Good.”

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence. That was the one thing Sam loved about being with you, even when the two of you didn’t talk it was never awkward. You could be doing completely different things and never have a moment of awkwardness between you. Sam could count the number of people he could do that with on one hand and most of them were family.

“I didn’t know,” he said eventually, “About you and Barnes.”

You looked over sharply. Even in the dying light Sam could see the red on your cheeks.

“He’s just a friend,” you said, “I don’t date colleagues.”

“He’s not exactly a colleague is he.”

Sam couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice and you looked at him in shock. Eventually you said,

“You still don’t trust him do you?”

“I’m just worried,” he said, “How well do you really know him?”

“I’m not dating him,” you said, “And we have actually spent quite a bit of time together. Steve’s been so busy lately so Bucky and I have been together. I’ve been helping him catch up to the modern world, watching films with him, introducing him to new music. He’s even been teaching me how to dance.”

Sam looked away, the memory of how close you and Bucky had been still fresh in his memory.

“This isn’t the Winter Soldier we’re dealing with,” you assured him, “It’s James Buchanan Barnes that we’re dealing with. He’s a different person. You trust me right?”

“Yeah. I trust you.”

“Good.”

You rested your head against Sam’s arm and he automatically wrapped an arm around your shoulders. The peaceful silence settled over the two of you again and Sam realised that there was nowhere else he’d rather be. With no one else around, and just you and him watching the sun set over Wakanda he could pretend that it was just the two against the world. While Sam knew his feelings weren’t reciprocated he was going to be there for you. He valued having you as a friend and right now that is what you needed more than anything in the world.

 *

 Sam practically flung open the door after you knocked. You stood there looking up at him for a second before you smiled and wrapped your arms around him. Sam enclosed him arms around you and rested his chin on top of your head. Everything had been so hectic since everyone came back that the two of you hadn’t had time to properly catch up. He breathed in the scent of your shampoo and you looked up at him amused.

“Missed me?” you asked

“Is that even a question?”

You laughed and playfully slapped Sam on the arm. He let go of you and stumbled back pretending to be hurt. You just rolled your eyes and entered his house, carefully shutting the door behind you. Sam had moved into the kitchen and started making you your favourite drink. It felt good to see you properly after so long and it had given him plenty of think to think over your relationship. A soft hand placed itself over his wrist and he looked up at you.

“What’s the matter?” he asked

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” you said, “It’s important.”

You had an anxious look on your face and Sam couldn’t help the butterflies that appear in his stomach. The bubbling nervousness that only increased when he fully took in your face. He had never seen you look so nervous before and you took a deep breath and walked away. You sat down on his sofa and patted the seat next to you with a soft smile. Sam didn’t hesitate in rushing to your side. He took your hand and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, a gesture he knew always calmed you down.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while,” you said, “But it never seemed the right time.”

“You know you can tell me anything,” said Sam, “What are friends for?”

“Of course.”

You smiled at him and Sam felt his heart skip a beat at it. He had forgotten how beautiful it was. How he wanted to pull you into his arms and kiss you and tell you how much he loved you. How he had always loved you and never wanted to let you go. Eventually you said,

“Sam, I’ve decided to retire.”

[earth-electric]

Killing Eve Timeline (Tentative): With the Help of the Weather & Wardrobe

This took me fucking weeks and a lot of fucking headaches, so buckle up and shut up bitches!

I'm not going to go through each episode of days and days in-between, that's going to take to long to type (I already spent ages figuring it out, and now I'm lazy). What I am going to do is go by estimated total amount of time, and the estimated months. Along with observed weather patterns and wardrobe choices during the duration of the shows seasons.

The show purposely made shit vague. With weather being unpredictable, and filming scheduling of course they would make it hard to determine the dates and months of the show, but I do believe they do have a specific timeline they are following.

Thankfully season 3 being the outlier that it is, we have a clear and cut season (shocker) to base our timeline.

To note before continuing, Europe weather is weird, especially in the UK since its an oceanic climate mostly, that shit is wild. I went to London in mid June, it was gloomy, rainy, and chilly. Also its sporadic, its gloomy and chilly all year round and has glimmers of good days shoved in-between, then you go to France and its weather is warm when it should be and its cray cray, any who...

Season 1:

Estimated Total Time: ~42 days, 6 weeks

Estimated Time Period: March 15-21, 2018 to April 26-May 2, 2018

Many are going to point out, "Well the show started in April, so its April." Nah bitch st down. S1 and S2 are sister timelines and there's a fucking reason so wait. The thing about the first season, it's a messy, weird ass timeline and a lot of it had a gray tint when they had scenes out side (except for the scene in episode 5 of Villaneve meeting on a woodsy path), and of course that was purposely done. The season starts in early spring, we know Villanelles birthday just passed and peeps in London should not be wearing light layers lol it should be cold, cold even in late April but it must have been one of those good glimmer days. Now late April, they go to Russia unclear where but for this time it makes sense for Russia to be very cold (mid 20's to low 50's) but a few weeks the weather changes to be similar to or even warmer than London. This is one reason why the show does not start in April it wouldn't be that cold in late May or early June in Russia.

Season 2:

Estimated Total Time: ~49 days, 7 weeks

Estimated Time Period: April 26-May 2, 2018 to June 14-20, 2018

S2 is also a messy ass of a timeline. Especially pertaining to the time in Rome, which takes place in June, for creators sake they are wearing jackets and layered clothing have y'all ever been to Rome in June its hot, sometimes warm with a cool breeze but yeah I wouldn't wear a long sleeve or jacket. But they were filming in Italy in December, so this was a filming issue and its hella cold in Italy in December, so its not a pass but I understand. So yes season 2 takes place in late spring time, as you can see as how beautiful Amsterdam was. The Italy sequences could not have been more later, they had to be mid June to pass as average temp was in the 70's to low 80's and can be in the high 50's/low 60's some days, so a cool weekend in mid June can be passed off. Again another reason the show didn't start in April, but 2 to 3 weeks before.

Major Time Lapse:

Estimated Total Time: ~1 year & ~1 to 3 months

*Will explain this on a later date, but in short Eve's injury was very severe.

Season 3:

Estimated Total Time: ~59 -63 days, 8.5 to 9 weeks

Estimated Total Time: July/August/September 26, 2019 to

September/October/November 24, 2019

Thank goodness for S3 or I will be so lost, it is the only season with a transition of seasons and you can very clearly see it in the wardrobe. We go from summer to autumn, and the symbolism of that is beautiful. Episode 1 to 4 they are wearing very little layers, the least amount we ever seen our peeps in London wear. By episode 6 we clearly see a shift in clothing, much more thick layers from then on. And yes its that simple, S3 did a lot of weird shit but that timeline is on point. I am not firmly sure on a specific set of months, it can be between; July to September, August to October, or September to November. You can choose based on when you want Eve's birthday to be; based on evidence that contradict my estimations it's most likely to be August 20th, based on my calculations alone September 20th, or an extra possibility October 20th.

Can this timeline give us foresight into Season 4?

Probably, we can get a sense of what time of year the next season will take place. We have never seen a winter in the Killing Eve dimension so for me that will be cool to see (Villaneve snuggles please?). And that would mean season 4 starting right where is left off. If not, another springtime season probably a few months after, but I have feelings of doubt about that maybe that's my bias talking.

There is also the prospect of the timeline getting longer and longer. For example, S1 was 6 weeks, S2 was 7 weeks, and S3 was around 9 weeks. Maybe next seasons timeline will be 10 to 12 weeks? Who knows possibilities are endless. S4 is the season full of new possibilities. Thanks for reading! Hope this helps in the future!

[dynamics-of-an-asteroid]

Dont suppose you have a copy of the interview you could share?

For you, dear anon~

His Dark Materials: Andrew Scott on life after Fleabag and Sherlock

We’ve loved him as both Fleabag’s Hot Priest and Sherlock’s menacing Moriarty. Now, he’s back on our screens in the new series of His Dark Materials. Polly Vernon talks to our TV crush

Andrew Scott is mortified. The actor – formerly Moriarty to Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, then the Hot Priest of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, imminently Colonel John Parry in the BBC’s adaptation of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials – arrives at the photographic studio, bang on the appointed hour, in a fawn cashmere cardigan with a fine gold chain around his neck, bemoaning “this terrible, terrible eye infection, which is making me so self-conscious. I’m so sorry. It isn’t that you’ve massively upset me before we’ve even started. It’s so annoying. But anyway…”

Scott, 44, is small, vivid, wiry and garrulously Irish, with a face that is not handsome so much as mesmerising, intense, sharply boned, symmetrical, startlingly expressive. Sequences of emotions so subtle and complicated that I can’t begin to identify or keep up with them ruffle his brow from moment to moment. And, yup, the whole thing is rather disrupted by his left eye. This is no light kiss of conjunctivitis. It’s a swollen, red, perma-weeping situation that engulfs the whole socket. Scott turns his face two thirds on to me, so the infection is largely hidden, which would probably help if we weren’t sitting in a brightly lit hair and make-up room with a massive, inescapable mirror fixed to one wall. “Oh God,” Scott says every time he catches sight of his reflection.

Stress?

“Let’s be honest,” he says. “Let’s not skirt around the issue. It’s being overworked and…” Scott’s eye begins weeping. “Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. Really, really very sorry.”

Wanna wear my sunglasses, I ask, holding them out to him.

“That would be a bit more weird, wouldn’t it? I actually did think about that in the taxi, but I thought that would be some sort of weird and screwed Invisible Man-type thing. I mean, it couldn’t be worse. And then we have to go and get our photograph taken. It’ll be one of those pictures where, you know, those creepy pictures… Of people crying?”

That’s what Photoshop’s for, I say.

“Anyway. Let’s just ignore it.”

I wonder if it’s particularly hard to walk around with an eye infection at a point in time where you’re not merely famous, as Scott is – a star of stage, screen and Bond film, winner of multiple awards, including, as of barely two weeks ago, a Best Actor Olivier for Present Laughter at the Old Vic – but specifically famous for being sexy.

In 2019, Andrew Scott became synonymous with, well, sex. While playing a character technically known as the Priest, whom the general public instantly renamed the Hot Priest, the spiritual support turned transgressive love interest of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s supremely popular Fleabag, Scott became a cypher for the nation’s more exotic desires. A deliciously contentious pin-up. Ground zero on an earnest social media debate about whether the Priest’s relationship with Fleabag should be considered abusive, power imbalanced, “problematic”. And that was just for starters.

The Priest’s sexual iconography extended far beyond the limits of the show, becoming the subject of internet memes and real-life merchandise (visit online retailer Etsy for your £12 Hot Priest mug emblazoned with an illustration of Scott in priest’s robes, alongside the word “kneel”, a reference to a pivotal moment between the show’s lead characters, which takes place in a confession box, the climax of which, assuming you haven’t already seen it, you could probably take a stab at). There was an unprecedented upsurge in young worshippers, and women started bombarding social media “influencer” the Rev Chris Lee of west London with nude photographs. There was much foetid fan fiction.

To be publicly defined by so much sex, as Scott still is, a year and a half after Fleabag concluded, and then to be encumbered by something as visibly unsexy as an eye infection, I can see how that might make a chap self-conscious.

Scott isn’t here to rake up all that old Hot Priest stuff, mind. He’s here to talk about the second series of His Dark Materials, a lush, expensive fantasy drama based on the Philip Pullman books, jewel in the crown of the BBC’s autumn schedule. The series was filmed through 2019 and the beginning of 2020 and had all but wrapped before lockdown. Good timing, as it turned out, because the extensive post-production processes, unlike shooting, could be completed in isolation.

Scott’s Colonel John Parry is an explorer, the missing father of the central character, 14-year-old Will Parry. He’s a man who slipped into a parallel universe some years earlier, acquired a “daemon” – an exterior animal-formed expression of his soul, a female osprey called Sayan Kötör, voiced with public-pleasing symmetry by Phoebe Waller-Bridge – and never found a way back to “our” world and his son. I speak as a fan of the books, which you might describe as a darker, existential response to Harry Potter, although honestly? They’re better than that. The show is great, a deft, rewarding interpretation, and Scott is an exciting prospect as Parry.

Did he jump at the part?

“I did, actually. It was definitely something I was into. We were doing a play and it seemed like a fun thing to do.” Scott is one of those who slips into the third person when speaking about himself in a professional capacity.

Had he read the books?

“Yeah,” he says. “I think they’re extraordinary. The truth, but told on a slant. I love the way Pullman tells children about spirituality or religion in such an extraordinary, intelligent way. He doesn’t speak down to them. He talks to children’s souls.”

Given that Pullman effectively kills off God through the course of the books and Scott’s a lapsed Irish Catholic who has suffered his share of shame on account of the church’s grip on his homeland (more on which shortly), I’d imagine Pullman’s books talked to Scott’s adult soul too.

Presumably, he didn’t have to audition. Presumably, he never has to. Too famous for auditions?

“No,” he says. “Although I’ve always thought auditioning is a pretty good thing to do.”

Why?

“Because you’re able to understand, ‘Oh, this is the vibe here.’ You think, when you’re an actor, you don’t have much choice, but I’ve always felt like auditioning is a good opportunity for you to go, ‘Oh well, I don’t much like you either. I think you’re dreadful!’ ”

I don’t care that you didn’t give me that part?

“Yeah.” Scott becomes playfully, theatrically defiant. “I don’t care!” He flicks aside an imaginary rejection with a churlish hand.

Will John Parry and His Dark Materials be enough to eliminate all residual overtones of Hot Priest sexiness from Scott? Maybe. He is a fine actor, no question, entirely transformed from role to role. I saw him play Paul, a narcissistic, fame-addled touring rock star, at the Royal Court in 2014 in Simon Stephens’ Birdland, back when his deeply sinister Moriarty weighed almost as heavily on Scott’s reputation as the Hot Priest does now. I’d watched him become someone else entirely on stage. “Oh, you saw that?” Scott says, pleased.

I quote, “Am I cancer?” at him, his defining line from the play, as evidence.

“Oh Jesus. Oh f***ing hell. Oh my. I’d forgotten that line. ‘Am I cancer?’ ”

The Hot Priest association hasn’t left him yet, which is why I find myself asking what it’s like to be the very definition of sexiness.

“You get invited to more parties.”

Better parties?

“Yeah.”

Better than during his Moriarty phase?

“Definitely.”

It must be fun to find yourself le dernier cri in sexy, according to the whole nation.

“Yeah, that’s fun,” he says. “I didn’t really like being associated with scary. It’s not what I’m interested in being, in life, being intimidating to people. It’s not part of my nature, whereas being sexy to people…”

That is part of his nature?

“Well, they’re very different things.”

They’re both about having power over people.

“I suppose they are, yes.”

So did Scott, bored of scaring people, say to Phoebe Waller-Bridge, writer and star of Fleabag and a long-term friend (they met in 2009 while starring in Roaring Trade at the Soho Theatre), “Write a role for me that will make everyone think I’m just really, really sexy now”?

