#for harrow he's concerned with the worthiness for the position he holds / over too much recognition

[niuttuc]

Lhur’s Sheet

Name: Lhur (Tolema the Third, don’t call him that)

Pronouns: He/Him

Species: Giant

Age: 19

Plane of Origin: Fiora

First Planeswalk: Ocaelum (underwater fan-plane)

Colors: Black, a splash of white secondary

Appearance: As a giant, Lhur stands a bit over twice as tall as most humans (Garruks notwithstanding), but otherwise looks like you'd expect of a young noble, maybe a little sharper a gaze and a little rarer a smile. Black hair, blue eyes, quite a few scars hidden by his clothes. While most people think of him as being richly dressed or in his ornamental armor, while on other planes or outside of ceremonies he's generally more comfortably and discretly draped.

Backstory: Lhur grew up under the harsh rule of his father, Tolema II, a conquering warlord who knew when to stop his expansion, and established his own small kingdom years before Lhur's birth. His father's rule was as tyrannical and violent as was necessary to keep control of the previously democratic cities he conquered, and Tolema used his magic over shadows to make sure his hold stayed strong on all three of those.

He was no kinder on his son and heir, having great plans for him and being as demanding and rough on him as his own father, the first Tolema, had with him. If not more. Aside from the early lessons in everything a ruler might need, from fighting to managing taxes, and a few demonstrations of “how a king should act and react”, Tolema obtained the help of a demon to teach his son the most powerful magic the young giant could handle. This is around the time of Lhur’s mother’s death, when he was not even in his teens.

As one would expect, Lhur grew resenting his father and most of what he preached. He saw how Tolema ruled, and how the rest of the population feared or hated the conquering king. When a teenage Lhur started looking for ways to sabotage his genitor’s reign, it was for nothing more than getting back at him. That teenage rebellion slowly morphed into more as he got more and more effective, enough to get the attention of the existing resistance to Tolema. Of course, once they figured out who exactly Lhur was, they were more than wary, but through words and actions, he managed to slowly get the trust of a cell and another.

A few years later, and Lhur was one of the major figures of the Resistance under an alias, a poorly guarded secret, and a “hero of the people”. Some in the Resistance were still cautious, but none could debate that his actions and plans had cost more to Tolema than any other individual. At least, ones that lived to keep fighting.

The Resistance effort culminated into a legend-worthy attack against Tolema in his own palace, Lhur channeling the desire of the entire capital in a singular battle against his father in the ruins of his throne room. After a harrowing fight, he managed to kill his father and free the country of his reign, handing over the reigns of the country back to its people.

Or so the official story goes. While Lhur did defeat his father, he isn’t so sure about the killing part. The grievly wounded Tolema revealed to his son that he was very aware of his “resistance” and that this was just what he had planned for Lhur, for him to take over in opposition, as a loved hero and ruler instead of the despised one that Tolema had himself been. The shift from pride, hate and righteousness from Lhur to doubt and consternation was stark enough to make him spark, taking him to the most beautiful place he’d ever seen... Until he figured out how to go back.

By then, there was no body to be found. To stop the fights within the city, Lhur claimed victory and the death of his father, taking control of his father’s soldiers and warriors who knew better than to question the orders of their “new king”.

Which brings us to the situation Lhur is currently in. He agreed with the remaining Resistance and council of leaders from the cities of his country to let them decide of the future of the country, and they aren’t too keen on letting the son of the Tyrant lead and establish an actual dynasty. On the other end, they know him and most of them trust him, which is particularly necessary because Tolema’s troops still obey him and they need him “on the throne” to avoid further issues there. The population, most of it anyway, love him for freeing them from the tyrant, and to keep control over the troops, he was officially declared ruler as well. He has great influence over the council and the affairs of the kingdom while they take decisions, as well as latitude to act by himself, but so far he only suggests and brings information to light. He’s legally the king of the country, and rules it de facto, but in practice he’s not seen as being permanently so by the council, who are the one making the decisions as far as they’re concerned.

With all of this as a background, Lhur tries to navigate his new reality of being a planeswalker, using other planes as ways to get breaks and decompress, staying there a few days at a time as he should be “traveling” between the different cities. He also has to worry about his father, and if he’s still alive, which he assumes but isn’t sure of, or of where he could have gone. He’d have thought he’d have manifested by now if he was still alive, but the last revelation he got from him made him unsure of his guesses as far as his father’s thoughts.

Lhur is loved, and he tries to make it stay that way. He saw the results of hatred of a ruler, and it’s much easier for him to hold onto his position with public support. On the other end, he’s not sure if his father was saying the truth, and if he want to play into his hand so blatantly.

Magic, gear and/or abilities: Lhur’s main magic is a demonic one over wants and wishes. He has the ability to perceive what people want the most, and in a certain measure, to magically realize it. There’s many limits to it and it’s never the most effective. And there may be consequences. But even with those, he’s very powerful. Beyond that, he’s a giant with access to an entire royal arsenal, training to use a good part of it, and able to manifest his own desires, so in the few occasions he has to result to fighting, he is one of the most dangerous opponents one could be tasked to face head-on. He’s charismatic and grew up in a court on Fiora, even if it was much less subtle than Paliano’s, and knowing what people want makes him a very adept politician and negotiator, which is generally the approach he prefers.

[southeastasianists]

Editor’s note: The following is a guest piece authored by LGBT+ advocacy group Heckin Unicorn on so-called conversion therapy in Singapore. It was not produced by Coconuts Singapore.

Sam embarked on a journey of self-discovery in his 20s. He had been through many abusive relationships, and for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, he’d always felt that something was missing in his life. Sam wanted to get in tune with his emotions. He wanted to heal.

At 26, Sam flew to Japan to attend a spiritual workshop. The workshop’s exercise was simple, but intense: attendees were paired up, and for 3 hours, each pair had to stare meditatively into each other’s eyes. The poetic beauty in this exercise wasn’t lost to him: staring into the windows of another’s soul would help him get in touch with his own.

Yet for hours, nothing happened.

Then his sensei came over and gently touched his chest, or what spiritual practitioners called the “heart space”. And in a single stroke, Sam’s inner soul broke loose with an explosive force. He started shrieking — so uncontrollably, in fact, that he had to be restrained by several workshop attendees. Anguish, anger, and confusion raced through his mind. It was an excruciating 30 minutes of raw physical reaction, as if years of emotions ripped through his body. Yet it was nothing compared to what was about to hit him in the months to come.

Because in that moment, something clicked into place. Sam suddenly recalled that he was a victim of “conversion therapy” over a decade ago. He finally understood why he’d always felt that something was missing, and why he felt so strongly that he had to heal himself. Deeply repressed and harrowing memories came rushing back like an avalanche.

Sam fought to stay alive over the next 3 months. He suffered from hallucinations, and would cry inconsolably for days on end. He would vomit uncontrollably. His body burned in pain. He wanted to end the suffering. He wanted to end his life. But in between the painful outbreaks, Sam found the strength to fight for his survival. He knew that to live, he had to find out more about what had happened to him. He began researching extensively about “conversion therapy”, and the more he researched, the more he recalled the lost years of his adolescence.

Slowly, his memories fell into place.

Sam went through a lot at a young age. He learnt that he was gay while going through puberty. And through interactions with his closest family members, he learned that it was something he needed to get rid of.

When he came out to his mum at 13, she told him that she expects a grand funeral when she dies. It was her cold, indirect way of telling him that she expects him to bear children and grandchildren for her. When Sam turned to his aunt, she called him derogatory names and told him that people will not accept him if he continues to be gay. The message from his family was clear: turn straight, or else.

So at 15, Sam scoured the internet for answers about his sexuality. In the age of dial-up internet, genuine LGBTQ+ content was hard to come by. The information that he found about STDs scared him — HIV was still called the “gay virus” back then. Sam started getting desperate. He needed to find a way to turn straight.

And then he found a solution — or so he thought.

Sam began attending a “conversion therapy” programme offered by a local church when he was 15. It marketed itself as a counselling service that could help people who were “struggling with unwanted same-sex attraction”, and sounded exactly like what Sam was looking for. Even though he only signed up for their counselling services, he felt compelled to attend their church services as the years went by. His family never knew that he was participating in “conversion therapy” sessions; they were more concerned that he was converting from Taoism to Christianity.

Perhaps the scariest part about the “conversion therapy” programme was how, to 15-year-old Sam, it just felt right. Sam’s 1-on-1 sessions with his counsellor felt like normal counselling sessions. Sure, scripture was quoted a lot in their hour-long sessions, but to Sam — and anyone who desperately wanted to turn straight, for that matter — everything seemed to make sense. Because in a world full of rejection, the programme claimed to provide all the answers.

Sam’s memories about his counselling sessions are hazy, but their core message remains clear in his mind: you’ll go to hell if you’re gay. It was a powerful and terrifying message, and it fueled Sam’s desire to continue with the programme. He didn’t know back then that his sexual desires were innate and perfectly normal, so he confided his feelings with his counsellor and followed everything he was instructed to do. For a long time, everything he heard in his counselling sessions made him feel like turning straight was a real possibility.

Celibacy was a strong mandate of the “conversion therapy” programme. Sam’s counsellor told him many times that he would go to hell unless he stopped masturbating. He told Sam that it was wrong and sinful to have sexual desires. And as an impressionable teenager going through the peak of puberty, Sam absorbed and believed everything his counsellor told him.

Throughout his 4 years in the programme, Sam suppressed his desires and took things to the extreme. He would hold tightly onto his bed frame every night before going to bed to prevent himself from touching his body. It was a physically and mentally exhausting exercise, but Sam managed to push through every night for 6 consecutive months before he succumbed to his desires. He wouldn’t know this until years later, but this extreme psychological conditioning left him with a debilitating inability to touch himself.

In one church session, the pastor discouraged churchgoers from listening to secular music. Only Christian music should be allowed in their lives, the pastor declared. The next week, Sam brought his entire music CD collection to church, and watched it being burnt and destroyed. Sam was so enthralled by the programme’s promises that no physical coercion was required to get him to engage in such extreme activities. To him, listening to everything they say was the only way to not end up in hell.