“That’s such a good belt. Are they two ‘Gs’?”

“Exactly.”

——————————

Andrew Scott is not the easiest interview. He’s utterly charming. Really, just a delight. In between prostrating himself for the offence of his eye and apologising for not turning up the first time we were scheduled to meet (ten days earlier; a delayed Covid test result meant he couldn’t make it), he ensures I have a good time in his company. He is playful. He makes me laugh. His every utterance is delivered as a grand performance. (“Shhhh! Just… Shhhh!” he implores, placing a finger against his lips while expressing frustrations over the mindless jabber of social media, and he does it so powerfully, he compels me to be quiet, breathlessly to await delivery of his next line.) He finds elegant ways to flatter me. He laughs at my jokes and is terribly taken with my belt.

Yeah. For Gucci.

“Oh. Ha ha! I thought it was the Golden Globes. I love the Golden Globes. Ha ha!”

And of course, he’s Irish. Clichédly, melodiously Irish, which makes everything sound softer and jollier than it might otherwise.

As for the actual business of being interviewed, of answering straight questions with straight answers, finishing off sentences, offering more than a slip-slide of vagaries punctuated by vigorous hand gestures, none of which translates into print? He’d rather not.

He tells me, as he’s told other journalists before, this is because he’s interested in navigating the line between “privacy and secrecy”, then says he’s aware he’s sometimes “got away with secrecy under the guise and respectability of privacy”, as if signalling potential incoming slipperiness, which means I prepare to throw every trick in the book at him.

First up: amateur psychology.

Might Andrew Scott’s gayness be at the heart of his reluctance to speak more freely? Perhaps. This is no scoop. He’s been out for almost as long as he’s been famous. “I mean, as a civilian, I was quite young [when I came out], you know? But then, as a celebrity…”

He tails off, allows me to fill in the blanks. This is another of his evasion tactics. I can’t very well quote Scott on the presumptions I make about things he never quite says.

He had to have another coming out?

“Yes. And I have another one coming up.”

He has another coming out coming up?

“Yeah.”

So that will be, what? Tier 3 gayness?

“Tier 3, yeah.”

Scott grew up in Ireland at a time when it wasn’t legal to be gay, which could certainly seed an enduring reluctance towards carefree openness in a person. He invokes the concept of shame more regularly than the average interviewee. He was born in Dublin in 1976 to Nora, an art teacher, and Jim, who worked at an employment agency. He has one older sister, Sarah, and a younger one, Hannah.

He was shy, so started attending a children’s drama course.

Did that help?

“Yeah. Acting to me is not pretending to be someone else. It’s more like, this is who I actually am. The lie that tells the truth,” he says. I am none the wiser. He was clearly talented. He went from adverts to his first starring role in a film aged 17 (Korea, directed by Cathal Black), won a bursary to art school but took a place at Trinity College Dublin to study drama instead, and ditched that six months in to join Dublin’s Abbey Theatre. He’s been gainfully employed in the field ever since.

How Catholic was his upbringing?

“Well, there were Catholic priests in my life,” he says. “None of whom I wanted to have sex with.”

Does it amuse Scott to know he inspired a mass fetishising of priestly ranks? That in 2019, the Hot Priest would make, “Can you have sex with a Catholic priest?” one of the most googled terms of the year?

“Absolutely f***ing mental,” he says.

Homosexuality wasn’t legalised in Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16.

“I always think, if I’d had a boyfriend then, which I definitely did not…”

No?

“No.”

He knew he was gay, though?

“No. No, no, no, no!”

Was he suppressing it or not thinking about it?

“I would say suppressing. Definitely suppressing. I don’t believe people just don’t think about it.”

An upbeat, cheesy jazz remix of something or other starts playing outside the room.

“Oooh, this is the soundtrack for this bit of the interview,” says Scott. He wiggles his shoulders to the music.

I switch to strict dominatrix interviewer mode. Focus, I say. You were about to tell me something good.

“Oh, shit, was I? OK. I think what’s really insidious is that people don’t ask you about sex or… People wouldn’t say, ‘Are you gay or are you [straight]?’ And the lack of directness is very damaging. They just didn’t go there.”

Does he think his family, friends, the people closest to him knew then that he was gay?

“No,” he says. “I don’t think they did know. Or maybe they have a suspicion, but they think, I want to be respectful, so I’m not going to ask about that. Then [when you do come out], people say, ‘Oh, I’m glad.’ You know? If you do talk about it. So I suppose what I feel now is, talking about sex or sexuality is important. Really important.”

Having said that, “There’s still getting rid of the shame. In a situation like this, 10 or 15 years ago, I would have been…” He fakes shock, horror. “Oh no! Polly’s just asked me about [he switches to a whisper] that.”

Scott will talk about his sex life only notionally. No specifics. For 15 years, between 2001 and 2016, he was in a relationship with the actor turned screenwriter Stephen Beresford (Scott starred in Beresford’s 2014 film Pride). Ever since, he’s refused to answer questions about his romantic life.

And he’s not going to talk about it now, I presume.

“No.”

What if we talk about it opaquely?

“OK.”

Where does he see himself, domestically, in an ideal world? Married with kids whom he’ll, I dunno, adopt or have via surrogacy?

“I like it. It’s bold. Am I going to adopt or…?”

Get a surrogate?

“I definitely think that’s something I would be open to.”

Great, I say, with blatant sarcasm. Thanks. How specific.

“Ha! I’m sorry. OK. Have I got any children at the moment? No. How can I… [explain]? OK. I was with a friend of mine in Dublin…”

His partner?

“No, no, no. Not my partner. Ah ha. I see what you were…”

Teasing. Yes.

“Ha! Yes. So, I was with a friend in Dublin and we were walking around and he was looking at apartments and I was like, ‘What about this place here?’ You know? And he said, ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Why not?’ and he said, ‘I don’t live a heteronormative life, so I don’t want a heteronormative house.’ ”

What’s a heteronormative house?

“Two up, two down thing. He goes, ‘I can live in a loft or a weird space. I don’t need those things.’ He was so proud of it. He really owned it. I think where a lot of one’s pain comes from is when you go, ‘I should want that.’ And so, to answer your question opaquely, I have kids I adore. I love children, genuinely, and I had a very happy childhood. But I also feel, if I don’t have kids, that’s all right. I think I would’ve attached a lot of shame beforehand, with not living a particularly heteronormative life… Even with being gay, there’s a sort of way of being gay that’s acceptable. And I don’t feel that any more.”

He feels you can be unacceptably gay?

“Exactly. Exactly!”

I ask when shame shifted for him and Scott says it was when Ireland voted overwhelmingly in favour of same-sex marriage in the 2015 referendum, which felt, he says, “like acceptance, genuinely. And I remember going out to this gay bar in Dublin and this girl came up to me, this cool Dublin girl, and she said, ‘What are you doing here? You need to go down to, I don’t know, blah, blah, this bar in some park.’ She was saying, ‘This isn’t the right gay bar for you. This is some shit gig,’ when the fact I’m in a gay bar in Ireland [at all] is a miracle to me, and then some person with a half-shaved head is telling me, ‘No, you need to go somewhere cooler.’ ”

His left eye starts weeping again.

“I’m so happy about that,” he says. “Even though I’m crying.”

I ask Scott if he has a game plan when picking roles, if he plots his course from Sherlock villain to Bond quasi-villain (he played Max Denbigh in Spectre) to sex icon, and, if so, what next? “No. Jesus, no,” he says.

We talk about the totalitarianism of social media, which he isn’t on, and share a mutual despair over it. “I thought it was something one would associate with the right, but actually, now it’s [the left] that is very ‘you’re this’ or ‘you’re that’. I find that quite frightening. It actually makes me feel ferocious.”

Is he not worried about being cancelled, of somehow saying the “wrong” thing, according to Twitter sensitivities, then having a thousand voices mobilised against him, demanding his firing, in the style of JK Rowling?

“I’m not,” he says. “I refuse to be. A very intelligent person I was talking to recently was writing a book and he said, ‘I’m going to get a sensitivity expert to have a look. I don’t want to get cancelled.’ I found that frightening.”

Is he rich? “Rich is the absence of worry about money,” he says. He can’t remember the last time he worried about money.

That must be nice.

“Of course it f***ing is. I think it’s a miracle. I really do. I was working in a French theatre in London for nothing – none of us was working for anything – and I remember the artistic director of the theatre talking about the fact we weren’t earning any money as some sort of virtue. I remember feeling really annoyed about that, like this isn’t good.”

This leads to an inevitable conversation about how the arts are suffering with Covid, including a segue down the Fatima route, the much shared government advert that depicted a young ballerina and suggested she retrain in something called cyber. “Her name’s not even Fatima,” Scott rails. “I think she’s called Desire’e. From New York.”

I mean to ask him about his experience of filming The Pursuit of Love with Lily James and Dominic West, stars of their own recent off-screen micro-scandal in Rome, just in case he lets any scurrilous insight slip, but our time’s up and it’s not as if Scott has much form on offering up scurrilous insight anyway.

Still, I feel grateful to him for meeting me halfway on the other stuff. And so I say goodbye to Andrew Scott, the UK’s foremost gay heterosexual lapsed Catholic faux-priest lust icon with a troublesome eye infection.

[impossiblesuitcase]

The official time in which Kai was kidnapped aboard the Rampion was short lived. Really, from retrospect one would assume the most significant revelation would’ve been the identity of a certain missing Princess, or the ambitious plan to usurp a fortified government. Interestingly however, the most notable takeaway from the experience was Kai’s blatant lack of life skills. 

So the dust settles on the Lunar revolution; weddings come and go, world exploration is embarked upon, a Queen abdicates and an Empress is sworn in. But of more importance, according to its initiators, is the mission to teach Kai any and all life skills deemed necessary.

Thus ‘The Official and completely authentic list of life skills as directed by the Rampion Crew for his Majesty, Emperor Kaito of the Eastern Commonwealth, aka our pal Kai’ was born. Iko sticks with the lengthy name despite Cinder mentioning her retina display’s warning of superfluity. 

The unofficial title of the official title replaced Kai's name with "Cinder's trophy husband", which earned Thorne a jab to the side from the cyborg in question.

Most of Winter's additions are charming but unachievable, such as her advice to dance on top of a pony, whilst wearing matching outfits with said Pony. Kai declines for the most part but does fulfil the smaller task of wearing matching face paint with someone, where he and Cinder don small cheek marks on one of their ventures out. 

Many officials question whether Winter's eccentricities indicate faults in the bioelectrical-dampening device, but such proposals are discarded with the realisation that Winter is simply Winter.

Cress is eager to give ideas, much of which is inspired from her time in her satellite. Being incredibly sheltered, a lot of her ideas are ones that Kai has already completed over his life, but nevertheless, he does his best to recreate some of them, if nothing else but for fun. Her workout regimes are unnecessary when Kai's carefully thought out diet and nutritionist are taken into account. 

He regardless makes an effort to add some of the stretches into his morning routine, even encouraging Cinder to join in ("Your foot can't be asleep, that's impossible, it's metal." "It’s a bit more technical than just metal and I could turn it off if I really wanted to." "Would you?" "I mean, if it could let me stay in bed for another twenty minutes instead of going to a press conference, I just might consider it"). Kai also kindly rejects Cress' proposed ethical hacking, insisting that if ever a situation should arise, “I'd entrust hacking to you over myself any day”.

Thorne's contributions are ignored by everyone but still added to the list by Iko, even though they consist of everything from "Scale a mountain and plant a flag of your face at the top" to "Transfer 100,000 units to Carswell Thorne". His idea to build up flight training is taken on board however, although Kai does not seek his guidance from Thorne himself. Cress finds Thorne's ideas endearing, no matter how bombastic and preposterous they are. 

One of his more creative schemes is for Kai to build an island right off Jeju where Cyborgs can vacation. It is (unsurprisingly) rejected, but one day Thorne boards the Rampion to find a diorama of the island, complete with sustainable popsicle stick Cinder, Scarlet and Thorne. Thorne breaks out in an inescapable grin that only Cress can bring and scoops her into his arms. Between his praises he declares that she can be the honorary non-cyborg invited to the island. 

Jacin is nothing if not practical, with two simple contributions: 'Learn first aid', and the weightier 'review medical laws'. In light of the harmful Cyborg Draft, Kai continues to study medical law to find any lapses of justice, although the majority of the inquiry is spearheaded by the ever alert Empress Selene.

Scarlet is the most dogmatic in what is attested to be life skills. Basic dishes and chores are her additions, and Kai completes them, even with some blundering and his palace staff protesting to the Emperor lifting a finger ("Your majesty this is my job! You can't do the washing up!"). 

Despite their refusals, Kai is finally able to break through their fronts with the help of the assertive Iko and the fact that no one bothers to protest what Cinder does in the palace ("You would let the Empress hang out the clothes!", "With all due respect your Majesty, Empress Selene does whatever she wants"). Wolf, having learnt many of his own life skills from farming or with unattainable resources from Luna, mostly supports whatever Scarlet lists.

Iko, being the perpetrator and organiser of the list, adds anything she believes of being the utmost importance. This comes to include an extensive collection of skills, of which Kai only prioritises and endeavours to try a few. Many are superficial, such as braiding hair, which Iko personally sees to it that he learns. This results in many sessions where the android babbles instructions to the flustered but dedicated Kai, who patiently weaves Cinder's hair back and forth until he familiarises himself with the pattern. 

Cinder simply chuckles and stays still as the hair model of choice, usually catching up on comms and royal duties on her port-screen. Although a bit frustrated at times, Kai sticks with learning until his braids are accepted by Iko, further motivated by Iko's reprimand: "What if you have a daughter, and when she grows up she's asked:  "Princess, what is your greatest woe in life?" and she responds that her father never braided her hair?"

Baffled by the suggestions, Kai once asks Kinney what he makes of the proposed life skills, to which Kinney responds that "her Majesty Empress Selene and yourself, Emperor Kaito have no need to consider such ideas. You are the rulers of the Eastern Commonwealth and as such are more than adequately suited to your roles. You do not need to concern yourself with fanciful suggestions". 

Kai chooses to largely overlook Kinney's reasoning, keeping in mind that in the ever-dutiful Guard's eyes, Cinder was already untouchable and practically perfect. Although just as dutiful, Torin is more lighthearted towards the list, his fierce determination and protective nature over Kai having softened with Cinder's influence. Recognising what the approval of not just his people but his friends means to him, Torin encourages Kai to pursue the skills if he “feels it will befit his responsibilities as Emperor”. And if Cinder's singular addition of watching New Shanghai's most renowned musical happens to be Torin's favourite film, that's probably a coincidence.

Cinder adds nothing to the list, barring some subtle requests from a certain advisor, since most of her skills (ranging from mechanical know-how, ruling a Kingdom 101 and overthrowing a tyrannical queen who is also your Aunt) are inconsequential to Kai. That, and the fact that being around her all the time means he can simply observe her work, as he often does with her mechanical labor. 

The ruling of a Kingdom also proves to be a bust, since Kai is the more experienced one of the two, however he often finds himself intrigued by her perspective on matters, free from the bias of his politically-centred upbringing. Cinder works hard to help Kai accomplish the skills, especially since although he would never admit it, she knows he secretly really cares about succeeding in them.

Slowly the revised list is whittled down as Kai completes the tasks to a partial or full success. Although some of them are simply not feasible, reasonable, or even doable, the sometimes sweet and sometimes egregious (Thorne's) suggestions are kept if for nothing else than a memorable laugh. 

Eventually both Iko and Kai deem that he has sufficiently built enough life skills to indicate a significant improvement from his time on the Rampion. Yet the list never truly fades, with other members of the crew occasionally receiving a skill to try, often the result of an inside joke or dare. Kai comes to consider himself fairly well-rounded, but still remembers to imitate the humility and modesty of some of the most notable people in his life.

And if all else fails, at least he can talk eloquently enough to save his life.

Except he'll probably just interject with sarcasm.

[happywithoutthehooch]

Get busy living or get busy dying

When my drinking was at its worst, I'd go to bed with a kitchen knife under my pillow. It had become a kind of ritual. I'd stand at the kitchen door, swigging neat £10-a-bottle vodka from Lidl and puffing my way through 40 bootleg cigarettes, eager to hasten first the elation - and then the sweet oblivion - that my favourite poisons would soon bring. I drank so much because I was intensely lonely and I was intensely lonely because I drank so much. But sometimes the drink felt like company.

When the bottle of vodka ran dry, the crushing depression was my company. The shame and self-loathing that I had somehow allowed myself to become this staggering, slurring, joyless wreck became unbearable. Then thoughts would turn to ending it all. I reach for a kitchen knife and start pressing it against my arteries. Then I think of my dad and how much we all suffered when my mum took her life when I was a kid. I can't follow through with it. So for now, I just put the knife under my pillow and, should I wake up in the middle of the night feeling braver or more selfish, then permanent relief would be close at hand. It felt strangely comforting.

One merciful day, enough was enough. After a major binge that had seen me lose over 24 hours to blackout, in which I'd done god-knows-what, I lay sweaty and shaking on my sofa trying to keep the fits at bay. For two days, I only got up to drink water or urinate then returned to the sofa. I did nothing. I felt nothing. I couldn't watch the telly, I couldn't sleep for more than a brief catnap and I couldn't eat. Just me, there, shaking and sweating on my own feeling like death would have been a blessing.

What then seemed like one of the worst days of my life has turned out to be one of the best. A switch inside me tripped. I recalled something a friend, similarly addicted and suffering, had once said to me when he was at his lowest. "I either want to die or have a real shot at life."

That tiny yet massive two-letter word. OR. It opens up so many possibilities. It reminded me too of a line in one of my favourite films, Shawshank Redemption: "Get busy living or get busy dying."

I decided I'd at least give living a chance.

Recovery has been tough and sometimes it still is. I've been to live with my dad and stepmum for a few months and went under the care of the mental health team. I've been out of work and the finances aren't looking great! I had to put into practice all the things I'd thought had gone in one ear and out the other from over two years of Smart Recovery. I was surprised to find some of it had actually stuck though. I read avariciously about recovery, about philosophy, about mindfulness… about anything that sparked my interest and kept me focussed on the sort of life I wanted to create for myself.

It's been 18 months since that day. I have had a three-month lapse in that time, beaten myself up about it then started again. It's now over six months since my last drink and my resolve to stay sober and not convince myself I can "just have one" has never been stronger.

Today I'm working again. I'm getting on top of the debts I'd racked up. I've decorated the house, replaced the rotten windows that let the rain in and I'm making it feel like a home, not just some miserable hovel that I pass out in at night.

What's more, my social life has never been better. After sobering up, I found being around drunk people in pubs both challenging and, frankly, boring. So I've started organising alcohol-free nights out and social events in my hometown of Southend-on-Sea in Essex under the name of Southend Sober Socials. And people are actually coming to them!

Strangely, a group of 30-40 people drinking tea and mocktails instead of getting on the lash is so unusual that it's also considered newsworthy and the events have sparked the interest not only of my local press but BBC Online and Radio 5 Live.

I've met people at my events whom I'd never have met at a pub. Some are becoming true friends and allies, not just fickle drinking buddies. One has introduced me to sea kayaking and I now love nothing more than getting up at stupid o'clock to paddle out to spot the seals on a Sunday morning: a time previously reserved for hangovers.

The knife no longer keeps me company at night: I find pets make better bed buddies.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Taking Chances 2/4

Keanu Reeves x Reader (A/n- Switching perspectives without clear divisions cause why not)

1 2 3 4 

Warnings- Brief mentions of smut, cheesy romance stuff 

Ayiana and Mark had left when the rain had slowed, and Keanu had insisted that they take the rented car back, after agreeing with Y/n that they could fend for themselves. After the couple had left though, tipsy and all over each other, the rain, as predicted by the forecast, had grown heavy again. Though, as the night waned on, most patrons, drunk and tired, had opted to bare the worst of the storm, leaving the pub scantily populated, with Keanu and his newfound friend cozied in a booth near the back, where the lights were lowest, beer bottles and empty glasses laid out on the table. By then, Y/n’s clothes were mostly dried, as was her hair, now in messy curls framing her gorgeous face. “Wait,” drunkenly, Y/n giggled, leaning in so Keanu could catch a whiff of the alluring remnants of her perfume mixing intoxicatingly with the scent of alcohol, “Say that again.”

“Okay, okay,” her fit of musical giggles were contagious and Keanu could help but grin wider as he realized how absolutely breathtaking Y/n was when she smiled, “I got up to check the air, and just like that this lady rear ends me.”

“And the bike slides out from under you?” She finished, eyes wide and her soiree interrupted by her gaping in shock.

“Basically, yeah,” Keanu nodded, “It was insane!” He laughed a bit louder, not caring how much attention they attracted, only quelling the sound when he finished off his latest drink. They’d had so many by then, that they’d both lost count and Y/n and Keanu could both safely say that they were way past drunk.

“But you were okay right?” And just like that, her glassy eyes were sparkling with genuine worry, and again, Y/n leaned in a tad bit closer. The nearer she drew, the harder it was to ignore how plump her lips were, how much Keanu wanted to kiss her. It was so strange, they didn’t know each other very well, and Keanu knew that Y/n would probably be gone by the next day; but he thought he could listen to her for a lifetime, her laugh, her voice, even her silences were enjoyable. She was so unlike anyone he’d ever met, funny, intelligent, confident, but also so very shy at times, blushing when he least expected and laughing at his worst jokes. It wasn’t forced or fake laughter either, it was real, full bodied and melodious.

“Yeah,” Keanu’s smile softened as he reassured her, still surprised by her unexpected concern, “I was standing, so everything turned out fine.” They broke into a bout of silence, a brief one, which Keanu broke, "So, what brings you to Luxembourg? I mean, you're definitely not from around here."

At that, Y/n blushed, thinking back on how she'd messed up the accents on very simple words earlier, "I'm not," she chortled quietly, they'd just been equipped with fresh drinks, and as she thought of her answer, mind to blurry to work out all the details, she spun the glass in her hand, eyeing the whiskey inside with broken focus, "I'm actually here for…...inspiration. I thought some kind of spontaneous trip would somehow get the creative juices flowing, I'm a writer, or at least, I'm supposed to be," she chuckled dryly, "I used to be a journalist."

"Career change? You didn't like it?" Keanu furrowed his brows, holding his chin in his palm, elbow planted on the table. He wanted to know everything about her, willing to listen to anything she'd say, and based on their interaction, he could tell she felt the same. 

"I did," Y/n took a sip of her drink, staring off to the cleared tables ahead wistfully, "I traveled sometimes, but usually I'd be in Washington, covering press conferences and that kind of stuff. It was pretty boring," frowning, Y/n tried to put her thoughts into words, "I always wanted to be a writer, you know, write a novel or something that people would read even when I'm gone."

Like she had back at the bar, though with the moment feeling far more intimate, Keanu took Y/n's hand, curling his fingers over hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, her skin silky smooth. Her plight resonated with him, the burning desire to leave behind a legacy, make his own unique mark in the world sometimes haunted him too sometimes. "But?"

"But?" Huffing with a faint smile, Y/n shook her head, taking another lengthy sip of her drink, "But I don't know how. I mean, what am I even supposed to write about?"

"Whatever you want," Keanu chuckled with a new enthusiasm. Untangling their hands, Keanu rummaged through his pocket for his wallet, eventually producing enough cash to cover their bill and more, before standing and offering Y/n his hand, "Come on."

Confused by his erratic behavior, Y/n's lips hung agape, finding it hard to formulate any semblance of a sentence, "What're…..what?"

"Trust me?" His plea was half a question for her to actually do it and half an inquisition to gauge how much she actually trusted him.

"Trust you?" Y/n shot back incredulously, though still taking Keanu's hand, their fingers interlacing easily, feeling as if they were made to fit, "I don't even know you!" Already, they were already at the front door, and Keanu was pushing it open, pulling Y/n along as he stepped onto the slippery, wet sidewalk. The sound of the downpour, accompanied by the claps of thunder and occasional burst of lightning welcomed them. Heavy drops hit the street and pavement, splattering upwards, in some areas creating huge puddles. In an instant, even though they were still under the guard of the under-croft, their feet were soaked, water clinging to the hem of Y/n's tea length sundress and soaking her wedged sandals, while Keanu's boots were completely saturated, as were his jeans. "Is your plan to get us sick?"

"No," Keanu flashed her a mischievous grin, the act enough to add a distinct boyishness to his rugged features, despite the evidence of salt in his trimmed beard, "You're here for inspiration, so let's find you some. You know what they say about experience." 

Squaring up to brace the weather, Keanu gave her one final glance to ensure Y/n was ready too, and when her eyes complied, he led her out. In an instant, they were drenched, cold rain water matting hair to their skin and  making their clothes cling to their bodies. Y/n barely had a moment to even be concerned with how wet the contents of her bag would be, or even the fact that she was still holding Keanu's hand when there was someone at home waiting for her. All that mattered then and there was the glee on Keanu's face, how contagious it was and how much she wished they could stay like that forever. "Well where are we going for this experience?"

"This is the experience!" Keanu laughed giddily, stopping when they were stood in the middle of the deserted street to look up at the sky, "You can't tell me you've ever walked through a foreign town, with a complete stranger during a storm in the middle of the night."

It was an oddly specific situation and Y/n without even thinking of it, resigned to sharing in his excitement, "No!" It was a strain for her soft voice to combat the sounds around them, "I can't say I have." They were walking down the cobblestone street, following the gentle slope downward, occasionally stumbling as a result of all the alcohol they'd had. It was cold, though neither of them noticed; the company was warm enough, and as they walked, Y/n looked around, closed stores looking vastly different from what they were like back home. There weren't bright lights embedded in the showcase, meant to display products even during closing, and everything just seemed so beautifully vintage, straight out of a forties film noir. 

"Tell me something about yourself," Keanu broke her thoughts as they grew further and further from the pub.

Briefly, Y/n turned to him, biting her lip at how enthralling he looked like that, so picture perfect, as if a snapshot from a movie had been plucked out of a television and placed right next to her. Keanu was nothing like Noah, he was enigmatic and fascinating because of his unpredictability. He laughed easier and much louder, he was shy and bold at the same time and much to her surprise, they didn't have any sort of awkward "getting to know you" period, they'd just lapsed into familiarity in merely a few minutes. "What do you want to know?"

“Anything,” everything. Keanu grinned broadly, knowing that he’d likely be content with listening to her for the rest of his time, without ever growing tired. “Just say anything,” being with Y/n, staggering through the rain, the sound of her kitten heels on cobblestone muted by the weather and her palm warm and right in his, couldn’t be anything other than the optimum of perfection. He’d never felt that at ease with someone, so ready to bare his soul to a stranger, “And I’ll listen.”

For a brief moment, Y/n glanced at Keanu, her smile faltering, softening, as their eyes met. Part of her knew it was wrong; the way she was feeling. If she were sober, then maybe things might have been different, but Y/n’s speech was slurred and her vision was blurry. Her mind was cloudy too, bombarded only with thoughts of Keanu; how much she was enjoying having his hand in hers, how devilishly handsome he was, how desperately she wanted to kiss him. Abruptly, with a pink hue, hidden by the darkness, spreading on her cheeks, Y/n turned away, “Lets see,” she deliberated, “My favorite book is The Great Gatsby, I moved to Washington for college when I was eighteen,” she thought some more, “And I love eighties music!”

Throwing his head back in wild euphoria, Keanu gazed at her, “Were you even alive in the eighties?”

“Nope!” Y/n giggled, almost tripping, only to be caught by Keanu, who took the initiative to pull her closer. Her laughter sobered, and in the back of her mind, Y/n knew she should pull away, tell Keanu the truth, but his embrace was warmer than anything she’d ever felt, and when she stole another glance at him, only to find him gazing down at her, his expression illuminated by the flickering street lamp, all she could see was a face that seemed strange and oddly familiar simultaneously. Then it hit her, she didn’t want to tell him, Y/n wanted to live like that with him, even if just for the rest of the night. It was out-rightly selfish, and utterly wrong, but she had a feeling that Keanu was worth it. Her heart hadn’t fluttered like that in a long time, and it had been ages since she’d done something so spontaneous. 

Keanu hadn’t noted that he’d been leading Y/n in the direction of the hotel that he’d been staying at until the elegant building came into view, yellow lights glittering through the screen doors leading to individual balconies and the valet’s station vacant, possibly due to the storm. “Where are you staying tonight?” Keanu inquired as they floundered towards the front doors.

“I…..” Wide eyed, Y/n stuttered, “I have no idea,” despite her distress, she was still smiling faintly, I guess I’ll get a room here.” Already, they’d stepped through the door, greeted by the middle aged doorman who warmly welcomed the two with French salutations. Easing her hand from Keanu’s grip, moving some soaked hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear, Y/n twisted her body to rummage through the contents of her handbag, searching for her purse, in hopes that the hotel would have an unbooked room.

“Or you could just stay with me,” Keanu blurted, causing Y/n to stare up at him with a perfectly surprised expression, “Come on, it’ll be fun, we can have some more drinks, get to know each other better, it’ll be fun.” Holding his breath, Keanu hung on to the hope that she’d say yes; he really wasn’t ready to lose her company yet.