There were a few reasons that ultimately made Sam leave the programme after 4 years. First of all, nothing worked. Sam knew that he was still gay, and that all he managed to do was to suppress his innate desires and convince himself that he isn’t worthy of love. He was also harassed by a cell group leader, but nothing seemed to be done about it after he raised this up to the church leadership. And in an attempt to negotiate some joy back into his life, Sam asked a church friend if God would accept him if he were to be in a loving gay relationship, but abstained from sex for life. The answer: an unequivocal no.

When Sam left the programme at 19, he wasn’t a changed man — he was broken. He left not because he realised that their teachings harmed his mental health, but because after 4 years of trying, he has resigned to his fate of going to hell.

Sam turns 38 this year. And in the last decade or so, he’s been to hell and back.

After spending thousands of dollars in medical scans, Sam was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. In simple terms, he experiences chronic physical pain induced by his extreme psychological trauma (side note: psychological trauma isn’t the only factor that could induce symptoms of fibromyalgia). These painful outbreaks aren’t just unpredictable, but also incurable. His chest would tighten and he would gasp for air; his face would twitch suddenly and uncontrollably; he would suffer from the inability to speak; he is often fatigued and would suffer from migraines.

Sam also faced considerable financial challenges over the last couple of decades. There were months when Sam was unable to get out of bed. His inner demons would take control, and he would find himself once again fighting for his life. Because of this, Sam had been in and out of jobs. This, coupled with his expensive medical treatment and therapies, set his finances back considerably.

It would be nice if we could end Sam’s story on a positive note. But the truth is that even though Sam is a fierce survivor, his experience with “conversion therapy” still affects him decades after the sessions have ended. Sam isn’t ready to date yet, because he thinks that he carries too much emotional baggage for any relationship to work. He continues to face difficulties fully accepting his sexuality, even though he understands that there’s nothing wrong with being gay. And he continues to sleep with his arms wide apart, because physical contact still makes his body burn in pain.

Let this be clear: “conversion therapy” practices exist in Singapore. Many of these programmes continue to showcase “success” cases without acknowledging, or perhaps understanding, how “conversion therapy” can irreparably damage a person’s psychological and physical wellbeing.

According to the United Nations, any attempt to change or suppress someone’s sexual orientation or gender identity is a form of “conversion therapy”. Many international psychiatric organisations have condemned “conversion therapy” practices because the medical consensus agrees that they not only don’t work, but could cause mental harm to participants (page 115). Taiwan has fully banned “conversion therapy” practices, while Germany has done so for minors. Other countries such as Canada, Israel, New Zealand, and the UK are considering legislation that would make them illegal.

Yet “conversion therapy” remains legal in Singapore. Many teenagers like Sam will continue to enrol in programmes that psychologically condition them to suppress their innate sexuality. Most of them would emerge from the programmes with their sexuality unchanged, but mental health deeply affected. Some of them will kill themselves.

[grigori77]

Movies of 2020 - My Pre-Summer Favourites (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10.  TRUE HISTORY OF THE KELLY GANG – Justin Kurzel has been on my directors-to-watch list for a while now, each of his offerings impressing me more than the last (his home-grown Aussie debut, Snowtown, was a low key wallow in Outback nastiness, while his follow up, Macbeth, quickly became one of my favourite Shakespeare flicks, and I seem to be one of the frustrated few who actually genuinely loved his adaptation of Assassin’s Creed, considering it to be one the very best video game movies out there), and his latest is no exception – returning to his native Australia, he’s brought his trademark punky grit and fever-dream edginess to bear in his quest to bring his country’s most famous outlaw to the big screen in a biopic truly worthy of his name. Two actors bring infamous 19th Century bushranger Ned Kelly to life here, and they’re both exceptional – the earlier half of the film sees newcomer Orlando Schwerdt explode onto the screen as the child Ned, all righteous indignation and fiery stubbornness as he rails against the positions his family’s poverty continues to put him in, then George MacKay (Sunshine On Leith, Captain Fantastic) delivers the best performance of his career in the second half, a barely restrained beast as Ned grown, his mercurial turn bringing the man’s inherent unpredictability to the fore.  The Babadook’s Essie Davis, meanwhile, frequently steals the film from under both of them as Ellen, the fearsome matriarch of the Kelly clan, and Nicholas Hoult is similarly impressive as Constable Fitzpatrick, Ned’s slimily duplicitous friend/nemesis, while there are quality supporting turns from Charlie Hunnam and Russell Crowe as two of the most important men of Ned’s formative years.  In Kurzel’s hands, this account of Australia’s greatest true-life crime saga becomes one of the ultimate marmite movies – its glacial pace, grubby intensity and frequent brutality will turn some viewers off, but fans of more “alternative” cinema will find much to enjoy here.  There’s a blasted beauty to its imagery (this is BY FAR the bleakest the Outback’s ever looked on film), while the screenplay from relative unknown Shaun Grant (adapting Peter Carey’s bestselling novel) is STRONG, delivering rich character development and sublime dialogue, and Kurzel delivers some brilliantly offbeat and inventive action beats in the latter half that are well worth the wait.  Evocative, intense and undeniable, this has just the kind of irreverent punk aesthetic that I’m sure the real life Ned Kelly would have approved of …

9.  JUST MERCY – more true-life cinema, this time presenting an altogether classier account of two idealists’ struggle to overturn horrific racial injustices in Alabama. Writer-director Destin Daniel Cretton (Short Term 12, The Glass Castle) brings heart, passion and honest nobility to the story of fresh-faced young lawyer Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan) and his personal crusade to free Walter “Johnny D” McMillan (Jamie Foxx), an African-American man wrongfully sentenced to death for the murder of a white woman.  His only ally is altruistic young paralegal Eva Ansley (Cretton’s regular screen muse Brie Larson), while the opposition arrayed against them is MAMMOTH – not only do they face the cruelly racist might of the Alabama legal system circa 1989, but a corrupt local police force determined to circumvent his efforts at every turn and a thoroughly disinterested prosecutor, Tommy Chapman (Rafe Spall), who’s far too concerned with his own personal political ambitions to be any help.  The cast are uniformly excellent, Jordan and Foxx particularly impressing with career best performances that sear themselves deep into the memory, while there’s a truly harrowing supporting turn from Rob Morgan as Johnny D’s fellow Death Row inmate Herbert, whose own execution date is fast approaching.  This is courtroom drama at its most gripping, Cretton keeping the inherent tension cranked up tight while tugging hard on our heartstrings for maximum effect, and the result is a timely, racially-charged throat-lumper of considerable power and emotional heft that guarantees there won’t be a single dry eye in the house by the time the credits roll.  Further proof, then, that Destin Daniel Cretton is one of those rare talents of his generation – next up is his tour of duty in the MCU with Shang-Chi & the Legend of the Ten Rings, and if this seems like a strange leftfield turn given his previous track record, I nevertheless have the utmost confidence in him after seeing this …

8.  UNDERWATER – at first glance, this probably seems like a strange choice for the year’s current Top Ten – a much-maligned, commercially underperforming glorified B-movie creature-feature headlined by the former star of the Twilight franchise, there’s no way that could be any good, surely?  Well hold your horses, folks, because not only is this very much worth your time and a comprehensive suspension of your low expectations, but I can’t even consider this a guilty pleasure – as far as I’m concerned this is a GENUINELY GREAT FILM, without reservation.  The man behind the camera is William Eubank, a director whose career I’ve been following with great interest since his feature debut Love (a decidedly oddball but strangely beautiful little space movie) and its more high profile but still unapologetically INDIE follow-up The Signal, and this is the one where he finally delivers wholeheartedly on all that wonderful sci-fi potential.  The plot is deceptively simple – an industrial conglomerate has established an instillation drilling right down to the very bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest point in our Earth’s oceans, only for an unknown disaster to leave six survivors from the operation’s permanent crew stranded miles below the surface with very few escape options left – but Eubank and writers Brian Duffield (Jane Got a Gun, Insurgent) and Adam Cozad (The Legend of Tarzan) wring all the possible suspense and fraught, claustrophobic terror out of the premise to deliver a piano wire-tense horror thriller that grips from its sudden start to a wonderfully cathartic climax.  The small but potent cast are all on top form, Vincent Cassel, Jessica Henwick (Netflix’ Iron Fist) and John Gallagher Jr. (Hush, 10 Cloverfield Lane) particularly impressing, and even the decidedly hit-and-miss T.J. Miller delivers a surprisingly likeable turn here, but it’s that Twilight alumnus who REALLY sticks in your memory here – Kristen Stewart’s been doing a pretty good job lately distancing herself from the role that, unfortunately, both made her name and turned her into an object of (rather unfair) derision for many years, but in my opinion THIS is the performance that REALLY separates her from Bella effing-Swan.  Mechanical engineer Norah Price is tough, ingenious and fiercely determined, but with the right amount of vulnerability that we really root for her, and Stewart acts her little heart out in a turn sure to win over her strongest detractors. The creature effects are impressive too, the ultimate threat proving some of the nastiest, most repulsively icky creations I’ve seen committed to film, and the inspired design work and strong visual effects easily belie the film’s B-movie leanings.  Those made uneasy by deep, dark open water or tight, enclosed spaces should take heed that this can be a tough watch, but anyone who likes being scared should find plenty to enjoy here.  Altogether a MUCH better film than its mediocre Rotten Tomatoes rating makes it out to be …