Internally, Y/n debated Keanu’s offer. It seemed appealing, and she wanted to say yes, to just go for it and see where the night took them. But she was engaged, and maybe going up there with him was taking the fun too far, she already felt like a cheater anyway. Not because of what she’d done exactly, you could hold anyone’s hand and it would mean nothing, no, the guilt had bubbled up like a broil in the pit of her stomach because of how she’d felt. You shouldn’t feel the way she did about Keanu when you had someone waiting for you to come back. To come home.

But Paris wasn’t home, and while she’d tried to make Noah her home, like he’d done with her, Y/n knew she was straying, far, far away from what was ordinarily familiar. She didn’t want familiar that night, she wanted Keanu, the thrill, the loud laughter that she’d easily sunk into, the feeling of getting lost in his whiskey eyes and the insurmountable comfort that came from simply holding his calloused hand. Y/n had the burning urge to know him, learn him, hold on and not let go. The feelings swirling around in her chest weren’t ones that Y/n thought could be built so quickly, yet there they were, and all she could say to his offer was, “Let's do it.”

Stunned by her willingness, Keanu’s features brightened tremendously, and he swore he’d never smiled so hard, “Great!” Taking her hand again, they trotted towards the elevator, leaving the deserted lobby behind, squinting at the bright lights and foggy reflections that dazzled their eyes as they entered the metal contraption. It took a minute or too, his eyes squinted and his stocky fingers fumbling until he found the ‘15’ button, hitting it harder than he should have. As they went up, they found that the air in there was colder than it had been downstairs, and when a shiver ran through Y/n, Keanu, without thinking of it, wiggled his fingers out of hers, proceeding to drape his long arm over her shoulders, reeling her in.

Instinctively, Y/n nuzzled into his side, reveling in the warmth that radiated off his body despite his soaked outfit, swallowing tightly as she tilted her head upwards, only to find that Keanu was studying her, his expression soft, though wanting. No one had ever looked at her like that, not even Noah; like she was everything that mattered, all wrapped up in one person. Like she held the clarity to every unanswerable question in her eyes. Like love could be simply contained in a stare. Love? Love. For probably the first time since they’d sat down in the pub, Y/n stopped smiling, though, it was only because the giddiness had been replaced by something more…….consuming. Thoughts of drinks and a chat late into what remained of the night dispersed, and the lump in her throat only thickened. Tell him, one voice urged, while the more careless one pleaded with her to just let things unfold. One night with a man who’d made her feel like she was the only woman in the world couldn’t be so bad, could it?

As if it were fated, their faces gravitated towards each other, just as Y/n turned slightly in Keanu’s embrace, cocking her head to the side. His lips were barely a hair away from descending upon hers and she could readily smell the alcohol on his breath, mixing with the scent of the rain and a long smoked cigarette. Altogether, it was alluring, and Y/n wondered if the next day she’d be able to go back to a life without it; if she’d be able to leave Keanu behind. She didn’t want to find out. As he came closer, her breath hitched, the soft sound contained in the hollow of her throat, and right as it was about to happen, right as she was about to finally break a sacred promise, the elevator dinged, the doors sliding open, ready to the deposit the pair on the sleepy hallway of the hotel’ fifteenth floor.

“We should…..” Keanu trailed off, not able to quite shake off the feeling that had prompted him to try to initiate a kiss in the elevator, though still leading Y/n towards his room, down the end of the hall. Secretly, he hoped that the moment could be rekindled when they reached their destination, it would be a lie if he’d said he hadn’t wanted to kiss Y/n since the moment they’d met. The thought had bounced around in his head all night, hope building in his chest every time their eyes locked, but the time never seemed as right as it had until they were in the elevator. Clumsily, he shoved his key card into the designated slot, swearing under his breath when he’d gotten it wrong the first two times, the mood only lightened by Y/n’s incessant giggles at his plight from nearby. When Keanu finally got it right, he was the first to enter, though she was close on his heels as he slapped the light switch near the door. 

Still laughing, Y/n barely noticed the kink in the carpet in the threshold, getting caught in her shoe, resulting in her stumbling forward and right into Keanu’s arms. Luckily though, he caught her, his hands planted on her waist, bunching up the fabric of her pleated, dusty rose colored dress, beneath her cropped leather jacket. Even when she was steadied, Keanu’s grip remained, only loosening to slip to her hips. Feeling the air around them grow electric once again, Y/n took the tiniest step forward, only just registering how close they’d already been. Once again, Keanu was staring at her, the way he had been during their moment in the elevator, “He looked at her the way all women wanted to be looked at by a man,” she quoted breathlessly, not quite sure why she’d felt the need to do that, her lips already ghosting Keanu’s.

“What?” Keanu knitted his brows, his arms moving again to circle Y/n’s waist, his tongue hurriedly darting out to moisten his lips as she stood on the tips of her toes to reach him better. 

Raising her hands, Y/n tangled her fingers in his shaggy, wet mane, when the other hand cupped his neck, feeling his scruff tickle her thumb. Barely, she registered the low twinkle of her engagement ring, occasionally made mute by the bursts of lightning that brightened the suite. “Nothing,” Y/n leaned in. Heartbeat to heartbeat, quick breaths in sync and minds only focused on one thing, they finally let it happen. Hot lips, meeting, taking a minute to feel each other out, slow and sweet as Y/n tasted him for the first time, though, growing passionate when their tongues warred. Better judgment was never going to prevail, and when Keanu found the edges of her jacket, pushing it off, she let him, thoughts of anything and everything that was outside of their bubble, fade away.

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt  @iworshipkeanureeves​

[primatechnosynthpop]

It's A Sad Webisode, But We Film It Anyway

(Aka, the things I write when I should be doing schoolwork...)

It was a cold, gray morning. The coldness was due mainly to the fact that Neil had left his bedroom window open the previous night, and the grayness was due to the fact that he hadn't cleaned the house in a while, leading to his walls being covered in a gray film of dust. Both those oversights were due in part to his natural aversion to housework, but also to the deep depression that was hanging over him lately, much like motes of dust. And that particular morning, his cold gray surroundings provided the perfect backdrop to his sullen morning routine.

It had been a whole week already. That was hard to believe. The sound of screams still rang in his ears sometimes when he closed his eyes, and he couldn't pass by that old house without shuddering (that much was already true beforehand, but now it was a deeper shudder, often accompanied by the prick of tears in his eyes). Worse still, he was hit with an overwhelming sadness every time his gaze landed on that urn… which happened often, because the urn was sitting right there on the kitchen table. He would have put it away somewhere where he didn't have to see it as often, but that would feel disrespectful. It was so weird to think that the little pile of dirt inside that urn had once been one of his best friends. It seemed like too small a container to fit someone so brave, so kind-hearted, so loyal. But there it was--all that was left of the true-blue American hero.

Neil heaved a weary sigh which turned into a yawn halfway through as he trudged into the kitchen. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes and pushed his bedraggled bangs out of his face, but his vision remained slightly blurry, so he took off his glasses and winced at the realization of how smudged they'd gotten. That wasn't even related to him being depressed about Kevin; he was just a mess that morning for no particular reason. But after wiping his glasses off on his pajama top and splashing some cold tap water on his face, he was all fired up for another day of wallowing in grief… just as soon as he had a nourishing bowl of stale cereal that just didn't taste as sweet these days.

As he was pouring his cereal into the bowl, though, something unusual fell out of the box--a little rectangle of shiny paper. Neil blinked, befuddled. His first thought was, did I just win a prize? He checked his cereal box for anything mentioning prizes or contests, but all he could find were nutrition fact charts. In fact, after tilting the box every which way, he finally found a line of text on the inside flap reading There are no fun prizes in here, just cereal. Eyebrows knitting together, Neil looked back at the scrap of paper tucked neatly amongst his cereal. Well, either the box was lying, or this piece of paper was something else altogether. Something like…

*

"It's a message from the studio!"

Neil's eyes were startlingly bright, and he had a grin to match. He was illuminated in the doorway by the rising sun behind him, which was just beginning to crest over the horizon. Did he usually get up and about so early in the morning? Moreover…

"They want us to make another webisode?" Ryan frowned as he examined the piece of paper Neil was shoving in his face. "Can we do that? I mean, you know, without…"

He trailed off, gaze dropping. Neil, naturally knowing exactly what he meant, sighed and scuffed his shoes against the porch. A moment of silence passed between them, during which they both thought of the missing member of their team. Making webisodes would be a lot different without Kevin, and probably not in a good way.

Then Neil suddenly brightened again. He stepped across the threshold into Ryan's house without an invitation--he didn't immediately object to it, so it was fine, probably--and shut the door behind him, not wanting anybody to listen in.

"Yeah, they want us to make a Greek mythology inspired webisode this time." He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and read out the note he'd received:

Dear New Kids on the Rock, sorry for your loss. We will be sending in a new team member to replace James sometime in the next month. In the meantime, you need to continue making movies if you want to keep getting paid. For your next webisode, we'd like you to make an adaptation of a Greek myth.

Sincerely, Plymouth Rock Studios.

"I see…" Ryan stroked his beard, eyebrows raising. "Perhaps we could adapt the myth of Erysichthon eating himself to death, or Lycurgus of Thrace being cursed with madness and mistaking his son for a plant, or…"

"No, no, don't you get it?" Neil interjected, shaking the paper furiously in Ryan's face. "This is our chance! We can do the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, and that way--"

Ryan realized what Neil was getting at just in time for them to exclaim it in unison:

"We can get Kevin back!!"

"You go fetch the filmmaking equipment," Ryan told Neil. "I'll open a portal to the underworld."

"Alright!" Neil enthused. "Be right back!"

He scampered off, grinning wider than he had all week--which wasn't a high bar to clear, because he hadn't smiled whatsoever all week, except for in the fleeting moments when he forgot what had happened to Kevin, only for that momentary forgetfulness to come crashing down and plunge him back into misery at the sight of the urn on the table. But that was all going to change now. Heck, he may as well just throw out that dusty old urn, because he wouldn't be needing it anymore after this mission.

*

Somewhere far below the aboveground realm of the living, in a dark field of ash that stretched forever, a soul wandered amidst countless others. He couldn't remember who he was when he was alive. He couldn't even remember his name. And worst of all, he couldn't see a thing. In fact, the only reason he knew he was in a dark field of ash was because all the other souls kept moaning about it.

Time here didn't flow the same way it did in the living world. He could have been there for an hour or for a century. It felt like the latter. But he had no way of checking, because even if there were any clocks around in this barren field, he wouldn't be able to see them. And he couldn't hear any ticking, so probably no clocks. But hey, on the plus side, no ticking meant no pipe bombs either. At the very least, he didn't have to worry about dying a second time.

And he was definitely dead. That was the one thing about himself that he was sure of. The one scrap of memory that lingered in his mind was the sensation of a tentacle piercing through him, severing his major arteries. Although he couldn't look down at himself to be sure, it didn't feel like this hole was still there when he patted himself. But he didn't have a pulse either, so… yeah. Definitely dead.

He'd like to say it wasn't so bad, really. He had all those other souls for company, right? But all of them were a drag to talk to. Most of them could only moan and groan, and those he encountered who could actually speak were too caught up in emotional turmoil to carry on much of a conversation with. So it was just an eternity of wandering blind and aimless through a desolate field of his fellow ghosts, then. Great.

*

"Geez, this place is giving me the creeps," Neil muttered, trying and failing to suppress a shiver as he surveyed the barren wasteland. "It's so… ghost-y."

Ryan flicked a clump of ash out of his hair with a disgruntled huff. "I'll say. Who would have thought the land of the dead would be so dull and gloomy?"

"Yeah, our webisode isn't going to turn out very visually appealing…" Neil shrugged. "Oh, well, I guess we can edit it in post."

They lapsed back into silence then, with the only sounds being the ash crunching under their shoes and the low moaning of the pale ghostly figures that weaved here and there around them. Then, after a little more walking, Neil stopped, struck with a realization that was accompanied by a pang of dismay.

"Wait. How do we know which of these guys--" He gestured at the countless ghosts milling around them, all featureless save for the vague outlines of indistinguishable faces-- "is Kevin?"

"Oh, yeah…" Ryan turned to look back the way they'd come. Keeping the portal between worlds open was expending a lot of his energy, so he hadn't been paying much attention to all the ghosts… "Maybe we even walked past him already and didn't notice."

"W-well, he'd recognize us, wouldn't he? I mean…" Neil shook his head, unwilling to even consider the possibility that they could encounter their friend and have him not know who they were. That was the kind of thing that happened in movies when people got brainwashed, and it usually led to some kind of big fight. He didn't think he'd be able to take Kevin in a fistfight.

Ryan prodded Neil to snap him out of his troubled thoughts. "Hey, maybe you could get his attention by playing a song."

"Oh, that's right!" Neil held up his trusty keytar, which he'd been carrying with him the whole time. "That is how the myth goes, isn't it? Let's see…"

He ran his fingers along the keys, playing a scale. A cold wind stirred in the previously stagnant air, blowing clouds of ash around--Ryan coughed and swatted the dust away from his face--but most of the ghosts didn't seem to notice, with only a couple of them slightly raising their heads before carrying on their aimless trudging. Still, Neil was encouraged. He kept playing, eventually branching away from scales and into the basic pop song chords.

According to the myth they were adapting, that was how it was supposed to go: someone goes down into the underworld, plays a song, finds the person they came for, and then they leave. At least that was the gist of it. Neil was too eager about this mission to bother poring through any dusty old tomes of mythology beforehand. He knew the basics, and that was the important part; everything else he could just make up as he went along.

Ryan nodded, satisfied with this development. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out the video camera that he'd also been carrying with him the whole time, and started filming Neil playing his song.

"You're doing great," he called in encouragement when Neil's playing faltered. "Keep it up, and we'll lure Kevin out in no time!"

"I don't know…" Neil sighed, shoulders slumping. Looking around, he still didn't see any ghosts that looked like they might have been Kevin. "If this is where everyone goes when they die, then there must be hundreds of souls here--maybe even thousands. Do you really think we'll find him?"

"I'm sure we will," Ryan replied, but only because he knew that was what Neil wanted to hear. Truth be told, he was pretty skeptical about the prospect of them actually finding Kevin. And even if they did, he just had a bad feeling about this whole mission… he couldn't shake the feeling that there was some important factor they were forgetting.

Neil could sense Ryan's thinly-concealed pessimism, and it put a damper on his spirits, which were already pretty damp to begin with. Still, he wasn't ready to give up just yet. If nothing else, they had to complete their webisode so they could get paid. And so he straightened up, looked into the video camera, and launched into a bona-fide performance.

*

After an indeterminable amount of time spent trudging aimlessly around the void, music rang out through the ash-crusted air.

It was a rhythmic keytar beat, reminiscent of 80's synth pop. Surprisingly catchy. The lost soul raised his head and turned to face the direction the sound was coming from, and although he couldn't see, an image flashed through his mind. The mental image vanished before he could pin down what it was, but it left him with a sense of inner warmth--a sharp contrast to the desolate cold of the field. The music was good, then. He should go toward it.