7.  ONWARD – Disney and Pixar’s latest digitally animated family feature clearly has a love of tabletop fantasy roleplay games like Dungeons & Dragons, its quirky modern-day AU take populated by fantastical races and creatures seemingly tailor-made for the geek crowd … needless to say, me and many of my friends absolutely loved it. That doesn’t mean that the classic Disney ideals of love, family and believing in yourself have been sidelined in favour of fan-service – this is as heartfelt, affecting and tearful as their previous standouts, albeit with plenty of literal magic added to the metaphorical kind.  The central premise is a clever one – once upon a time, magic was commonplace, but over the years technology came along to make life easier, so that in the present day the various races (elves, centaurs, fauns, pixies, goblins and trolls among others) get along fine without it.  Then timid elf Ian Lightfoot (Tom Holland) receives a wizard’s staff for his sixteenth birthday, a bequeathed gift from his father, who died before he was born, with instructions for a spell that could bring him back to life for one whole day.  Encouraged by his brash, over-confident wannabe adventurer elder brother Barley (Chris Pratt), Ian tries it out, only for the spell to backfire, leaving them with the animated bottom half of their father and just 24 hours to find a means to restore the rest of him before time runs out.  Cue an “epic quest” … needless to say, this is another top-notch offering from the original masters of the craft, a fun, affecting and thoroughly infectious family-friendly romp with a winning sense of humour and inspired, flawless world-building.  Holland and Pratt are both fantastic, their odd-couple chemistry effortlessly driving the story through its ingenious paces, and the ensuing emotional fireworks are hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure, while there’s typically excellent support from Julia Louis-Dreyfus (Elaine from Seinfeld) as Ian and Barley’s put-upon but supportive mum, Laurel, Octavia Spencer as once-mighty adventurer-turned-restaurateur “Corey” the Manticore and Mel Rodriguez (Getting On, The Last Man On Earth) as overbearing centaur cop (and Laurel’s new boyfriend) Colt Bronco.  The film marks the sophomore feature gig for Dan Scanlon, who debuted with 2013’s sequel Monsters University, and while that was enjoyable enough I ultimately found it non-essential – no such verdict can be levelled against THIS film, the writer-director delivering magnificently in all categories, while the animation team have outdone themselves in every scene, from the exquisite world-building and character/creature designs to some fantastic (and frequently delightfully bonkers) set-pieces, while there’s a veritable riot of brilliant RPG in-jokes to delight geekier viewers (gelatinous cube! XD).  Massive, unadulterated fun, frequently hilarious and absolutely BURSTING with Disney’s trademark heart, this is currently (and deservedly) my animated feature of the year.  It’s certainly gonna be a tough one to beat …

6.  THE GENTLEMEN – Guy Ritchie’s been having a rough time with his last few movies (The Man From UNCLE didn’t do too bad but it wasn’t exactly a hit and was largely overlooked or simply ignored critically, while intended franchise-starter King Arthur: Legend of the Sword was largely derided and suffered badly on release, dying a quick death financially – it’s a shame on both counts, because I really liked them), so it’s nice to see him having some proper success with his latest, even if he has basically reverted to type to do it.  Still, when his newest London gangster flick is THIS GOOD it seems churlish to quibble – this really is what he does best, bringing together a collection of colourful geezers and shaking up their status quo, then standing back and letting us enjoy the bloody, expletive-riddled results. This particularly motley crew is another winning selection, led by Matthew McConaughey as ruthlessly successful cannabis baron Mickey Pearson, who’s looking to retire from the game by selling off his massive and highly lucrative enterprise for a most tidy sum (some $400,000,000 to be precise) to up-and-coming fellow American ex-pat Matthew Berger (Succession’s Jeremy Strong, oozing sleazy charm), only for local Chinese triad Dry Eye (Crazy Rich Asians’ Henry Golding, chewing the scenery with enthusiasm) to start throwing spanners into the works with the intention of nabbing the deal for himself for a significant discount.  Needless to say Mickey’s not about to let that happen … McConaughey is ON FIRE here, the best he’s been since Dallas Buyers Club in my opinion, clearly having great fun sinking his teeth into this rich character and Ritchie’s typically sparkling, razor-witted dialogue, and he’s ably supported by a uniformly excellent ensemble cast, particularly co-star Charlie Hunnam as Mickey’s ice-cold, steel-nerved right-hand-man Raymond Smith, Downton Abbey’s Michelle Dockery as his classy, strong-willed wife Rosalind, Colin Farrell as a wise-cracking, quietly exasperated MMA trainer and small-time hood simply known as the Coach (who gets many of the film’s best lines), and, most notably, Hugh Grant as the film’s nominal narrator, thoroughly morally bankrupt private investigator Fletcher, who consistently steals the film.  This is Guy Ritchie at his very best – a twisty rug-puller of a plot that constantly leaves you guessing, brilliantly observed and richly drawn characters you can’t help loving in spite of the fact there’s not a single hero among them, a deliciously unapologetic, politically incorrect sense of humour and a killer soundtrack.  It got the cinematic year off to a cracking start, and looks set to stay high in the running for the remainder – it’s EASILY Ritchie’s best film since Sherlock Holmes, and a strong call-back to the heady days of Snatch (STILL my favourite) and Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels.  Here’s hoping he’s on a roll again, eh?

5.  THE INVISIBLE MAN – looks like third time’s a charm for Leigh Whannell, writer-director of my current horror movie of the year – while he’s had immense success as a horror writer over the years (co-creator of both the Saw and Insidious franchises), as a director his first two features haven’t exactly set the world alight, with debut Insidious: Chapter III garnering similar takes to the rest of the series but ultimately turning out to be a bit of a damp squib quality-wise, while his second feature Upgrade was a stone-cold masterpiece that was (rightly) EXTREMELY well received critically, but ultimately snuck in under the radar and has remained a stubbornly hidden gem since.  No such problems with his third feature, though – his latest collaboration with producer Jason Blum and his insanely lucrative Blumhouse Pictures has proven a massive hit both financially AND with reviewers, and deservedly so.  Having given up on trying to create a shared cinematic universe inhabited by their classic monsters, Universal have resolved to concentrate on standalones to showcase their elite properties, and their first try is a rousing success, Whannell bringing HG Wells’ dark and devious human monster smack into the 21st Century as only he can.  The result is a surprisingly subtle piece of work, much more a lethally precise exercise in cinematic sleight of hand and extraordinary acting than flashy visual effects, very much adhering to the Blumhouse credo of maximum returns for minimum bucks as the story is stripped right back to its bare essentials and allowed to play out without any unnecessary weight.  The Handmaid’s Tale’s Elizabeth Moss once again confirms what a masterful actress she is as she brings all her performing weapons to bear in the role of Cecelia “Cee” Kass, the cloistered wife of affluent but monstrously abusive optics pioneer Aidan Griffin (Netflix’ The Haunting of Hill House’s Oliver Jackson-Cohen), who escapes his clutches in the furiously tense opening sequence and goes to ground with the help of her closest childhood friend, San Francisco cop James Lanier (Leverage’s Aldis Hodge) and his teenage daughter Sydney (A Wrinkle in Time’s Storm Reid).  Two weeks later, Aidan commits suicide, leaving Cee with a fortune to start her life over (with the proviso that she’s never ruled mentally incompetent), but as she tries to find her way in the world again little things start going wrong for her, and she begins to question if there might be something insidious going on.  As her nerves start to unravel, she begins to suspect that Aidan is still alive, still very much in her life, fiendishly toying with her and her friends, but no-one can see him.  Whannell plays her paranoia up for all it’s worth, skilfully teasing out the scares so that, just like her friends, we begin to wonder if it might all in her head after all, before a spectacular mid-movie reveal throws the switch into high gear and the true threat becomes clear.  The lion’s share of the film’s immense success must of course go to Moss – her performance is BEYOND a revelation, a truly blistering career best turn that totally powers the whole enterprise, and it almost goes without saying that she’s the best thing in this.  Even so, she has sterling support from Hodge and Reid, as well as Love Child’s Harriet Dyer as Cee’s estranged big sister Emily and Wonderland’s Michael Dorman as Adrian’s slimy, spineless lawyer brother Tom, and, while he doesn’t have much actual (ahem) “screen time”, Jackson-Cohen delivers a fantastically icy, subtly malevolent turn which casts a large “shadow” over the film.  This is one of my very favourite Blumhouse films, a pitch-perfect psychological chiller that keeps the tension cranked up unbearably tight and never lets go, Whannell once again displaying uncanny skill with expert jump-scares, knuckle-whitening chills and a truly astounding standout set-piece that looks set to go down as one of the year’s top action sequences.  Undoubtedly the best version of Wells’ story to date, this goes a long way in repairing the damage of Universal’s abortive “Dark Universe” efforts, as well as showcasing a filmmaking master at the very height of his talents.

4.  EXTRACTION – the Coronavirus certainly has thrown a massive spanner in the works of this year’s cinematic calendar – the new A Quiet Place sequel should have been setting the big screen alight for almost two months now, while the latest (and most long-awaited) MCU movie, Black Widow, should have just opened to further record-breaking box office success, but instead the theatres are all closed and virtually all the big blockbusters have been pushed back or shelved indefinitely. Thank God, then, for the streaming services, particularly Hulu, Amazon and Netflix, the latter of which provided a perfect movie for us to see through the key transition from spring to the summer blockbuster season, an explosively flashy big budget action thriller ushered in by MCU alumni the Russo Brothers (who produced and co-wrote this adaptation of Ciudad, a graphic novel that Joe Russo co-created with Ande Parks and Fernando Leon Gonzalez) and barely able to contain the sheer star-power wattage of its lead, Thor himself.  Chris Hemsworth plays Tyler Rake, a former Australian SAS operative who hires out his services to an extraction operation, under the command of mercenary Nik Khan (The Patience Stone’s Golshifteh Farahani), brought in to liberate Ovi Mahajan (Rudhraksh Jaiswal in his first major role), the pre-teen son of incarcerated Indian crime lord Ovi Sr. (Pankaj Tripathi), who has been abducted by Bangladeshi rival Amir Asif (Priyanshu Painyuli).  The rescue itself goes perfectly, but when the time comes for the hand-off the team is double-crossed and Tyler is left stranded in the middle of Dhaka with no choice but to keep Ovi alive as every corrupt cop and street gang in the city closes in around them.  This is the feature debut of Sam Hargrave, the latest stuntman to try his hand at directing, so he certainly knows his way around an action sequence, and the result is a thoroughly breathless adrenaline rush of a film, bursting at the seams with spectacular fights, gun battles and car chases, dominated by a stunning sustained action sequence that plays out in one long shot, guaranteed to leave jaws lying on the floor.  Not that there should be any surprise – Hargrave cut his teeth as a stunt coordinator for the Russos on Captain America: Civil War and their Avengers films.  That said, he displays strong talent for the quieter disciplines of filmmaking too, delivering quality character development and drawing out consistently noteworthy performances from his cast.  Of course, Hemsworth can do the action stuff in his sleep, but there’s a lot more to Tyler than just his muscle, the MCU veteran investing him with real wounded vulnerability and a tragic fatalism which colours his every scene, while Jaiswal is exceptional throughout, showing plenty of promise for the future, and there’s strong support from Farahani and Painyuli, as well as Stranger Things’s David Harbour as world-weary retired merc Gaspard, and a particularly impressive, muscular turn from Randeep Hooda (Once Upon a Time in Mumbai) as Saju, a former Para and Ovi’s bodyguard, who’s determined to take possession of the boy himself, even if he has to go through Tyler to get him.  This is action cinema that really deserves to be seen on the big screen – I watched it twice in a week and would happily have paid for two trips to the cinema for it if I could have.  As we look down the barrel of a summer season largely devoid of big blockbuster fare, I can’t recommend this film enough.  Thank the gods for Netflix …

3.  PARASITE – I’ve been a fan of master Korean filmmaker Bong Joon-ho ever since I stumbled across his deeply weird but also thoroughly brilliant breakthrough feature The Host, and it’s a love that’s deepened since thanks to the truly magnificent sci-fi actioner Snowpiercer, so I was looking forward to his latest feature as much as any movie geek, but even I wasn’t prepared for just what a runaway juggernaut of a hit this one turned out to be, from the insane box office to all that award-season glory (especially that undeniable clean-sweep at the Oscars). I’ll just come out and say it, this film deserves it all.  It’s EASILY Bong’s best film to date (which is really saying something), a masterful social satire and jet black comedy that raises some genuinely intriguing questions before delivering some deeply troubling answers.  Straddling the ever-widening gulf between a disaffected idle rich upper class and impoverished, struggling lower class in modern-day Seoul, it tells the story of the Kim family – father Ki-taek (Bong’s veritable good luck charm Song Kang-ho), mother Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin), son Ki-woo (Train to Busan’s Choi Woo-shik) and daughter Ki-jung (The Silenced’s Park So-dam) – a poor family living in a run-down basement apartment who live hand-to-mouth in minimum wage jobs and can barely rub two cents together, until they’re presented with an intriguing opportunity.  Through happy chance, Ki-woon is hired as an English tutor for Park Da-hye (Jung Ji-so), the daughter of a wealthy family, which offers him the chance to recommend Ki-jung as an art tutor to the Parks’ troubled young son, Da-song (Jung Hyeon-jun).  Soon the rest of the Kims are getting in on the act, the young Kims contriving opportunities for their father to replace Mr Park’s chauffeur and their mother to oust the family’s long-serving housekeeper, Gook Moon-gwang (Lee Jung-eun), and before long their situation has improved dramatically.  But as they two families become more deeply entwined, cracks begin to show in their supposed blissful harmony as the natural prejudices of their respective classes start to take hold, and as events spiral out of control a terrible confrontation looms on the horizon.  This is social commentary at its most scathing, Bong drawing on personal experiences from his youth to inform the razor-sharp script (co-written by his production assistant Han Jin-won), while he weaves a palpable atmosphere of knife-edged tension throughout to add spice to the perfectly observed dark humour of the situation, all the while throwing intriguing twists and turns at us before suddenly dropping such a massive jaw-dropper of a gear-change that the film completely turns on its head, to stunning effect.  The cast are all thoroughly astounding, Song once again dominating the film with a turn which is at once sloppy and dishevelled but also poignant and heartfelt, while there are particularly noteworthy turns from Lee Sun-kyun as the Parks’ self-absorbed patriarch Dong-ik and Choi Yeo-jeong (The Concubine) as his flighty, easily-led wife Choi Yeon-gyo, as well as a fantastically weird appearance in the latter half from Park Myung-hoon.  This is heady stuff, dangerously seductive even as it becomes increasingly uncomfortable viewing, so that even as the screws tighten and everything goes to hell it’s simply impossible to look away.  Bong Joon-ho really has surpassed himself this time, delivering an existential mind-scrambler that lingers long after the credits have rolled and might even have you questioning your place in society once you’ve thought about it some. It deserves every single award and every ounce of praise it’s been lavished with so far, and looks set to go down as one of the true cinematic greats of this new decade.  Trust me, if this was a purely critical best-of list it’d be RIGHT AT THE TOP …

2.  1917 – it’s a rare thing for a film to leave me truly shell-shocked by its sheer awesomeness, for me to walk out of a cinema in a genuine daze, unable to talk or even really think about much of anything for a few hours because I’m simply marvelling at what I’ve just witnessed.  Needless to say, when I do find a film like that (Fight Club, Inception, Mad Max: Fury Road) it usually earns a place very close to my heart indeed.  The latest tour-de-force from Sam Mendes is one of those films – an epic World War I thriller that plays out ENTIRELY in one shot, which doesn’t simply feel like a glorified gimmick or stunt but instead is a genuine MASTERPIECE of a film, a mesmerising journey of emotion and imagination in a shockingly real environment that it’s impossible to tear your eyes away from.  Sure, Mendes has impressed us before – his first film, American Beauty, is a GREAT movie, one of the most impressive feature debuts of the 2000s, while Skyfall is, in my opinion, quite simply THE BEST BOND FILM EVER MADE – but this is in a whole other league.  It’s an astounding achievement, made all the more impressive when you realise that there’s very little trickery at play here, no clever digital magic (just some augmentation here and there), it’s all real locations and sets, filmed in long, elaborately choreographed takes blended together with clever edits to make it as seamless as possible – it’s not the first film to try to do this (remember Birdman? Bushwick?), but I’ve never seen it done better, or with greater skill. But it’s not just a clever cinematic exercise, there’s a genuine story here, told with guts and urgency, and populated by real flesh and blood characters – the heart of the film is George MacKay and Dean Chapman (probably best known as Tommen Baratheon in Game of Thrones) as Lance Corporals Will Schofield and Tom Blake, the two young tommies sent out across enemy territory on a desperate mission to stop a British regiment from rushing headlong into a German trap (Tom himself has a personal stake in this because his brother is an officer in the attack).  They’re a likeable pair, very human and relatable throughout, brave and true but never so overly heroic that they stretch credibility, so when tragedy strikes along the way it’s particularly devastating; both deliver exceptional performances that effortlessly carry us through the film, and they’re given sterling support from a selection of top-drawer British talent, from Sherlock stars Andrew Scott and Benedict Cumberbatch to Mark Strong and Colin Firth, each delivering magnificently in small but potent cameos.  That said, the cinematography and art department are the BIGGEST stars here, masterful veteran DoP Roger Deakins (The Shawshank Redemption, Blade Runner 2049 and pretty much the Coen Brothers’ entire back catalogue among MANY others) making every frame sing with beauty, horror, tension or tragedy as the need arises, and the environments are SO REAL it feels less like production design than that someone simply sent the cast and crew back in time to film in the real Northern France circa 1917 – from a nightmarish trek across No Man’s Land to a desperate chase through a ruined French village lit only by dancing flare-light in the darkness before dawn, every scene is totally immersive and simply STUNNING.  I don’t think it’s possible for Mendes to make a film better than this, but I sure hope he gives it a go all the same.  Either way, this is the most incredible, exhausting, truly AWESOME experience I’ve had at the cinema this year (so far) – it’s a film that DESERVES to be seen on the big screen, and I feel truly sorry for those who missed the chance …