At as brisk a pace as he could manage while maneuvering around the countless other wandering souls, he followed the source of the sound. A palpable excitement began to thrum through him as he ran. Somehow, this felt like coming home.

As he grew nearer, a voice spoke over the music--not singing, but a whisper edged with what sounded like concern.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep that portal open. Maybe we should leave."

Panic spiked through the lost soul, not unlike the phantom sensation of the tentacle piercing his body. Another mental image flashed through his mind: two men turning their backs on him and walking away.

"N-no!" he cried. "Don't leave me here!"

As soon as he spoke up, the music stopped. Disoriented by the silence, the soul staggered to a halt. If he still had a beating heart, he was sure it would be pounding frantically, and if he had lungs he'd be panting to catch his breath. As it was, he just stood still, staring sightlessly ahead and praying that he hadn't just been abandoned.

Then another voice spoke, quiet and shaky as though with disbelief.

"…Kevin?"

*

Well, you sure wouldn't know it was Kevin just by looking at him. He looked no different from any of the other countless translucent gray figures wandering around the field. The only notable difference was in his behaviour. Unlike all the other souls, only a few of whom displayed the slightest interest in Neil's keytar performance, this one was standing stock-still and appeared to be staring right at them.

"Is that… me?" The soul's voice was low and distorted. It didn't sound exactly like Kevin. But it didn't sound like someone completely different either. "Am I Kevin?"

Neil and Ryan exchanged an anxious look. What were they supposed to say to a question like that? After a moment, Ryan cautiously stepped toward the ghostly figure.

"I don't know… are you?"

"You…" The soul shook his head, his transparent outline of a face twisting into a pained grimace. "I know you, don't I?"

Looking at him up closer, Ryan noticed one physical difference that set this apparition apart from the others. Where all the other souls had the pale outlines of eyes, this one did not. Pulse picking up in excitement, Ryan glanced over his shoulder at Neil and waved him over.

"I think it's him."

"Really?" Neil made his way over to the soul and tried to pat it on the arm, but his hand just phased through it. "How can you tell?"

"Its eyes are missing, see?" Ryan poked his fingers through the empty part of the soul's face where eyes would normally be. "Just like what happened to Kevin."

"Oh, yeah…" Neil shuddered at the memory, which he'd spent the past week trying to put out of his mind. "Well, if it is him, then we should get him a new pair of eyes. He'll need them if we're supposed to keep making webisodes."

Throughout this exchange, the soul took in the achingly familiar sound of those two voices. He knew them, he knew he did! A series of mental images flashed through his head in quick succession, each vanishing before he could properly take them in. He clutched his head and shook it with a growl of frustration.

Then that last word stuck in his head. Webisodes… Yes, that was a familiar term. Another image flashed through his mind, and this time it lingered just long enough for him to identify it: two men--no, three men, himself included--hunched over a laptop, watching a little progress bar labeled "uploading…" tick slowly forward. He remembered drumming his fingers against the arm of the couch they were sitting on, chewing his lip, anxiously awaiting their newly made video to finish uploading to a certain website…

"H-hey, guys," he said slowly, incorporeal body trembling with the weight of the question, "What's that website called again?"

Eyes widening, Neil immediately snapped to attention, and began instinctively rattling it off.

"Http://--"

And suddenly the lost soul remembered, with the force of a tidal wave crashing over him, who he was. The three of them shouted it out together, in perfect unison.

"Hollywoodeasttv.com!!"

"Kevin," Neil gasped, tears of joy welling up in his eyes, "It really is you!"

"Yeah," he replied in a shaky voice, breaking into a grin. "It's me."

He flung his arms around Neil and Ryan, and although his ghostly form just phased right through them, he could feel their warmth, and it made him feel warm and alive as well. They stayed like that for a moment, huddled in a tearful quasi-embrace, until Ryan gasped and pulled back.

"Guys, the portal is closing. We've gotta run!"

Neil grabbed at Kevin's wrist. When that obviously failed, he got another idea. "C'mon, Kev, follow the sound of my instrument. We're gonna get you out of here."

They took off at an urgent pace, heading back the way they came. Ryan walked in front; Neil walked close behind, playing an improvised melody on his keytar; and Kevin took up the lead, only occasionally stumbling over one of the other spirits before righting his course and hurrying to catch up. When they got to the portal, it was still most of the way open, with easily enough room for them all to walk through. On the other side of that portal was the familiar interior of their clubhouse. Just a few more steps, and…

Ryan suddenly stopped walking, causing Neil to bump into him. At the sudden pause of the sound of his friends' footsteps, Kevin stopped as well. Neil prodded Ryan in the back with a puzzled frown.

"Hey, why'd you stop? We're almost out, we just have to--"

"…But that's not how the story goes."

"What?"

"We're adapting the myth of Orpheus, aren't we? He doesn't get Eurydice out of the underworld," Ryan said. Although he kept his voice level, a sharp pang of remorse squeezed at his heart as he spoke. "If we don't adapt the myth correctly, the studio won't be happy."

"Oh…" Neil gulped. "You don't think they'd fire us, do you?"

"I don't know, but we probably wouldn't get paid."

"What are you guys talking about?" Kevin asked, putting his hands on his hips. From his position a few feet behind them, he couldn't hear all of what they were saying over the groaning of the other spirits, but judging by their tones of voice, it couldn't be good.

Neil, beset by guilt at the prospect of leaving his friend behind, tried to glance over his shoulder at Kevin, but Ryan grabbed his head and twisted it back in place. If Kevin saw Neil looking at him with those plaintive puppy-dog eyes, he'd know something was up.

"Oh, nothing," Ryan said way too quickly and loudly. "Just saying how great it's going to be, you know, when all three of us are back in the world of the living…" He leaned in to whisper to Neil. "Listen, I don't like this any more than you do, but we can't take him back with us."

"But we came all this way," Neil objected. "Can't we just turn the video camera off now and edit it in post?"

"Are you talking about the video we're making this week?" Kevin interjected, walking up closer so he could hear them better. "What's it about?"

"It's, um," Neil stammered, "it's a--an inspiring sports movie?"

"Well, it's a good thing you guys came to get me, then," Kevin replied cheerfully. He slung an arm over Neil's shoulders, or performed as close an approximation to such a gesture as he could when he was still incorporeal. "What've you got so far?"

"O-oh, yeah, um… hang on, I've got it somewhere…"

Ryan tugged on Neil's sleeve and motioned toward the portal, which was now gradually growing thinner. "We should go," he reminded him in an urgent hiss.

"…Right, yeah… um…" Biting his lip, Neil gave a shaky nod of acknowledgement in Kevin's general direction without turning to face him. He couldn't bear to look him in the eyes (or lack thereof) just then. "Well, it's been nice seeing you again, Kev."

"Wait, what? You guys aren't taking me with you?"

The confusion and distress in Kevin's voice brought tears to Neil's eyes. Ryan drew in a sharp breath and held his head upright, forcing himself to retain his composure despite the crushing feeling of guilt pressing down on him. They thought back to the way they'd lost Kevin in the first place: running away from the ghoul without stopping to look back, thinking only of preserving their own lives, not realizing Kevin wasn't with them until they'd made it halfway down the block away from the manor, and by then it was too late. If they had stopped and looked back then, and seen that they were inadvertently leaving their friend behind, would they have run back to save him? Well, probably not. That ghoul was pretty scary. But they had another chance to save him now, and… well, they'd be a couple of real jerks if they left him behind again, wouldn't they?

They exchanged a glance, and the agreement passed unspoken. So maybe we won't get paid by the studio this week, Neil thought. So what? It'll be worth it as long as we've got Kevin.

"Of course we're taking you with us," Ryan said, and this time he meant it. He turned to address Kevin as he made this declaration, and Neil concurrently turned to face him as well, no longer ashamed to look him in the weird transparent eyeless face. "We came all this way to get you, didn't we?"

But as soon as they laid eyes on Kevin, a magnetic force took hold of him and yanked him backward. He yelped in surprise and tried to tug himself free, but was powerless to resist the supernatural pull. That was the very important thing they had forgotten--the reason for Orpheus's mythological failure. You weren't supposed to stop and look back at the person you were taking out of the underworld.

Realizing what was happening, Neil sprung into quick-thinking mode. "Ryan, hand me the video camera!"

"Alright, but what are you going to--?"

Neil answered that question before Ryan could finish asking it. In a fluid, decisive motion, Neil reached into the camera and pulled out the long roll of film from within. The film was instantly ruined upon exposure to the ashen air, but that was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He hastily tied the film reel into a makeshift lasso and swung it forward with all his might. Kevin just barely managed to grab ahold of it.

But the forces of the underworld wouldn't loosen their hold on Kevin that easily. He continued to be pulled backward, and holding onto the film reel lasso caused Neil to get pulled along with him. Just before the force either dragged him away or forced him to let go of the film strip, Ryan grabbed Neil around the waist. Steadier on his feet now with his friend holding him in place, Neil began reeling Kevin back towards them.

With their combined efforts, the three of them managed to break free from the pull of the underworld. As soon as Neil had pulled Kevin in close enough that it looked like they'd be able to make it, Ryan released his grip on Neil and darted through the portal. A moment later, Neil slipped through it himself…

And then Kevin stumbled through, just milliseconds before the portal closed. In a reality-defying ripple, his flesh resolidified, ghastly blue-gray transforming into skin flushed with exertion, short messy dark hair, and the slightly rumpled clothes he'd been wearing when he died. He gasped, filling up his newly reformed lungs with fresh air.

Then his legs buckled with exhaustion after such an ordeal and he fell forward. Neil and Ryan were there to catch him before he hit the ground. Kevin sobbed at the sensation of their hands grabbing hold of him--no more phasing; he could feel them, solid and tangible. And they could feel him in just the same way. Driven by the sheer ecstasy of the moment, he lifted them off the ground--prompting a yelp of surprise from Neil--and swung them around in a clumsy circle before setting them back down.

"Oh, man," Kevin half-laughed, half-cried. "I missed you guys so much."

"Aw, gee, we missed you too," Neil replied, patting Kevin on the shoulder.

"Say, you won't be needing that urn anymore, will you?" Ryan asked. "Can I keep it?"

"Of course you can. In fact, I'll throw in an extra one, on the house."

With that declaration, he clutched his friends close to his chest and made a mental vow to never die again.

*

"So, how are the new eyes holding up?"

Kevin blinked and experimentally rolled his eyes up and down and from side to side. His vision was about as good as he remembered, and they were staying in their sockets securely, so…

"Pretty good," he said. "Thanks again, Ryan."

"Oh, it's no trouble. I'm just glad I was finally able to put some of the eyeballs I've been collecting to good use."

Neil wandered in just then, holding up a blank check. "Well, we didn't get paid by the studio," he announced with a sigh of resignation. He flipped the check over to show them the stern note scribbled on the back. "In fact, they're saying we'll rue the day we dared to defy their orders."

It was two days after their underworld rescue mission, and aside from the aforementioned threat from the studio, everything was going great. It was safe to say that the status quo had been effectively restored, and although the lack of payment was a drag, neither Neil or Ryan regretted their decision, at least not enough to go back on it. Having Kevin with them was worth more than one week's salary. And now that they were a trio again, they'd be able to make more movies in the future, unfettered by grief.

"Let me see that." Kevin walked over and took the paper out of Neil's hands. After giving the note a cursory glance, he crumpled it up with a dismissive scoff and tossed it over his shoulder. "Ah, who needs them?" he said, voicing what the others had just been thinking. "As long as we've got each other, we'll be fine."

And it was true: going forward, they all made more of a conscious effort to look out for each other, and through this newfound devotion, they persevered. After all, mortals were only allowed one free trip to the underworld. It was a good thing they didn't waste it.

[ionova]

( emily browning, 27, cis female, she/her ) Have you seen MIRA IONOVA around ? I hear they’re an BALLET INSTRUCTOR AT SWAG who can sometimes be MELANCHOLY & DYSFUNCTIONAL But I also heard they can be EMPATHETIC & PERCEPTIVE if you catch them on a good day. They’re usually hanging around LINCOLN PARK ZOO in their spare time. I sure hope they’re alright ! ( crow, she/they, 26yo, gmt-5) 

— BASICS

Full Name: Mira Ionova Nickname(s): Mir Age: 27 Sexual Orientation: Bisexual Religion: Lapsed Catholic Birth Place: A village with a name she can’t remember  Languages: English, Russian, Basque, Catalan Alignment: Chaotic Good

— PHYSICAL

Face claim: Emily Browning Eye Color: Brown Hair Color: Brown Height: 5′ Distinguishing Features/Marks: freckles; a snake tattoo on the back of her arm, covered up with flowers; a scar on her knee, ankle; scar on her neck

— PERSONALITY

Habits: flexing her ankle and foot when thinking; absentmindedly drawing swirls on napkins; staring off into space; going home, making a simple dinner, and soaking in a bath; stretching before bed & in the morning Likes: dance, long baths, film, sketching, insects, costume design, the unusual & odd, making complicated drinks, baroque art, when her students perfect a step, strong coffee & tea Dislikes: artificial sweets, rain, strong scents, sleeping, brain fog, the cold, loud noises, cruelty Strengths:  marksmanship, fist-fighting Weaknesses: chronic pain, reckless Traits: thoughtful, sociable, determined, loyal, melancholy, closed-off, wary, dysfunctional, caring

— BACKGROUND [TW DEATH, TW MURDER, TW VOMITING, TW CHILD ABUSE]

Mira barely remembers who she was before she became the daughter of Claudia Ionova. In Spain, she had another name, another life but that might have just been a dream.

She was seven when her mother died. Claudia adopted her, called her Mira. What Mira wanted was a family, and what she got was a pair of ribboned shoes and a gun. Her new mother doted on her when she did well, but was cruel when she slipped on the floor, and when she couldn’t shoot straight, her hand shaking. To be Ionova was to be perfect, and to not be perfect was to be dead.

The first time she killed someone, Mira threw up on the floor and scratched the skin from her hands. “It gets easier,” Claudia said, but it didn’t. To be Ionova means to be an assassin means to live your life in the service of the Zmeya. Mira never had a choice.

When she was fifteen, she entered the New York Academy of Ballet. It was her chance to leave the world she’d never been meant for, to make some friends who didn’t know how to kill a moving target. But she still felt isolated, alone. At nineteen she suffered a fall, sustaining injuries to her left leg and ankle - she didn’t really get back up after that. After physical therapy, she was back to what most people thought of as normal, but her leg protested whenever she lifted it into a passé, and in ciseaux, she wasn’t half as graceful.

Two years later, Claudia was assassinated. She was the one to find her mother. A friend helped her escape the ensuing chaos that erupted in Zmeya ranks when she was targeted, shuffling her to different states, before dropping her in New Mexico. She adapted, taking different jobs bartending and serving, before going back to school for her bachelors in Theater Arts.