1.  BIRDS OF PREY & THE FANTABULOUS EMANCIPATION OF ONE HARLEY QUINN – the only reason 1917 isn’t at number one right now is because Warner Bros.’ cinematic DC Extended Universe project FINALLY got round to bringing my favourite DC Comics title to the big screen.  It’s been the biggest pleasure of my cinematic year so far getting to see my top DC superheroines brought to life on the big screen, and it’s been done in high style, in my opinion THE BEST of the DCEU films to date (yup, I loved it EVEN MORE than Wonder Woman).  It was also great seeing Harley Quinn return after her show-stealing turn in David Ayer’s clunky but ultimately still hugely enjoyable Suicide Squad, better still that this time round they got her SPOT ON this time – this is the Harley I’ve always loved in the comics, unpredictable, irreverent and entirely without regard for what anyone else thinks of her, as well as one hell of a talented psychiatrist.  Margot Robbie once more excels in the role she was basically BORN to play, clearly relishing the chance to finally do Harley justice, and she’s a total riot from start to finish, infectiously lovable no matter what crazy, sometimes downright REPRIHENSIBLE antics she gets up to.  Needless to say she’s the nominal star here, her latest ill-advised adventure driving the story – finally done with the Joker and itching to make her emancipation official, Harley publicly announces their breakup by blowing up Ace Chemicals (their love spot, basically), inadvertently painting a target on her back in the process since she’s no longer under the supposed protection of Gotham’s feared Clown Prince of Crime – but that doesn’t mean she eclipses the other main players the movie’s REALLY supposed to be about. Each member of the Birds of Prey is beautifully written and brought to vivid, arse-kicking life by what has to be the year’s most exciting cast – Helena Bertinelli, aka the Huntress, is the perfect character for Mary Elizabeth Winstead to finally pay off on that action heroine potential she showed in Scott Pilgrim Vs. the World, but this is a MUCH more enjoyable role outside of the fight choreography because while Helena may be a world-class dark avenger, socially she’s a total dork, which just makes her thoroughly adorable; Rosie Perez is similarly perfect casting as Renee Montoya, the uncompromising pint-sized Gotham PD detective who kicks against the corrupt system no matter what kind of trouble it gets her into, and just gets angrier all the time, paradoxically making us like her even more; and then there’s the film’s major controversy, at least as far as the fans are concerned, namely one Cassandra Cain.  Sure, this take is VERY different from the comics’ version (a nearly mute master assassin who went on to become the second woman to wear the mask of Batgirl before assuming her own crime-fighting  mantle as Black Bat and now Orphan), but personally I like to think this is simply Cass at THE VERY START of her origin story, leaving plenty of time for her to discovery her warrior origins when the DCEU gets around to introducing Lady Shiva (personally I want Michelle Yeoh to play her, but that’s just me) – anyways, here she’s a skilled child pickpocket whose latest theft inadvertently sets off the larger central plot, and newcomer Ella Jay Basco brings a fantastic pre-teen irreverence and spiky charm to the role, beautifully playing against Robbie’s mercurial energy.  My favourite here BY FAR, however, is Dinah Lance, aka the Black Canary (not only my favourite Bird of Prey but my very favourite DC superheroine PERIOD), the choice of up-and-comer Jurnee Smollet-Bell (Friday Night Lights, Underground) proving to be the film’s most truly inspired casting – a club singer with the metahuman ability to emit piercing supersonic screams, she’s also a truly ferocious martial artist (in the comics she’s one of the very best fighters IN THE WORLD), as well as a wonderfully pure soul you just can’t help loving, and it made me SO UNBELIEVABLY HAPPY that they got my Canary EXACTLY RIGHT.  Altogether they’re a fantastic bunch, basically my perfect superhero team, and the way they’re all brought together (along with Harley, of course) is beautifully thought out and perfectly executed … they’ve also got one hell of a threat to overcome, namely Gotham crime boss Roman Sionis, aka the Black Mask, one of the Joker’s chief rivals – Ewan McGregor brings his A-game in a frustratingly rare villainous turn (currently my number one bad guy for the movie year), a monstrously narcissistic, woman-hating control freak with a penchant for peeling off the faces of those who displease him, sharing some exquisitely creepy chemistry with Chris Messina (The Mindy Project) as Sionis’ nihilistic lieutenant Victor Zsasz. This is about as good as superhero cinema gets, a perfect example of the sheer brilliance you get when you switch up the formula to create something new, an ultra-violent, unapologetically R-rated middle finger to the classic tropes, a fantastic black comedy thrill ride that’s got to be the most full-on feminist blockbuster yet – it’s helmed by a woman (Dead Pigs director Cathy Yan), written by a woman (Bumblebee’s Christina Hodson), produced by more women and ABOUT a bunch of badass women magnificently triumphing over toxic masculinity in all its forms.  It’s also simply BRILLIANT – the cast are all clearly having a blast, the action sequences are first rate (the spectacular GCPD evidence room fight in which Harley gets to REALLY cut loose is the undisputable highlight), it has a gleefully anarchic sense of humour and is simply BURSTING with phenomenal homages, references and in-jokes for the fans (Bruce the hyena! Stuffed beaver! Roller derby!).  It’s also got a killer soundtrack, populated almost exclusively by numbers from female artists.  Altogether, then, this is the VERY BEST the DCEU has to offer to date (Wonder Woman 1984 has got a MAJOR job ahead of it beating this one), and my absolute FAVOURITE film of 2020 (so far).  Give it all the love you can, it sure as hell deserves it.

[wri0thesley]

Being the Adult (Narancia)

You’re happy with Narancia. Really, you are - you just wish he’d take things a little more seriously. 

almost angst turning into definite fluff! sfw, fem pronouns (but i think its just one instance of the word ‘girlfriend’)! this was a commissioned work!

Sometimes you do feel like you have to play the role of the adult. You don’t really mind; honestly, knowing what you do about Narancia’s past and everything that’s lead up to this moment, you’re glad that he feels like there’s still some good and light left in the world. In so many other people, the way he’s been treated would lead to apathy. In Narancia, it’s lead to seeing everything around him through a sunny glow, a grin on his face, making the most of every moment he has. You suppose the business with Diavolo (insofar as you know about it) had also taught him to grab life with both hands, and you’re glad about that--

But sometimes, it just gets to you a little bit having to be the responsible one.

Sometimes you find yourself talking down to him, and you hate it. He’s probably seen more of the world than you; hell, you didn’t help defeat the mob boss of the most powerful mafia in Italy - and yet, you just can’t stop yourself. He pauses whilst you’re walking to point at someone’s dog across the street, already taking off to give it pats and call it a good boy. He grins and bounces around whilst he talks, hands moving as quickly as his brain, his train of thought jerking to a stop and resuming again until you’re not entirely sure what your conversation was about to begin with. And you find yourself, every so often, holding your hands up and telling him to slow down and let you think.

Or you find yourself calling across a busy street to tell him to be careful. Or grabbing ahold of him before he walks into a lamppost, telling him to calm down, rolling your eyes if he suggests doing something like catching a superhero movie at the cinema or playing video games.

And every time, you see his face fall just a little, and you feel like your heart is cracking into two pieces. You don’t mean to be so boring! You don’t mean to try and stifle him! You want to have fun too!

But you try and reassure yourself that one of you two has to be an adult, one of you two has to think things through, consider the consequences. If it has to be you, you guess you’ll have to accept your new role.

It doesn’t seem to work at all when it comes to making Narancia calm down. If anything, you trying to be the one taking control and acting like an adult makes it worse. It’s almost as if Narancia’s trying to prove something to both himself and you; trying to joke around, get people to laugh with him, get people to look at him in wonder about how cool he is and how much they’d like to be like him.

When you go to dinner with all of Passione’s inner sanctum, it’s always Narancia who tries to make the waiter laugh (no matter how improbably fancy the venue, and with Giorno at the helm, the restaurants are often improbably fancy). It’s always Narancia who makes a joke that just falls a little flat; a little too blue, or a little too rude, or just so off the mark that Abbacchio rolls his eyes and breathes a sharp sigh and calls the waiter over to bring him an extra glass of wine. It’s always Narancia who runs his mouth; who blurts out something that is clearly not intended for a public place. It’s always Narancia who’s toeing the line.

Even when you’re alone--

Even when you’re alone, you’ve noticed that Narancia can get a little bit over-excited. That his touches on your waist and his kiss are fumbled a little, that he presses a little bit too much without understanding what he’s doing, that he’s overcompensating with big talk and attempts to make bigger physical overtures to you; once he’d bit down so hard on your lower lip you’d started bleeding. Once he’d given you a nosebleed because as he’d launched himself at you to kiss you, his forehead had collided with your nose. More than a few times, there’s been an awkward scuffle as you two try and get in a comfortable position for cuddling and you’ve been bruised by elbows and knees that never seem to stay where Narancia puts them to begin with.

It’s the elbows and knees that do it for you, in the end. Narancia’s knee connecting with your midsection as you crawl across the bed to try and rest your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder and he rolls in an attempt to get into the position he thinks is optimal for snuggles; in his wriggling, he hits you hard on the stomach and you roll away with a soft ‘oof’, pain blossoming from where the two of you had collided.

It had already been a stressful day. Narancia and you had gone out for lunch with Mista, who is not a calming influence at the best of times - your food had been a little cold, and you’d mentioned it to Narancia, and he’d made a huge deal out of it when the server had returned for the bill. It’s not something you’d cared about that much, and you’re sure that Narancia had felt like he was doing you a favour, trying to be the big man or whatever - but it had just made you feel embarrassed and awkward. Narancia probably wanted to be a knight in shining armour. But that’s not what you want from him! You just want him to be himself.

“For God’s sake,” you find yourself snapping, the words coming out before your brain has time to think about how your boyfriend might react to them. “Can’t you just think about what you’re doing for once in your life?”

Narancia stares at you for a moment as the words sink in, before his face twists into distress and he replies to you, sounding a little breathless;

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

“It’s not that and you know it!” The words are spilling out of you after being held back all day. You know this is not a smart move. You know, for all he tries to bluster, Narancia is actually kind of sensitive; but you’ve spent the past months of your relationship trying not to let your frustrations show because you can’t believe how lucky you are that Narancia even wants you back. Months worth of vitriol comes out of you now. “It’s everything! You’re always trying to prove something, a-and I don’t know who you’re trying to prove it to! but it’s damn well not working on me!”

Narancia’s eyebrows draw in, full mouth twisting into a pout.

“Maybe if you took me seriously I wouldn’t have to try and prove anything to you!” He replies, his own voice rising in pitch and volume too. You’re used to his particular rises in volume being to do with excitement rather than anger, and you’re actually kind of scared to find out how hard Narancia sounds when he’s not being good-natured. You know Narancia is dangerous; you know Aerosmith isn’t a purely defensive stand. But Narancia has always been nothing but kind to you. Hearing this side of him is a little bit harrowing, honestly. Your fingers twist and untwist on the covers of the bed, the place where his knee had collided with you seeming to pulse in time with the beat of your heart.

“I do take you seriously,” you say, a little softer than before. Is that really what he thinks? “But you act like a kid all of the time--”

“You don’t,” he replies, forcefully, and when you look up to meet his eyes. Ordinarily, they’re a bright shade of violet; almost laughing, happy, eyes that make you feel lifted just to see them. Today, though, their colour has been muddied somewhat, and you know why; because they’re practically swimming in tears. Narancia’s always seemed so tough. He’s been through so much, and you don’t know how much of it he cried for, but plenty of it seems tear-worthy; that he’s crying now, because of you . . . It makes your stomach twist in discomfort and makes you feel like the worst girlfriend in the whole world. “You don’t take me seriously. Nobody takes me seriously, and I’m kinda used to that, but when it’s you doing it--”

“All of us take you seriously,” you say, trying to placate him and rid him of the tears that are threatening to roll down his cheeks. Oh, you don’t know what you’ll do if he cries-- “I take you seriously, and you know Buccellati does, and Giorno takes everything everyone says seriously--”

This time, Narancia’s voice is a little bitter.