She’d finally settled down when he returned five years later and told her, “You made me a promise.” and that gun was still in the back of her closet, locked in a safe with a combination she didn’t know. His gambling caused problems with the wrong crowd. It was $50,000 on the line, and the head of one of this gang’s most important members, but somehow it didn’t feel like it was worth the risk of her life. But she owed a debt.

A year after entering a relationship with her target, she was caught when finally she finally found out where the money was held and was taken captive, where she met Konstantin Vasile. He managed to get out. She didn’t.

She refused to sell out her friend, and they decided that they wouldn’t kill her. Not if she killed Konstantin. Her life for his - it should be an easy trade, they told her. After all, he’d left her behind.

Now she’s in Chicago, under someone else’s thumb. And she wants out.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS

Friends. Any kind of friends, really, from people Mira interacts on a daily basis with to casual acquaintances. She’s able to carry a conversation, but isn’t necessarily a chatterbox. It would be hard to get close to her on an emotional level, but she needs people to keep her company when drinking, visiting art museums, the zoo, and seeing movies.

Students. People she teaches in more intermediate classes, and any parents with children who she teaches. She can seem harsh sometimes, but only because of how important precision is in dance, and otherwise she maintains a good relationship with those she instructs.

Enemies. These will likely be people she’s known in the past, but I’m open to anything here. There’s a strong possibility of her not liking certain people, or at least not trusting them, and we love a little friction, don’t we?

Love interests. I have no concrete ideas for this area, but it’d be fun to have, whether they’re as fucked up as she is, or someone who’s functional (and whose life she can fuck up.)

Other: People she knew from back in New Mexico, people from NYC, those familiar with the Zmeya crime family, people who enjoy the fine taste of theater popcorn, friendly giant spiders

[catholicartistsnyc]

Meet Nathaniel Tinner

NATHANIEL TINNER is a writer, speaker, and singer based in New Orleans, LA (NOLA). [website | twitter]

You can watch Nathaniel’s presentation on Black Catholicism, social justice, and his personal testimony for the California Chinese Catholic Living Camp (CACCLC) 2020 virtual retreat below: 

CATHOLIC ARTIST CONNECTION: Where are you from originally, and what brought you to NOLA?

NATHANIEL TINNER: I'm from Evansville, IN and my dad moved here to NOLA while I was in college in Los Angeles; I landed here after graduation and have been between here and Cali ever since.

Do you call yourself a Catholic artist? What do you see as your personal mission as a Catholic working in the arts?

I do not typically call myself an artist, as I see myself as primarily an analytical writer. That isn't typically seen as an art, and my more purely artistic venture (singing) is moreso my side gig—although I've been doing it longer and in more contexts.

Presently I see both of my art forms as methods of supporting the institution of Black Catholicism. It is in need of support and enrichment from its own, and writing as well as music happen to be two art forms that have been (and remain) crucial to the development of the institution. Insofar as I am able, I take it to be my duty to serve the Church in that way.

Where have you found support in the Church for your vocation as an artist?

I am a recent convert (officially received in December 2019), and the feedback to my work as a writer and singer has been phenomenal. I had been out of the writing habit for some time before discovering Catholicism; once I found and embraced it, my artistic juices starting flowing like water. I had to get a million things off of my chest, and they came out the way my mind had been trained to release things: on the page and on the mic. Multiple new friends—almost all of whom I've never met in person—offered to host my writing, chief among them Mike Lewis, who runs a Catholic blog called Where Peter Is. This led to a writing opportunity with Word On Fire, and my work on both outlets has led to various podcast interviews, a book interview, an appearance in an upcoming documentary from Stella Maris Films, and a speaking gig at the 2020 California Chinese Catholic Living Camp.

Where have you found support among your fellow artists for your Catholic faith?

The response from other Catholic writers has been awesome. I have heard over and over again that Black Catholic writers are few and far between in the public spotlight, especially in certain media outlets. Speakers are more common, but not necessarily with a focus on Black Catholicism as their topic of focus. 

Lesser-known still are Black Catholic musicians. So people have been receptive of my message as well as my experience, which has been cool to see. There's a lot of Black Catholic history and art out there that is unknown to the average Catholic.

How can the Church be more welcoming to artists?

By having an open mind! The world of Catholicism is one full of (if not sustained by) art—the world's art, not any one culture's—and every member of the Church should be cognizant of that. Many times this knowledge is sitting right under our noses, or even within our grasp without us realizing it. So much of our surroundings is shaped by Catholic art, and we internalize it whether we're believers, pious, atheists, or lapsed. Everyone, from the Pope to the pauper, should embrace that fact and use it as a tool for unity and human flourishing.

How can the artistic world be more welcoming to artists of faith?

By seeking beauty wherever it resides. Often this means taken off our own blinders and seeing objective beauty in places and things we ourselves do not necessarily enjoy or appreciate. This also can mean seeing the overwhelming beauty in things that we do appreciate on an aesthetic level, but that are attached to other things (like religion) that we may not identify with. Finally, the art world (and the whole world) can gain so much by learning to to see beauty in the ugliness of a world that is not as it should be. A world where religions—namely, their religionists—do not always show themselves worthy of praise or appreciation. A world that makes us cry like art sometimes does. Religious art helps tell that story in a timeless sort of way.

Where in your city do you regularly find spiritual fulfillment?

I attend Blessed Sacrament/St. Joan of Arc parish, and I recommend any and all Black Catholic parishes in my city—of which there are many. This is not to the exclusion of the value of other parishes, but Black Catholicism is a unique thing in the Catholic world and for various reasons must be seen in order to be believed. A people of uncommon faithfulness have persevered through an uncommon struggle and continue to sing (and I mean *SING*) God's praises through it all. I will never forget Christmas Day Mass at St. Peter Claver in America's oldest Black neighborhood [Tremé, NOLA], with a massive gospel choir singing the Gloria like I'd never heard it before, the servers bowing and incensing the altar while the congregation stood, clapped, and joined the angels in praise. There's truly nothing like it.

Also, everyone should know the story of the Knights of Peter Claver & Ladies Auxiliary, the Catholic national fraternal organization founded for African-Americans during an era when the Knights of Columbus did not allow us entry. Black Catholic organizations from this period abound (including religious orders such as the Josephites, Sisters of the Holy Family, and Oblate Sisters of Providence), and deserve everyone's attention. I am applying for the Josephites myself, and study for my Masters at Xavier University of Louisiana, the one and only Catholic HBCU (which houses my program, the Institute for Black Catholic Studies).

Everyone should also check out the National Black Catholic Congress, National Black Catholic Clergy Caucus, National Black Sisters' Conference, National Black Catholic Seminarians Association, and the National Association of Black Catholic Deacons.

How do you afford housing as an artist?

I currently live with a Catholic lay intentional community connected to a local parish, and I recommend this to anyone for whom it is an option. Living in community with other Catholics is both an economic and spiritual boon, and as St. Paul once said, "Against such things there is no law."

While not exactly the same thing, Catholic Worker communities still exist throughout the country and are great places for artists to serve and live in community at least partially outside of the somewhat artist-unfriendly capitalist superstructure.

What other practical resources would you recommend to a Catholic artist living in NOLA?

Not just for folks living in my city, but a friend of mine runs a writers' group that meets once a month to review and critique each others' work and I know that is a crucial help for so many artists in the writing field. Folks interested can send me an email to get connected.

[hms-chill]

The Chaos Before the Storm

@teresalisbon asked for “a RWRB AU where they didn't have that first kiss but they're still friends and what leaks this time is like a private convo between Henry and pez where he manages to both insult and say he's in love with alex and... it goes from there”, and I hope this is everything you wanted! 

If you’re not sold by that, my working title for this was “Alex’s Bi Awakening: Speed-Run Edition”

Just a quick heads up that there is homophobia from Henry’s gran in here, and a reference to using alcohol to cope with that. Stay safe y’all.

-

There are some moments in history that people say they'll never forget. They'll know exactly where they were when they heard the news, know exactly what they were doing and remember it for the rest of their lives. Alex has always been a bit skeptical of that; high school psych taught them about the formation of memories and how easily they can change, and they looked at studies of people confidently claiming two different stories about where they were on 9/11. But he knows that, for the rest of his existence on planet earth, he will remember this day shot by shot, exactly as it happens.

He's on a couch with Nora and June, watching old episodes of Parks and Rec and trying to relax for once when Zahra slams open the door.

"Alexander Gabriel, what did you do?" There's a laptop in her hand, and she slams it on the coffee table in front of them moments after Alex snatches his coffee. June barely has time to pause the TV before Henry's voice is coming out of the laptop speakers, and Alex feels a familiar warmth spread through him before the dread kicks in. This isn't Press Henry, this is a private version of Henry. It's a Henry that should never, ever, be playing from a major news website, but Zahra is playing it from the Mail's homepage nonetheless.

"He just drives me up the fucking wall. I mean, he’s so impulsive all the time; he doesn’t even stop to consider that maybe not all of us can just flaunt everything we are to the world. Maybe, just maybe, some of us have families who won’t support us, and if he could understand that... he’s just so bloody thick, and I hate it so much sometimes. Beside that, he just... he doesn’t listen, or pick up on things; he’s so... you know how Mark Hamill didn't know that Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were sleeping together when they were filming A New Hope, so he'd just show up for breakfast to hang out? He's like that. He's so confident and sure of himself, but he misses so many things, and I'm trying so hard, but he... I just don’t understand how he can be so... so much, and so himself all the time, especially when everyone’s watching him. I mean, you can do it, but you... you’re only in the public eye because of me.”

“Careful, Babes. I’m more than just your arm candy and attention sponge.” It's Pez's voice, and that makes it worse somehow. Henry is talking to one of the two people who have always been on his side, and it's available for anyone on the planet to listen to.

“You’re also not the son of the president of a global powerhouse.”

“If he makes you so upset, you could just stop seeing him.”

“This is a ‘mope about being in love with an idiot’ session; I don’t actually want you to tell me things. I can’t stop seeing him and we both know it. I’m... I fell too hard, Pez. It was that blasted day in Rio; I was just trying to get through and then he waltzes in, all sunlight and warmth, and he never stopped being that way. Never even gave me a chance to save myself. He’s just all this love and coziness and sunlight, and I’m just a bloody Icarus, I can’t... I’m going to burn myself up just to be near him.“

“Okay, Mister, I think that’s enough of this.” There’s a rustling sound, and a few feeble protests from Henry before he lapses back into singing Alex’s praises.

"He's just... his hair is so nice, and he doesn't care, and he's... he's not scared. I'm so scared all the time, but he's not. He's tough and brave."

"So are you, Hen." There are more sounds of movement, and the voices start moving away. Pez must have gotten Henry up.

"Not as brave as him. He's... he's just himself in front of everyone."

Zahra closes the laptop, turning to Alex. "It cuts off there. This leaked from Buckingham ten minutes ago; we're not sure how or why it happened. But so help me, if you are seeing the prince of Wales, we need to know yesterday."

"I'm... If I'm what? If I'm... no. No, Henry and I are... we're friends. I'm straight. And maybe sometimes I think about how his hair looks really soft and his lips look nice and he looks good in a suit but that’s, like, objective stuff. And one time he spoke French and I couldn't get my brain to work for like two minutes, but that's just because it's impressive when someone knows multiple languages. And yeah, maybe I haven’t been interested in dating since we started hanging out, but we’ve been busy. And maybe he’s the first person I’ve met in years that I can’t imagine a life without, and sometimes I think about how much I miss him when I can't sleep because one time we shared a hotel bed because we were drunk and it was really, really nice, but that’s just like... friend stuff. I mean, yeah, maybe last time we were at the lake house he had his shirt off and I thought about it for like two weeks after, but — oh my god, am I bi?”

Nora’s buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Near the door, Amy’s face sinks into her hand, and June heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“Jesus Christ, Alex. You used to sneak into my room to leave greasy little fingerprints all over a picture of him; how are you so smart and yet still this stupid?”

"But I... if I was... shit, I'm... I'm not seeing him, but maybe I want to? Fuck, Z, how is he?"

“Buckingham’s shut down; they’re not talking to anyone. We’re calling every five minutes, but it’s radio silence.”

“I’ll— can I text him? That should be okay, right?”

“You can try. This... we were planning to issue a statement saying the two of you are just good friends, but maybe you should talk to him first. I’ll... your mom doesn't know yet; she's in a secure meeting, but I'm sure we’ll back your play, Alex.”

“I need... I need to talk to Henry.” Henry who he’s been drawn to for years. Henry who’s seen all his weird gross parts and apparently loves him anyway. Henry who just got outed on a major level. Alex isn’t mentioned by name on the recording; lots of important people were in Rio that day. They could claim it’s not about him, and that could be it, but Henry’s stuck. It is undeniably him, and it is undeniably gay.

So Alex texts him. And when he doesn’t answer, he calls. And when that doesn’t go through, he calls again, then calls Bea. And, god bless her, she answers the phone.

“How is he?”

“Alex, I need—“

“Is Henry okay? I need to talk to him.”

“You and the rest of the bloody world.”

“How is he? Is he... what happened?”

“We think a big came in on a bottle of brandy. Gran is furious; we’re not meant to be speaking to anyone outside until he's... until she’s sent him on a date. She’s trying to get one lined up now. I'm... I'm trying to get one of my friends to go, so at least he'll know the girl, but...”

“How is he?”

“He... he’s not good, Alex. He’s... it’s not been good here. Pez was by but they wouldn’t let him in, but they let bloody Phillip come down. Mum stopped by, but she hasn’t been good for much of anything since Dad died. It... I’m just trying to keep him from getting absolutely sloshed or panicking too much. It's... it's mostly crisis management, if I’m honest.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Bea sighs, then says, “Let me ask him. He’s... I think he’s scared to talk to you, Love.”

“I... I understand. I’m not mad, or... or anything. We just... we need to talk. I... I’ll come there. It’ll take ages, but if it’ll help, I... I’ll come to y’all and talk to him face to face.” Alex looks around to see if anyone is going to tell him that won’t work, but he’s alone except for June, stretched out on the couch and trying not to listen. He's not sure when Zahra and the others left, but he's suddenly glad.

“I’ll... I’ll ask him. Give me a moment.”

There’s a bit of white noise, then Alex can hear Bea quietly asking Henry something. He can’t hear the response, but what he can hear of Henry’s voice breaks his heart. It’s shaky, but beyond that it just sounds flat, defeated. All the life, all the beautiful honest bits that make it Henry’s voice, have gone out of it. Alex can picture him, huddled in a couch corner in one of Buckingham’s impersonal rooms full of dead people’s furniture, and it’s awful. Bea says something else, then she’s back, quietly.

“Now’s... he’s not quite up to it. I’m sorry; it’s... it’s been a long few hours, and he...”

“I get it. I know. Just... I hope he’s okay. Tell him that? That I... I’m on his side, and whatever Catholic is left in me is praying to any saint who might be willing to help us out? And when... when he does feel up to it, if he could call me, I... I’d like that. Thank you, Bea.”

“Of course. I... we’ll be thinking about you, too. And whatever Gran says, I’m not going to let them cut you and Pez out of things. You’re just as much a part of this as anyone.”

“Thank you. I'm... I'm glad he has you to love him and fight for him. You’re a gift, Bea, you really are.”

“So are you, you know. I... if he had to give this much of himself to anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

Alex manages a thank you and a goodbye past the sudden lump in his throat, then hangs up and turns to June.

“Uh, Bug? If... if I fly to England right now to try to sort this out, that’s stupid, right?”

“Supremely. I’ll ask if Amy or Cash are free to go with you, and I’ll see if Zahra can get you a hotel in case they won’t let you into Buckingham. Pack for at least three days, and bring your navy suit, the one you wore when Mom got elected. Pack those X-Wing cufflinks if you feel like they’re lucky, silver tie clip, dark gray tie and shoes in case you're meeting the queen. You’ll want a book for the flight, and I’ll get some snacks from the kitchen, then I’ll... I’ll hold down the fort here. Nora and Mom and I will figure out something to say to distract the press from this for as long as we can. We’ll start fostering a litter of kittens or something; the press loves a cute photo op, and we should raise awareness for shelter pets anyway.”

“You’re the best, Bug, I mean it.”

“Oh, and uh, Nora and I... we got you something. I’ll bring it with the snacks.”

She shoos him into his room to pack, and she's back a few minutes later with a bag of snacks and a little pin. It's a lapel pin with two flags, and for a second, Alex assumes it's got the British and American flags, a final component to his just-in-case-you-meet-the-queen look. But then he looks closely, and it’s an American flag and a bi pride flag. He's surprised to realize he's a little choked up.

“Nora's already started trying to find out where the leak came from, but, uh, we love you a lot, and we wanted you to know that as soon as you wanted to tell us.”

“How long have y’all known?”

“Honestly? I knew something was up when I found those fingerprints on Henry’s picture in that magazine. I... I left my door open and didn't throw it out or move it so you could keep going back and tell me whenever you were ready. Nora knew pretty early too; definitely before you and Liam got together. We got this once you and Nora broke up though. And... and a few more. We got like three different flags so we’d be ready no matter what.”

“Before me and Liam... fuck, did I date Liam? Was that a relationship?”

“Alex, I love you so much and I genuinely think you’re brilliant, but sometimes I wonder if your brain is in your head.”

“But we... shit. Shit; I should call him.”

“And do what, Alex? What in the world would calling him do?”

“I don’t know; I could apologize? Catch up?”

“You’re about to fly across an ocean to get yourself a royal boyfriend. Calling your accidental high school ex to 'catch up' can wait.”

“You’re right. Did... did Mom and Z say I can go?”

“They did. I think Z’s going with you, and so’s Cash. They’re prepping a plane now.”

“Thanks, Bug. You... you’re the best.”

“You have everything you need?”

“I think so? Pajamas, clothes, that suit you said, shoes, chargers and adapters...”

“You bring a book?”

“A couple. And hot Cheetos, because Pez likes those but they don’t have them. And a chocolate orange for Henry, because he likes those, and those weird new Oreos, because tradition. It’s good luck to bring them weird Oreos, and they’re always curious about the weird new flavor, even if half of them are shit.”

“It’s going to be fine. We love you, okay? No matter what happens, we love you.”

“I know. I’m not worried about me, I’m... it’s him I’m worried about. His grandma’s already setting up a fake date for him, and he’s all alone in that big palace full of dead people’s shit. And he... it’s just him and Bea against everyone, and I’m scared. I know I've got you and mom and everyone here on my side, but he's... I just... even if it all goes to shit for us, I want him to be okay.”

“And here I thought he was the Prince Charming of the relationship. Go get him, Alex. We’re rooting for you.” She hugs him, and he hugs her back. She beams at him as she pulls away. "This is so Austen; he’ll love it. Very ‘Tilney-going-after-Catherine’ at the end of Northanger. Send Bea and Pez my love, alright? And tell Henry we're all rooting for him here.”

“Of course.”

She’s got another hug for him, then they’re downstairs, and he’s hugging his mom and Nora and climbing in a car with Zahra and Cash. He calls Bea again from the air, and it sounds like Henry’s the closest to sleep he’s going to get. His date is set for the next day, and Bea knows the details. With that, they start to formulate a plan.

The next day, Alex is at the English Rose Café and Tea Shop at 9:48 AM. He’s in a hat, and he sits at an outdoor table with his back to the street. He gets a double espresso, because it’s been a hell of a last 24 hours. Cash is somewhere being inconspicuous, and Alex isn’t sure where exactly that is, but he can feel the support radiating off him.

At 9:52, Pez walks into the shop and sits down near one of the windows. He waves to Alex, and Alex nods, smiling a bit. Bea arrives at 9:56 and joins Pez. Alex’s leg is bouncing under the table. He doesn’t order another coffee, even if he wants to, because any more energy in his system would almost certainly be a disaster.

At 9:58, a very pretty girl sits down at a table near Alex. She smiles at him, he smiles back. He drops a napkin, they both bend to get it, and he hands her a note. She nods.

At 10:01, Alex sees a car pull up behind them in the reflection in the shop’s big front windows. The person who steps out barely looks like Henry. He moves robotically to sit across from the girl, and when he sits, Alex can see the bloodshot eyes, the shaking hands. He’s trying so hard to play the part he’s supposed to play, but he just looks miserable.

He can barely meet the girl’s eyes. The car leaves, but the photographer it drops off is anything but subtle. The girl pushes her hair back and orders for both of them. Henry just nods. The camera clicks.

Then there’s Cash’s voice, asking for directions in the Spanish he’s picked up from the Diaz family. Alex glances over, and the photographer is distracted.

The girl at Henry’s table excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Alex waits a second, then slides over to sit in front of Henry. For a second, he doesn’t react, so Alex reaches over to take one of the shaking hands in his own. Henry starts.

“Alex? What... you can’t be here. This... you can’t...”

“It’s okay. It’s... we need to talk, but just... I’m... fuck, I thought this would be easier to say. I want... if you want to date I’d be down for that. But also I really like being friends. But also, if you wanted to do more than that, I... I’ve maybe very suddenly realized I’ve had a crush on you since I was twelve. I can see Bea’s friend coming, but this is the address for the hotel where I’m staying. She’s going to suggest a walk after this, and if... if you want to talk, I’ll be there. I’m in your corner no matter what, though. Nora and June and everyone back home is, too. You’re the bravest person I know, and I love you.”

Alex is back in his seat before Henry has time to respond, leaving the hotel’s business card on the table. Bea’s friend comes to sit across from Henry, Cash breaks off his conversation with the photographer, and Alex pays for his coffee inside. He stops at Bea and Pez’s table to fill them in, then goes back to his hotel.

He gets there at 10:14. Cash appears by his side at 10:15. Zahra is down from her room at 10:28 to let them know that Buckingham’s official plan is to publish the pictures of the date and act like nothing incriminating was leaked.

At 10:33, Henry and Bea’s friend round the corner. She has an arm around his waist, but it looks more like she’s supporting him than anything else. She asks him something, and he nods. She starts toward them, waving a bit, and Alex is moving almost before he’s aware of it. He meets them half a block from the hotel, wrapping an arm around Henry, too. Bea’s friend shoots him a little smile. Henry is shaking like a leaf, but he gets an arm over Alex’s shoulder nonetheless.

At the hotel, they say goodbye to Bea’s friend, and Alex leads the way to the elevator. He can feel his heart racing, but he’s doing everything he can to stay calm. This isn’t his moment to panic.

The minute the hotel door closes behind them, Alex hugs Henry with everything in him. He can feel the tension in Henry’s body, and he’s been seeing the exhaustion all day, and he wants nothing more than to get rid of all of it. He wants to squeeze the sadness and the anxiety and all the bad things out. But Henry’s still shaking, and he doesn’t move to hug Alex back. After a minute, Alex pulls away and Henry says, “I... I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t... I didn’t... I...”

“Hen? It’s okay. Let’s... let’s sit down.” He has no idea if this is the right thing to do, but he sits on the couch, pulling Henry down with him.

“I’m sorry. I... that shouldn’t... this shouldn’t have happened. None of this should have happened, and you never should have gotten pulled into this, and you have every right to be mad and never speak to me again and I... I’m sorry.”

“What? I’m... I'm not mad. Don’t apologize. I... I’m... I think maybe I have a crush on you, too. It... no, I don’t think. I know I have a thing for you. Sorry; it’s... with time zones and everything, I think it’s been just a little over a day since I realized I was bi, so it’s... it’s an adjustment.”

Henry lets out a bit of a laugh at that, and though it’s miles from what his laugh should be, it’s better than the panic or tears. It's miles better than the numbness he's seen all day.

“That doesn’t change things, though. I mean, I’m into you, but me being bi doesn’t change anything. This whole thing doesn’t have to change anything; if you want to we can just... we can ignore it and go back to being friends.”

Henry shakes his head, and Alex feels a bit of a thrill. “I... I don’t... no. Don’t ignore it. I... if you want to, it... I don’t know if I can, or if I’ll be allowed, but I want... I want to try. With you.”

“Me, too. I really, really want to try with you.”

Henry sniffles a bit, and Alex wraps him in another hug. He buries his face in Alex’s shoulder, and Alex realizes he’s mostly stopped shaking.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, I promise. I’ll make sure.”

“Sorry. I... I might need you to tell me all this again later; I'll think I made it up. I... I’m... I’m a little drunk. I can’t do it sober.”

“Can’t do what?”

“These... these dates. I can’t do them sober anymore, and Bea tried to help today, but she left earlier than me and it...” He trails off with a miserable hiccup.

“Oh, Hen. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry they’re doing this to you; it’s not right. It’s... I’m going to fight your grandma and bring you home with me. And then my family are going to love you to pieces, like they already do, and things will be okay.”

Henry lets out a watery laugh as Alex’s phone buzzes. It’s Bea, so he pets Henry’s hair (which is exactly as soft as he used to imagine) and answers, filling her in and letting her know it’s okay to come up. So she and Pez do, and by the time they’re there, Henry is snoring softly with his face in Alex’s shoulder. Bea just smiles and tells them that Henry hasn’t slept since the leak yesterday morning as she drapes a blanket over him. Pez digs through Alex’s bag to unearth a packet of root beer float Oreos, and he and Bea settle around the coffee table to try them.

They facetime the White House to fill everyone in, and though Alex knows they’ve got a fight coming, he’s strangely calm. Henry is safe, and whatever comes next, they have each other and a family to walk through it with.

On AO3

Notes:

Fun fact; Mark Hamill was "too busy being young and pretty" to notice that Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were sleeping together/ that he was aggressively cockblocking them on at least one occasion. What an icon. Also, re: June's Northanger reference, Tilney is the Rich Bachelor of the book. His father thinks that Catherine, the hero, isn't good enough for their family and makes her leave their house in a really disgusting show of rudeness and spite. Tilney chases her down and proposes to her anyway, and it's way more romantic and self-sacrificing than anything Fitzwilliam ever did imo. - After this fic, I like to think that Alex, Zahra, and Cash took Henry straight to the airport and back to DC, where he cuddled with the litter of kittens June and Nora picked up and Bea and Pez fought the queen for a while so he could have a break.

[taste-thewaste]

There’s only one bed-Madderton fic

Title:There’s only one bed Ship: Madderton Word count: ~2800 A/N: So I’ve been seeing a ton of stuff on here about the sometimes overused trope of ‘there’s only one bed’ so the characters have to share and I thought it might be fun to put my Madderton spin on it ;) This is fluff on fluff, friends! The boys just love kissing and being together lol. I hope everyone enjoys.

-------

Richard didn’t think he would ever get over the sight of New York City lit up at night, the way every building glowed, the billboards, the flashing signs. It was by no means the first ‘big city’ he’d ever been in, but it always felt different, every time he was here. He always felt different, always felt waves of potential washing over him whenever he came here; he couldn’t explain it. He tucked his legs up to his chest and circled his arms around them, relaxing into the sofa and just staring out the large picture window in his hotel room. 

He knew he should get some rest, big day tomorrow. It was why he’d begged off of going out with Taron that evening, to get some rest, and yet here he was, up later than he’d expected, looking out at the evening. He could hardly believe he was here. He could hardly believe this was his life. He was a dreamer, Richard was, and this was all he’d dreamed of for years. He’d made it, and he could still hardly believe it.  

He was so focused on what he was thinking about that the unexpected loud knocking that came on his door made him nearly fall off the couch in surprise. He looked over at the door to his suite, hoping that it was just somebody lost on their way back to their own room. A moment later, as if the person on the other side of the door could read his mind, the loud knocking rang out again. 

“Oy, Rich, it’s me, open up, for the love of God!” 

What the hell was Taron doing outside his room at half past 11?

Richard pushed himself off the sofa and padded over to the door, yanking it open and immediately biting the inside of his cheek to try to stifle his laughter. Taron stood in front of him, soaking wet and scowling. His white t-shirt clung to his body, leaving little to the imagination; his green plaid flannel pajama pants were similarly wet, pasted to his legs and unleashing little rivulets of water that drip-dropped onto the hotel floor. Richard finally lost the battle of not laughing as a short, sharp guffaw burst forth from his mouth. Taron looked positively ridiculous. 

“D’you think you could continue laughing at me after I come inside?” Taron asked, a slight edge to his voice and his scowl deepening. Richard chuckled and stepped aside, allowing his dripping wet mate into the suite, barely registering that Taron was carting his suitcase with him.

“What the hell happened to you?” Richard asked, shutting the door and throwing the lock. Taron wrung his t-shirt out on the floor, leaving a puddle at his feet. 

“The fucking fire sprinklers in my room started going off and wouldn’t stop! Everything’s soaked, and they can’t figure out what’s wrong. The hotel’s fully booked because of the premiere so they can’t move me anywhere, but I told them I could stay with a friend. Is that alright?” Taron asked, looking up and finally meeting Richard’s eyes. His stomach did the briefest of backflips, the way it always did when T’s eyes met his own, and he tried, again, to push it away. 

“‘Course you can stay here, no worries,” Rich said, offering up a smile and waving him inside. “You’re always welcome.” 

Taron chuckled. “Well, we won’t be here for long, Dickie, but I certainly appreciate the sentiment. I’m having a shower.” Taron dug through his suitcase briefly and loped off towards the bathroom, clean, dry clothes in hand. Richard resisted the urge to follow him. 

It wasn’t until Taron had already been in the shower for several moments that it occurred to Richard that there was only one bed in the suite. 