“Of course you’d mention them,” he says, and you don’t miss the scorn lacing his words. You know he’d never be scornful of Buccellati, or Giorno - so does that mean, then, that the scorn is directed at you?

“I--I don’t know what you mean,” you tell him, face creasing into concern, and Narancia lets out a huff and rolls his eyes. In a different time and place, the huff and the way his mouth turns into a pout would be cute, but it’s hard to find anything cute right now.

“You know,” he says, “I mean. I know. It’s obvious you’d rather be with one of them than me. And I get it, I guess. I just--”

“Narancia,” you say, and you lean over. Your hand comes to rest on his, and you look into his eyes with a look on your face that you hope he sees as earnestness. You need him to believe you. “There is literally nobody I would rather be with than you.” He looks at you, lip trembling, and you get the impression that he doesn’t really believe you. That’s fine, though. You’ll convince him if you have to.

You take his hand into your lap, and try and think about what you’re saying.

“I guess I get a little bit worried about you,” you admit. “I don’t like feeling like I’m ruining your fun, y’know? Sometimes I feel like I have to be the adult. But I promise I’m not looking at Bruno or Giorno or any of your friends like that! That’d be a shitty move by me, right?”

“I’d get it,” he mumbles, a little shamefacedly. “They’re all suave and handsome and good and shit, and I’m just Narancia. Y’know. Lovable comic relief. Not to be taken seriously. Cute and not handsome.”

“Whilst I do think you’re very cute,” you say, a smile beginning to tug at your lips now that Narancia has stopped looking like he’s in immediate danger of sobbing. “I think you’re exceedingly handsome too. I mean, Bruno and Giorno are good-looking, I suppose - but they’re not you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice comes out as a grumble that’s so soft you barely hear it.

“I jus’ want you to think I’m cool too.”

You squeeze his hand again, and he meets your eyes looking a little bit more hopeful than before. The hope in his eyes makes your heart and your stomach do a little somersault; this is the Narancia you fell so hopefully in love with from across the crowded halls in meetings with the Don of Passione. This is the Narancia that you watched from afar and wished would notice you. The Narancia that you’d felt so special when he’d smiled at you and known your name and asked you if you wanted to maybe get gelato together (he’d forgotten his wallet and you’d paid, laughing)--

“I think you’re cool already,” you tell him earnestly. “I think you’re just about the coolest guy I know without having to try. But when you do try . . .” Your face screws up, nose wrinkling. “I think when people try and be cool it’s probably the least cool thing they can do.”

Narancia looks a little shamefaced. Someone who cares as much about their coolness as he does knows what you just said to be an irrefutable truth, you think - you give him an encouraging smile anyway.

“I just want you to think I’m the coolest,” he repeats. “I’m tryin’ my best here!” He’s getting a little agitated, knee bouncing up and down; mindful of what happened last time Narancia’s knees got out of control, you shift a little closer to him so you’re almost touching. You try and imbue every ounce of feeling you have for him into your next words; try to channel how much you love him, how glad he’s made you in the past few months, how much you want to spend the rest of your life with him by your side;

“You don’t need to try.”

“But if you leave me because I fuck up--”

“I’m not leaving. I promise.” You’re struck suddenly by the thought of the boy who took advantage of Narancia’s nature; the one who convinced him to dye his hair and sent him to juvenile detention in his place, and your heart aches. You and all of the rest of Passione are not going to leave Narancia, of course - but Fugo had come so close, and Narancia didn’t grow up with too many figures whom he could trust, and of course he’s afraid that you’re going to up and abandon him. “I know that things are hard. For you. For everyone. But I’m here for good.”

“I’m just tryin’--”

“Narancia,” you say, and the stern tone in your voice finally makes him seem to take notice. His shoulders square, his mouth twisting, as he looks you full-on. “I promise, you don’t need to try. You can let go of the walls around me a bit. You can just be you.”

“What if . . . What if the you that you think I am isn’t the you that I am?” He replies back with, a challenge in his tone. “What if it’s the wall or whatever that you like and not the me?”

“You just like being contrary,” you tell him, with narrowed eyes, and you win a bark of laughter. Narancia’s lips when he laugh look so inviting. You want to lean into him, to kiss him until neither of you remember your own names-- no, concentrate. Narancia’s fragile, for all of his thunder. You need to pick up his pieces again first. “I fell in love with you. Not the wall. And I know it’s you and not the wall because I can tell when you’re putting it up.”

Narancia sighs.

“Is at least a real good-looking wall?” He asks, and it’s your turn to laugh. His face turns serious even as you stifle the giggles. “Are you really in love with me?”

Fuck, was that the first time you’ve said it out loud?

You’d hoped that your admission of love to Narancia would be somewhere a little nicer. Somewhere a little more romantic. Your six month anniversary is coming up, and Giorno’s got enough connections to get you tickets for a concert Narancia would like and a reservation at a restaurant you’ll like and entrance into an exclusive club where you know Narancia will have an amazing time dancing. You’d planned to do something special for it! You wanted Narancia to remember it!

But it looks like you’ve already put your foot in it, so you may as well accept it. You breathe out, slow and steady, and make sure that you’re looking Narancia square on into his - handsome, beautiful, real fucking cute - face.

“Yes.” You say. “I love you, Narancia Ghirga. Probably more than I should. You’re kind of annoying, sometimes? But mainly you just make me happy and feel like I could do anything I wanted to do. And . . . And I want to spend as much time with you as I can, and I don’t want you to be mad at me, and I really really don’t want you to cry. Ever.”

Narancia blinks at you for a few moments, clearly taking some time to process this new announcement. It’s clearly not something he minds, though - as he stops, his face splits into a grin, and you could cry with relief. You don’t know what you’d have done if he’d stumbled over his words and said you were really great and all, but that’s just not where he imagined you two going and it was just fun and was never meant to be serious or anything--

“Aww, amore!” He says, and he opens his arm wide. “Come here! Let’s cuddle! I love you too!”

This time, he waits for you to crawl over the bed, and you thankfully manage to avoid any of the Narancia’s knees related pitfalls that had befallen you earlier. You’re still a little slow as you rest your head on his chest (just to make sure, of course), but when you do, his arm goes easily around you. His movements are slower, and less frenetic, and although it’s not the Narancia you’re used to, it’s a good Narancia that makes you feel soft and warm and wanted.

“I’m glad,” you say, and then you wrinkle your nose as you settle closer to his heart. You can hear his heartbeat thrumming rhythmically in your ear, the noise soothing and making you feel closer to him than ever. “I wanted to tell you somewhere special. I wanted to make it feel like it was important.”

Narancia’s hand comes down, resting lightly on the top of your head before he begins to pull strands of your hair out as he strokes them. You’ve always loved having people play with your hair, and you relax into the touch - you’d always suspected, from the small but perfectly formed inner workings of Aerosmith, that Narancia had a side that was a little more concerned with details. Your suspicions are proved correct by the gentle way he handles you as you lay there in his embrace.

“Amore,” he murmurs, beginning to sound a little bit sleepy, “anywhere I’m with you is the most important place in the world.” He stifles a yawn at the end of the sentence, and you can’t resist the chance to tease him a little bit. This will be the true test of whether you’ve upset him beyond compare; Narancia is always up for a good laugh.

“That was real cheesy,” you tell him, “put the wall back up.”

The words hang in the balance for a brief period of time, and you think you’ve fucked up - and then, the sound of Narancia’s laugh fills the air, and you relax once more.

“Get used to it!” He tells you. “This is the real me! Cheesier than Mista at his worst! I’m gonna - uh - I’m gonna fuckin’ serenade you! Gonna buy you a hundred red roses and fill the entire fuckin’ house with them-- gonna . . . gonna . . .” He yawns, again, and the arm around you tightens. “Gonna fall asleep cuddlin’ you. Real romantic, huh?”

“Real romantic,” you affirm, settling into him. Narancia is warm, despite the bare arms, and his bed is really very comfortable. He’s a little bashful when he speaks next, though.

“Jus’ . . . jus’ don’t go spreadin’ around how romantic I am to everyone, huh? It can be our little secret.”

“Okay,” you reply to him. You’ll happily keep his secret, if it means you’re the only one who gets to share this soft, warm, cuddle tousled Narancia with the messy hair and the dusting of a blush on his cheeks.

Sometimes, being the adult means getting to be a little selfish.

[codyfernaesthetic]

French Kiss

(I swear I tried to come up with a more creative title, but what can ya do?)

Mayor Damien Week Day 3!

You and Damien are left alone after an end of the semester party, and you find out a new fact about your college buddy. 

Not NSFW

You swept a pile of discarded plastic cups and debris off the table into a large garbage bag, already filled nearly to the brim; but you didn’t want to use more than necessary. The more trash you could fit into one bag the better. The common room was an absolute disaster, exactly what you would expect from the remains of a rowdy college party. You jumped to snatch a colorful, papier-mâché decoration hanging on the wall, swearing under your breath as it tore into two, one piece stuck by a piece of duct tape. You slid a nearby chair underneath the piece and stood to carefully peel it from the wall. The last thing you wanted was to hear about the ripped wall paper from the student board. It had taken every trick in the book to get them to agree to this end of the year merriment, including a delicate push from the student board president; who, unsurprisingly, was the only one besides you who stayed behind to help with cleanup. 

“Y/N,”

You turned your head to look at Damien, carrying two bulking trash bags in each hand.

“You got another full bag? I’m going to take these to the dumpster outside.”

You indicate beside you with a jerk of your head, “Over here, but you might want to wait, we might have enough to fill up at least two more.”

He exhaled with a shake of his head, “It’s amazing how much of a mess college students can leave.”

He walked around you and hooked the bag’s strap with his thumb, and you saw him survey the chaotically cluttered room with almost comical distress. You smiled to yourself. 

“Hope the mess doesn’t give you nightmares.”

“You mean I’m not in one?” he replied, walking out the door.