Their hotel was ostensibly fancier than many, and the sofa he’d been casually lounging on when Taron had knocked on the door-the way that t-shirt had clung to his body, good Lord, Richard thought-didn’t pull out into a sleeper. He checked just to be sure, but found nothing but couch springs underneath the cushions. He supposed he could sleep on the sofa, but it was dreadful uncomfortable simply to lie on…

In the middle of his contemplation, Taron emerged from the bathroom, backlit by the fluorescent lighting and releasing a rolling fog of steam from inside. He was clad in nothing but a tight-fitting black t-shirt and a matching pair of underwear, and he looked completely comfortable in himself, as though it was nothing in the world for him to show up at Richard’s hotel suite in the middle of the evening, take a shower, and emerge with no pants on. 

“Forget your pants?” Rich asked, thanking whatever God was up there that his voice hadn’t trembled on any of the words, giving away his nerves. 

“I’ve no dry sleep pants, and who cares? It’s just us,” Taron said with a simple shrug, and Richard marveled at the way he could just make any situation, no matter what it was, seem simple. Taron rubbed a towel through his short hair, drying it off a bit. “What’re you doing awake, eh? You bailed on going out with me tonight so I thought I’d find you all curled up and asleep.”

Richard shrugged, the tiniest blush rising to his cheeks. “I was just about to when you knocked.” 

Taron ambled over to him, dropping the towel on the floor as he went. “Dickie needs his beauty rest before the premiere tomorrow?” he teased, pinching Richard’s cheek just slightly.

Rich resisted the urge to grab Taron by the hips, drag him close, bite his lower lip. God, he was just so pretty, Taron was, and cheeky, and lovely. Where the hell was his head going tonight? 

Richard cleared his throat, tried to think of dreadful topics to keep his mind from going where it was going. “Well, we have a tiny problem. There’s only one bed in here, and this sofa doesn’t pull out. It’s uncomfortable but I could sleep on it and you could take the bed,” he offered. 

Taron looked at the bed, then at the sofa, then back at the bed before looking up at Richard. “We can both sleep in the bed, looks like there’s room,” he said, gesturing towards the queen size bed. Richard’s stomach did a significantly stronger backflip than normal. 

“Both of us in the bed?” Richard asked, mentally kicking himself for stuttering over the words. “The same bed?” 

Taron laughed and stretched, his t-shirt riding up ever-so-slightly and showing his tummy. “Yes, the same bed. Do you have a problem with that?” 

Richard shook his head quickly and furiously, too quickly, too furiously. He ran his hands through his hair, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks again. “No, no problem. There’s plenty of room.” 

Taron started to turn down the covers on what he’d decided would be his side of the bed, chuckling all the while. “I mean, we’ve rolled around naked for hours on camera before. I think we can manage to catch a good night’s rest in the same bed for one evening.” 

“Shut up, you cheeky bastard,” Rich said, turning down his side and crawling in, pretending to play it cool. He had no doubt that Taron could tell how nervous he was, though, if the wry grin on his face was any indication as he hopped into the bed, too. Richard snuggled down deep under the covers, keeping himself as still as possible, staying as close to the edge of the bed as possible. He was acutely aware of himself, of his body, of the space he occupied. He’d never been more nervous yet excited at the same time, or more tense. Taron looked over at him, the grin still on his face, before going, “Oh,” and hopping out of bed to turn the lights off. He hopped right back in, just as gracefully. 

Richard felt himself instantly relax with the lights off, even though the bright lights of the city below them meant the room wasn’t completely dark. The light bled through the thin curtains that Richard hadn’t drawn all the way, and he looked up and found Taron gazing at him. He was still smiling, but it was less of a teasing smile and one of...fondness, if Richard wasn’t misreading things. 

“What?” Richard asked, the near-darkness, the closeness making him whisper. “Why are you looking at me?” 

“I like looking at you,” Taron whispered back, and Rich couldn’t tell completely, but he thought there might be some pink to Taron’s cheeks. 

Richard felt a wave of boldness crash over him, and he whispered back, “I like looking at you, too.” 

Taron nodded slightly, and said, “I’m nervous about tomorrow.” 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know. It’s not like we haven’t done it before. I just..the more we do this, the more I think this film could really be something, Rich, y’know? I know we haven’t made the next...I don’t know, Forrest Gump or something, but this film could really resonate with people. I think it will. We’ve made something special, and the people it touches are going to be grateful for it. It just adds some pressure, I suppose.” Taron shrugged a little, his eyes gazing off across the room, lost in thought. 

Richard bit his lower lip and looked at Taron. “My favorite thing about you is how passionate you are. I’ve never seen anyone put so much of themselves into a role. If this movie is something special, it’s because of you.”

Taron’s eyes moved back onto Richard’s. “Thanks,” he said softly, and the two lapsed into quiet. The only sound was the muffled noise of cars rushing by on the streets below, and the slow even breathing of both of them. Richard felt his anxieties quell, the backflips in his belly still, his entire body fall calm. An hour ago he’d been ruminating on this life he got to live, and if you’d asked him how sharing a bed with Taron would make him feel, he wouldn’t have said calm. 

That’s what he felt, though. He felt calm and content. In any other situation, it would’ve been weird for he and Taron to just look at each other, but that was what they were doing and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Finally, after what felt like ages, Taron broke the silence. 

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” he said quietly, and (with a slightly shaking hand, Rich noticed), Taron reached out and touched Richard’s face, stroking the soft pad of his thumb over Richard’s cheek. Richard breathed in deeply, his heart fluttering in his chest. 

“What are you doing?” he whispered, and Taron drew his hand away like he’d been burned. 

“I just--I’m sorry,” he said quietly. It was one of the few times he’d ever seen Taron nervous; the boy was perpetually sunny and confident. Richard drew on a small well of strength, and reached out and grabbed Taron’s hand. He laced their fingers together and squeezed gently. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Richard said, and Taron nodded, reaching his hand out again after letting go of Richard’s to stroke his face again. 

“Rich, I...can I…” Taron muttered, and he tilted his face towards Richard’s and kissed him, so gently that it was almost as if it didn’t happen, his lips just lightly brushing the other man’s. It was enough, though. It was enough to wake them both up, to send tiny zaps of electricity traveling down their spines. Rich wriggled closer to Taron, ungraceful in his need to be closer to the man he was sharing a bed with. Taron leaned his forehead against Richard’s, casting his eyes downward, unable to look at him. 

“I’ve liked you for a while,” Taron confessed, his voice husky with the quiet and desperation of the words he was expressing. Taron was not a nervous person, and yet, the idea of confessing to Richard what he’d been feeling for so long was...maddening and terrifying. He couldn’t stand the idea of being vulnerable like this and being shot down. 

Richard reached out and tilted Taron’s face up, so he was looking directly into his ocean blue eyes. “I’ve liked you, too,” he said softly, and that was enough to break the spell of the gentle calm between them. Taron’s lips were on his, deep, powerful, almost aggressive, and he was answering back just as strongly. Their teeth clashed together and their bodies curved in towards each other. Richard ran his hands up Taron’s shirt, gripping the other man’s hips and dragging him closer; their legs twined together and in the back of Richard’s mind, he thought of how similar this was in some ways to the scene they’d filmed together. Taron bit down on his lower lip and Rich moaned, lightly. 

They rutted against each other like a couple of teenagers, and Richard thought that he hadn’t felt anything so good in ages. They kissed with no expectations, with wild abandon, and when it was done, it was done. Taron took Richard in his arms and Richard nuzzled into him, curving his body towards Taron and tucking himself in neatly. He laid his head against the soft cotton of Taron’s t-shirt and Taron dropped a kiss absent-mindedly on the top of Richard’s head. Their breathing was synced up, both of them breathing rather heavily, and he was warm. He felt safe, and seen, and known. 

“You are exceptional,” Taron whispered after a moment’s silence, and Rich knew in his heart that his words weren’t referring to anything physical they had just done. He knew, somehow, that Taron was referring to him as a person, not just his body, and he could’ve cried. 

-------

Morning came, as it always does, sunlight filtering in through the room. The alarm that Richard had set prior to Taron’s arrival blared, rousing both of them unpleasantly from the warm, comforting sleep they’d been enjoying. Richard was still curved into Taron, their legs entwined and his hand on Taron’s belly. He rolled over and smacked the alarm clock as hard as he could, silencing the annoying sound. 

Taron stretched and let out a low moan, opening his eyes and blinking sleepily. A slow smile spread across his face as he looked at Richard, who smiled back at him. Now that it was light out and the day had come, if you’d asked Richard if the night before had happened, he might not have been able to answer yes. He couldn’t be sure, it had been so gentle and like the answer to a long-wanted dream he’d been having. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Taron said, sleep still clouding his voice. Richard grinned. 

“Mornin’.” 

“Ready for today?” Taron asked, kissing Richard softly and enjoying the pink flush that rose to Richard’s cheeks. 

“Suppose, I’ll have you there to keep me calm,” Richard said cheekily. Taron nodded and rolled out of bed. 

“I guess I should head back to my room, hair and makeup are going to meet me there soon-ish. But we could have breakfast first, if you want?” Taron said, finding his old crumpled pants on the floor and pulling them on.

“Breakfast would be nice,” Richard said, getting out of bed himself and then stopping short. “Hold on, you can’t meet them there, your room is flooded, isn’t it?” 

Taron froze, a delightfully evil grin spreading onto his face. “Well, the thing is…”

Richard’s one eyebrow shot up quizzically. “The thing is…?” 

“I was thinking about you last night after you bailed on me and I was feeling bold so I…” He trailed off lightly.

Richard sighed. “Taron.”

“Okay, okay. I sort of made up the story about my room being flooded so I could come see you,” Taron said, a tiny laugh slipping out. 

Richard couldn’t help but smile, seeing how clearly pleased Taron was with himself. “You made it up?” he asked incredulously. 

“Well, yeah,” Taron said, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Why didn’t you just...text me, or come by?” Richard asked. 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to, I don’t know, I was nervous,” Taron babbled, blushing just a bit. Richard went over to him and impulsively pulled Taron into his arms, pressing their bodies against each other. Richard kissed Taron’s temple gently. 

“I wanted you to. Promise,” Richard murmured and Taron snuggled into him briefly. After a few moments, Taron reluctantly pushed himself away. 

“Alright. Really have to get going unfortunately, I don’t think we can do breakfast. I’ll see you soon,” Taron said, kissing Richard softly and turning to leave. 

“One last thing, Taron?” Richard called, and Taron paused with his hand on the doorknob. 

“Yes, love?” Taron asked. 

“If your room wasn’t really flooded...then how’d you get sopping wet before you came over here?” 

“Oh, that. Well, I got in the shower with my clothes on, obviously,” Taron said, shrugging and waving before exiting the room, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 

He’s mad, Richard thought. Then, he smiled to himself. And he’s mine.

[paulamakesfilms]

Black Mirror: Bandersnatch (Slade, 2018)

!film review!

Bandersnatch is an INTERACTIVE (yes, you read that right) film about a young computer game developer in the mid-80s. Stefan (the protagonist) spends the whole film trying to develop a game called ‘Bandersnatch’, a make your own adventure game; so, just like the film, you choose what the character does.

Short review: Watch this film if you can. It is a wild ride. The craziest things happen that simply blow your mind and challenge your perceptions. It’s like a normal black mirror episode on steroids; all the intelligent and unexpected plot twists.. etc. And, of course, you get to choose what happens; there are 10 different main endings! Best audience interaction you could imagine.

Deep dive review: This will be probably the longest review I’ve ever written because all of the elements of ‘Bandersnatch’ are just so interesting and I love this film, thank you David Slade <3.

Firstly, the title deserves recognition. ‘Bandersnatch’ is a fictional character from books in the 19th century and he is typically described as a furious and unpredictable creature. Those exact words can be used to describe the protagonist. Even though we get to choose his actions, he is incredibly unpredictable, and, if you’ve watched this film you will know he can definitely be quite furious (hint: ash tray scene :0).

Next! The narrative (narratives?) itself is very creative to say the least. There are many plot twists that come out of nowhere and are simply CRAZY but somehow make perfect sense. The narrative explores mental illness; we know Stefan is struggling due to his actions, therapy scenes, medication etc. Sometimes it can be confusing to decipher whether the events we are watching are reality or in Stefan’s warped mind but I think that is part of the point; as the audience we are supposed to be challenged and introduced to new perceptions of time, reality etc. From what I understand from the film and reviews, the film is supposed to challenge the idea of free will. How much control do we actually have as humans? How many choices are actually ours to make? More specifically, the film introduces the idea that we don’t have much free will at all. “When you make a decision,” Colin instructs, “you think it’s you doing it, but it’s not.” For example, the film pushes you to certain storylines whether you want it to or not. In one scene, you choose whether a character takes LSD and even if you choose the ‘no’ option, he takes it anyway. So, there’s that; how much free will do we have?

That’s what I love about Black Mirror; the deep mind-bending questions that really make you think.

There are 10 different main endings. I could sit here and talk about all the one’s I’ve watched but 1) that would take a while and 2) so many spoilers </3. Most of the endings that I have watched/ read about are pretttty cool. Importantly, I feel like I should say that I had a lot of fun watching this film (like 4 times woops); I gasped audibly at times, smiled at the intelligent plots, laughed at the absurd twists (you know what I mean if you watched the fight scene) and cringed at the horrifying moments.

Characters! Stefan, the protagonist, was fantastic- he was acted out well, totally believable. His dad annoyed me at times I won’t lie, he always said the same thing over and over again and kept butting in but I guess that’s just his character. Colin was my favourite character; I loved his crazy dialogue. Dr Haynes also annoyed me; if only she believed Stefan every time he sort of broke the 4th wall and talked about being controlled. That makes me wonder- was Stefan ever ‘crazy’? Surely he was right about everything… and only we understand him… huh…

Film form! The mise-en-scene was impeccable, the 80s vibe was strong and thriving through the clothing, locations, dialogue. The cinematography was also nice; lighting sometimes had meaning and cool colours. Obviously, the editing was impressive; I cannot imagine how long it must have taken to A) film all of the different clips and B) edit those clips and add the interactive interface too. Good work y’all. The music deserves an honourable mention. It added a lot of tension, especially when you have to make a choice and the timer is running out. Stress levels= high.

I am not rating this film a 10/10 and here’s why: at times, I was confused about where I was in the narrative and what had actually happened/ what was a dream/ was skipped or cancelled because the choices sometimes force you to go back and choose a different option. To be fair, they do replay a quick time lapse to show you what has happened (sometimes). But still, we are of course pushed towards the main narratives and therefore it can get confusing and annoying when you are forced to go back.

Overall, fantastic film. Even without the interactive feature, I think I would have enjoyed it due to the meaning behind the narrative, film form and the whole crazy Black Mirror energy. Of course, the interactive feature was very cool and made the film so fun and exciting to watch. I recommend watching it a couple of times or playing around and skipping backwards to choose different options. There are really impressive scenes and endings to discover.

In my expert* opinion, I’d rate this film a strong 8.5/10.

* I am not an expert.

paulamakesfilms