There were certainly other clean people you knew, but Damien was a bona fide neat-freak. You would often hold back a chuckle as he would conscientiously wipe the rim of his glass before leaving it in the bin for the cafe’s cook to clean or retrieve a miniature lint-roller from his bag to clean off his shirt in the middle of a conversation. If you mentioned it, his eyes would brighten with innocent realization and he’d grin, but wouldn’t apologize; that was one of the first things that intrigued you about him. Most people tended to mumble a half-hearted “sorry” whenever one of their quirks were pointed out, as if ashamed to have let their individuality peeked through a façade. Damien never had this problem. He was himself and no one else, and he would never pretend to be that way. In a sea of insecure twenty somethings who had no idea who they were or what they wanted, such unabashed self-confidence without a hint of conceit was novel…and undeniably attractive. 

The two of you continued tidying up, ending up using three more bags. Damien took to straightening up the chairs and couch cushions as you handled the last dumpster trip. You glanced at your watch after returning: 12:45. The weekend curfew extended to 2:00 am, so you weren’t feeling rushed; besides, the only thing back at the dorm was more studying for finals, and you’d had enough of that for a lifetime. Walking over to the couch while Damien scrubbed at a spot on a small table with a wet paper towel, you collapsed onto it with a weary sigh. You didn’t stop your gaze casually focusing on his movements, everyone of them intentional; furrowing his brows in concentration, shifting his weight onto the right side of his body. You’d been running on autopilot for two weeks straight, and everyone else walked around liked caffeine-addicted zombies. Seeing him so put together and fully there for even the most mundane task caused a ripple of admiration in your chest, if not a playful jealousy at his abilities. You closed your eyes for a moment, your fatigue overriding your iron will to stay awake.

You jolted with a quiet groan as a warmth enveloped your shoulder. Damien chuckled over you, moving his hand back to his side, “Sorry, but I don’t think you want to spend your night in here.”

You yawned involuntarily, “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah, I would’ve woken you up a bit sooner, but you really look like you needed some good rest.”

You quirked an eyebrow, “Do I look that bad?”

He quickly assured you with wide eyes that he hadn’t meant that at all, but you just laughed and waved it off, “I was kidding. You’re right. But I know the second I walk into my room, study mode will kick on and I’ll be up til 3:00.”

His big brown eyes shone with concern, “Poor thing, you really shouldn’t do that to yourself.”

You shrugged, patting the cushion, “You got anywhere to be?”

“It is passed my bed time,” he smirked, sitting on the other side, “But good company can always waste my time.”

“Aw, I feel so special.”

He leaned back onto the couch, rolling his neck with a slight scrunch of his nose as his bones popped. Now that you had time to actually stop and not have blaring music or constant anxiety over keeping the room clean cloud your thoughts, you noticed he had begun to grow some scruff, and his mop of raven hair was uncharacteristically tussled. Sometime during the night, he had apparently lost the red bow tie he had donned for the evening. There was an unidentifiable (though most likely food related) stain on the center of his royal blue sweater. You found yourself reaching for his face, perhaps influenced by the madness of sleep deprivation, and grazed your fingertips over the scratchy rough patch on his jaw.

“You lose your razor?”

His lips parted in surprise at the touch, but he smiled sheepishly and said, “I suppose finals have taken precedence over personal appearance.”

“It looks good on you,” you admit, slowly dragging your fingers across his chin, “Now you don’t have such a baby face.”

He feigned offense, placing his hand over his heart, “I have the chiseled features of a man, thank you.”

You closed your lips before you made your next comment, something about how gorgeous he actually was, no matter what he did to his outward appearance. You didn’t want to say something so obvious and freak him out, though he’d probably handle it with grace.

Noticing your silence, he filled in the space, “Besides, I don’t have time with all the stress the board is putting on me. They have a million ideas for end of the year activities and decided to unload every single one of them on me in our last meeting.”

You laughed, jokingly crossing your arms, “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you stole the position from me.”

He playfully shoved you, “Hey, you said you forgave me for that.”

“I did, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” you adjusted your position and folded up your legs underneath you, “You earned it, fair and square.”

You wouldn’t have been able to say that immediately after he won the election, but his gracious manner and kind disposition had won you over as well as the rest of the student body. 

He winked, “You were a worthy opponent.”

You felt your stomach flip. You looked away to escape his genuine smile. A stretch of comfortable silence passed between the two of you, until you decided to pass the time with an idea.

“You wanna play a game?”

He nodded nonchalantly, “Sure.”

You had no idea why this had come to your mind; perhaps it was to simply get to know your good friend a little better, “I’ll tell you a secret and then you have to guess whether or not I’m telling the truth.”

He shifted his body toward you, determined grin playing at the corner of his lips, “Ok, go ahead.”

You pursed your lips, thinking about what to say, “Ok, I went on a date last Valentine’s Day-”

“False.”

You picked up the cushion beside you and whacked him, but were unable to remove the smile from your face. He snickered, holding out his arms in defense. When you were satisfied with his punishment, you continued, “Anyway, we went to dinner, and then a play, but we ran into an angry ex of mine. My date and ex got into a pretty nasty fight, and the next thing I know there’s a gun thrown onto the ground and they’re both begging me to shoot the other one.”

His eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly.

You nodded as if to agree with his shock, “Well, I was freaking out, so I shot just to stop the fight and ended up shooting my ex,” you then shrugged casually and added, “And then me and my date got ice cream.”

Damien ran his fingers through his hair, exhaling a breathy laugh at the harrowing tale, “Please tell me that’s not true.”

You grinned mischievously, “It’s not. But me and my date did end up going to a park and they asked me to marry them. Needless to say, I never saw them again.”

He chuckled nervously, “Better than shooting someone.”

You gestured to him, “Ok, now you.”

He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers on his knee as he thought. He finally told you, “I’m bilingual.”

You pouted, “Really? I put so much effort into mine.”

He threw up his hands, “I don’t have your story-weaving abilities!”

You squinted, tapping your chin, “True?”

He shook his head, “Nope...I’m trilingual.”

For a moment, you swear you felt your heart skip a beat. It felt silly, but for whatever reason, the idea of him speaking another language made heat pour into your belly. Your mind conjured up an image of him whispering in your ear, his soft lips smiling against your skin, his newly grown stubble pleasurably scraping against your cheek, and-

You pole-vaulted that thought away so quickly, you were surprised you didn’t physically jump as it exited your mind. You huffed out in a sarcastic tone, “Wow, way to brag.”

His mouth twitched in confusion, a twinge of what seemed like genuine hurt filling his eyes, “I’m not bragging, it’s just a fact.”

You cursed yourself silently. You hadn’t meant for it to come across so harsh. You smile and ask, “What languages?” in a tone a bit too bright and enthusiastic. 

He quirked an eyebrow, but thankfully chose to ignore the strange shift in your behavior, “French from my mother and Italian from my father, they didn’t want their native languages to completely fade from future generations. Me and my sister were always prepared for overseas family reunions.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hating yourself for the next words to leave your mouth in a small voice, “Could I hear a little bit of it?”

He looked at you, his eyes sparkling with something you couldn’t quite decipher. You felt your cheeks burn, praying for something, anything, to interrupt this sudden intensity. 

With a burst of adrenalin, you rung your hands and begged jeeringly to lighten the mood, “Speak French to me. Oh, please, Damien, speak French to me.”

He broke into a fit of laughter, probably more from the building tension than your outburst, “Ok, ok...” he paused as if to flip a switch in his brain, “Bonjour, mon amie, comment vas-tu?” 

His voice glided over the syllables with the grace of a swan.  You crossed your arms in front of you, hoping desperately he didn’t hear your breath hitch, “I’m assuming you asked how I was doing?”

He tipped his head toward you, “You would be correct.”

“How do you say, “I’m exhausted”?”

“Je suis épuisé.”

You attempted to repeat him, fumbling through what sounded neither like French nor any other recognizable language, “It sounds like my tongue’s swollen.”

He chuckled, “Good try, though. A for effort!”

The both of you become quiet again. You look off to the side, checking your watch; even though you couldn’t care less about the time,1:30. Your attention was pulled back when you felt him move closer towards the middle of the couch. He lifted up his arms in a long stretch, letting a quiet yawn escape. You knew it wasn’t like him to stay up so late, and the fact that he was doing it for your sake made you feel a little guilty, but elated at the same time. Maybe he was trying to politely signal that he wanted to leave so he could go to bed?

“If you’re tired, you can head on back to the dorms. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

He shook his head, “I’m fine. Being up a little late never hurt anyone. Are you sure you don’t need to get some sleep?”

You waved your hand dismissively, “Who sleeps in college?”

He smiled, staring at you with that indecipherable gaze again, “I guess you’re right.”

You find yourself, almost unconsciously, scooting closer to him. You glance down and see your hands mere centimeters apart. You can feel heat pass between you as you look back up into his eyes. His gaze quickly flicks up to meet yours. Was he just looking at your lips? His fingers inch closer to yours. You scratch the back of your head, leaning away from him,  “Ok, now you tell me a secret, but you have to say it in French and I have to decipher it and then say if it’s true.”

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes. You mentally kicked yourself. Why were you so bad at this?

His next words sounded more like an exhale, you swear his eyes dropped back to your lips, “Je veux t'embrasser.”

Every muscle was as heavy as lead, your heart pounded. You wanted him to stop looking at you like that...but also didn’t want him stop. 

“I’m lost. Tell me.” Your voice was no more than a breath.

He moved closer, his face colored red, “Je veux t'embrasser means…I want to kiss you.”

You were shaking, “True.”

He nodded, biting his lower lip.

You leaned forward, inquiring as you placed your hand on his knee, “How do you say, “I want to kiss you too”?”

He answers with a sly grin, reaching out to cup your cheek, “Je veux t'embrasser aussi.”

You licked your lips, heart threatening to explode out of your chest, “Well, don’t make me say it…I don’t speak French.”

He smiled as he placed his lips on yours, his stubble tickling your chin. You taste mint on his breath, smelling the remnants of cologne emanating from him. Warmth surrounds your entire body. You bring your hand up to run your fingers through his hair, slowly deepening the kiss. He gasped a small moan against your mouth and a jolt of electricity shot through you. Your other hand slid up his chest, his heartbeat throbbing underneath your fingertips. He pulled you even closer, gripping your waist. He broke away to kiss the curve of your neck, whispering primal affections into your skin. You guided him back to your lips, greedily taking possession. His throat rumbled in a growl. You both began tugging at each other’s clothes, begging without saying a word. You pulled him with you as you lay back against the couch, boldly slipping your hands underneath his sweater, surprised at yourself. 

He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath. You place a peck just below his lips, worried that you scared him off.

“It’s late…” he groaned huskily, placing quick kisses on your neck and chin, “I wouldn’t want you to be late for curfew…” 

You ran your palms further up his chest, giggling, “You’re such a Boy Scout…it’s adorable.”

The look he gave you screamed that he didn’t want to stop; but resignedly, he gave you another hungry kiss before sitting up, “I’ll walk you to the dorm.”

You held hands as the night air cooled your burning skin. You stole glances his way, each time seeing an intoxicated smile gracing his gorgeous face; and you couldn’t wipe the grin off your own. When you reached the building, you both stare at each other, unsure what to say. He finally chuckled and said, “I wouldn’t mind your company more often, if you wouldn’t mind.”

You nodded, “I wouldn’t mind at all,” leaning over to kiss his cheek, “Maybe you could teach me some French?”

He licked his lips, pausing as if to stop himself from kissing you again, “Bien sur, mon amie.”

You both share a laugh before you enter the dorm, feeling exhilarated.

You noticed for the rest of the semester that he kept the stubble.

[glorykrp]

SHOWING RESULTS FOR: RYUSE.

✩ Ryu Sehan                             ✩  July 21st, 1994      ✩ Seoul, South Korea                ✩ Soloist

LATEST RESULTS ON THE TOPIC.

Ryu Sehan – Artist Profile. Ryuse is Nebula Prism’s soloist. He trained for 5 years prior to debut.

RYUSE (류세) “STEREO / 스테레오” Music Video – Youtube. Jun. 13, 2013. Watch the official music video for Ryuse’s debut song.

Ryuse's Sensual Charm Graces Elle Issue – Naver. ❬ +1,607; -72 ❭ Sehan-ah, Maeo are always cheering you on!

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» Nebula Prism          » 1987 Album          » Ryuse Blind Item

PERSONAL LIFE.

TEN. There’s four of them when he’s born. Mother, father, big brother, and him. Only shadows of those days remain in his memory, filtered through the ethereal languor of infancy. Mother, father, big brother, and him – a family, on vacations, father behind the wheel with mother at his side, short hair dancing in the wind next to the rolled down window. They’re ancient ghosts, seating in the back of his head for what feels like decades, centuries, tasting of old water and dust. Even as he holds the picture album in his hands, evidence of their existence in a simpler time, they paint like fiction rather than fact. These days, he prefers it that way. NINE. He remembers his story as a fatherless child, with a mother and a big brother who were always bending themselves to fill that hole. The culprit left the scar shaped in his silhouette, moving on to a new home and a family he would love more. He remembers being difficult, morose, siding with his father when his mother complained, clamoring his name whenever it was silenced. As he did it, seeing the hurt he inflicted shatter in his mother’s eyes, he didn’t know why he felt that visceral need to keep a rotting corpse tied to his body like that. Maybe it hurt more than he could understand, maybe the chaos of that first year was enough noise to drone out the torturing emptiness in the house, in his life. He remembers having his childlike innocence tainted with the precocious realization of his impotence. EIGHT. Not to say it was all gray clouds and battle cries in the house. He was filled with love and affection and childhood conventions, not a lot missing from his plate. He didn’t have superheros and augmented fantasies, but he dreamed. Collected dreams, kept a shelf full of alternate lives he would live, ever so often circling back to song and dance. His mother used to joke he had a head among clouds, made sure to anchor his feet. Studies and preoccupations with future were the constant imperative in the house, their stiff seriousness often wrapping too tight around his neck. In hindsight, he gets it – early divorced and morally crushed, his mother was only looking to protect her children from a similar fate. But in adolescent candour, the fickle balance between sweetness and hurricanes so often combusted as discussions edged around the subject of the future. The harder his mother tried to pry him away from music, the more stubborn he became, sinking a grip into it, finding a calling in the strive. SEVEN. At the age of thirteen, Sehan leaves his house on a saturday afternoon, with the excuse of working on a school project at his friend’s. At the age of thirteen, Sehan auditions for Nebula Entertainment. And passes. In his defense, he hadn’t expected much from it. He had no idea of what to expect from an audition, had so little planned beyond the few stories he had heard in school. When he passes, the euphoria erupts mixed with anxiety. He skims the practice room, the numbered tag laying on his chest, the dark sweatpants sagging on white sneakers, fearing this would be his last taste of it all. SIX. The process of moving into the trainee dorm is sweetened by the silence his mother offers him, the brimming frustration that comes as the calm after the long tempest she had lashed on him. She wishes him good luck, and even the severity of her tone becomes something he can hold onto. His family doesn’t talk to him for months, he doesn’t allow them a chance, doesn’t give his hectic schedule a rest because he is far too scared to be met with nothing if he ever opened that door. FIVE. Emotional solitude threw him into a frenzy in the first years of his training. He dived right in, energy divided between school, practice and extra hours of practice, more time spent in the white training rooms than he thought possible. It was the fear, but also the hunger, the realization of how much he had to learn, and the addiction to the labor, to that all business and nothing personal. He had a thirst for the impeccable, and the thrumming of his overexerted flesh under a warm shower stream fed his brain an analgesic high. FOUR. It’s not all work and no play. He finds companions, those who laugh and worry and practice with him day to day, swimming in sweat and anxiety like fish in water. He has his circle of friends and his circle of strangers, like most kids his age must have. Especially since joining ATLAS – the sense of purpose the prospect of starting a career puts him at an ease he hadn’t experienced since he joined the company. He loosens up, enjoys the ride. THREE. He got removed from the group’s debut project. There was no explanation, he was simply demoted despite his best efforts to show himself worthy of the opportunity to debut. The only thing they give him is the crash, burning out faster than he feared he would. Calling it a moment of vulnerability is an understatement, nothing but humiliation in those halls, small shoulders bearing terror. He had wasted so much time, there was no going back, no new beginnings. That was the night he made the first phone call to his mother in two years, and her voice boiled with concern, cradling his directionless mind in its warmth. He had forgotten what yielding felt like, but the hours of sobbing in that silent practice room came close to it. TWO. Staying was an option he made again, and then again, because that was the person he grew into – that was what his mother told him, pride swelling in her tone. When he debuted, it was on his own, a glaring sensation of intimacy with the camera as it faced him directly at all times. He stuttered his way through the cards they gave him to memorize, nervous laughter and repeated apologies filling unused footage. One day he looked around, standing on a stage in his tailored costume among a crowd of celebrities he had seen litter billboards before, a couple of girls waving at him from the crowd, their faces hidden by prints of his promotional pictures, and his mind failed to connect the image with reality.

ONE. His heart races, the smile on his face as honest as it was farcical, and he is so lost, feet on the track but so lost.

STRENGTHS & WEAKNESSES.

Sehan’s a product of his condition. The constant sways between ups and downs in Nebula has made him alert, the inconsistencies taking a toll on his psyche, leaving behind traces that never seem to efface. He is eternally a competitor, mind wired like a beast’s, primal and trained to survive. In his field, that makes him a perfectionist, wringing himself over every detail of whatever part of his career, obsessed with any flaw he can find. That is usually pointed out as a positive of an already promising artist, considering his talent for performance as not only a consistent vocalist but also a highly skilled dancer. But it becomes a harrowing torture to watch, to put others under, worrying over every audio filter, every shot, every move, pulling himself down into a frenzied work load that kills him again and again. He’s a divisive figure in studios, becoming less filtered as his career progressed, and turning enough heads to call management’s attention on his behavior. He doesn’t like it when they call it an attitude -- it’s insecurity, rooted in his frustration and weaknesses ( he’s not interesting enough to be in variety, upvotes, do they call that acting?, upvotes ). But it has become harder and harder for him to play the well meaning card, especially after butting heads with a renowned production director. All his fire glimmers on stage, but burns bridges behind the scenes, a fact he’s been forced to confront repeatedly in recent years. For all the damage done, he struggles to find his limits, and remain contained inside them, making note to remember the world goes on beyond his mania, remember the people ahead of his own insecurities. Call it a work in progress.

2017 INTERVIEW.

Fame is clearly imposed on him as a natural consequence of his career choice, but not a prominent preoccupation in his daily life. The path to that status was often distressing enough to distract him from the miniscule repercussions in his life, fool him into believing it just happened to be his normality. Hiding behind a mask became second nature, the shrieks of fans and the criticism of his every action blurring into the background of his incessant schedule. Fame isn’t burden, luxury or any sort of gravitational influence in his life, it’s mundane. And then, his father is standing outside the studio. Sehan stops on his tracks, freezing over, iced tea in his hand, fingertips growing numb as silent seconds roll by. He hadn’t seen the man in over ten years – he had stopped by to pick up him and his brother out on the weekends to have store-brand ice cream in the park a couple times after the divorce, but the habit faded out in the first years after he moved to Gwangju, empty promises over the phone replacing the visits. He talks a lot, puts a hand on his shoulder, gives that awkward, flamboyant smile and picks his words with medical precision. Nearly a full deadbeat father package, only missing the use of the word son, because even he will not stoop so low. He wipes out his wallet, shows Sehan the picture of his daughter, starts a childhood story when Sehan looks him in the eye. The question is what the fuck is he doing here. His father stops, hesitates, and tells him he wants to be part of his life. Comical stuff, especially when he avoids talking about Sehyuk and his mother altogether, because of course he just wants to talk to his famous son and how great of a dad he would be in another life. When Sehan walks out as he stammers through an excuse, he swallows. It’s the first time he tastes fame at its crudest, and the rot seeps deep into his tongue, carving a memory in it.