#i know men. men just like these that hide behind the wall of artistic integrity and freedom

[i-who-has-never-had-a-name]

Yorgos Lanthimos is a prick who makes below mediocre movies and everyone eats it up because people can't seem to differentiate good from pretentious filmmaking.

[twh-news]

Interview: Makeup Artist Douglas Noe on Loki’s Looks Through the Years & Creating Anew for ‘Loki’ [EXCLUSIVE]

Douglas Noe has been in Hollywood for three decades. An award-winning makeup artist, he’s worked on projects such as World War Z, Planet of the Apes, Spider-Man 3, I Saw the Light, and Birth of a Nation. On top of these impressive credits, he’s also been Tom Hiddleston’s personal makeup artist since joining the MCU in The Avengers, designing all of the looks for Loki’s subsequent appearances.

Noe has been nominated for three Emmys with one win, and five Makeup Artist and Hairstylist (MUAHS) Awards resulting in two MUAHS awards. His skills include creating making natural and period looks, prosthetics, hair, and tattoos.

Along with being the head of the makeup department for the most recent Disney+ series Loki, Noe is also creating looks for the new Netflix comedy series True Story starring Kevin Hart and Wesley Snipes.

We had a chance to chat with Douglas Noe about his work on Loki, The Avengers, the incomparable value of teamwork on set, and most importantly, Richard E. Grant.

Nerds and Beyond: So you started your Marvel journey with The Avengers, but what drew you to your field in the first place? And how did you get your start?

Douglas Noe: Star Wars was a huge influence to me as a young boy, both sketching and drawing, and a little bit of sculpting but not much. Cut to 1983, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” comes out and I find a magazine called Fangoria on the newsstands where I can order blood and wax and pencils and fake hair. So, I started playing with these things. I was also taken with the horror movie craze that was happening in the early 80s — Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th, and others, obviously.

In High School, in 1984, I joined choir thinking I would get an easy credit, but my voice had not changed. So the choral instructor had been waiting for a boy soprano to do a theatrical opera presentation. So with that I sang the lead, I quit choir after that, because my peers were merciless, but, I learned the world of theatrical makeup which I hadn’t been introduced to.

I did years of theater. I went to a performing arts high school — it’s called Fort Hayes School for the Performing Arts in Columbus, Ohio — graduated, went to beauty school, and continued working in Ohio doing industrial, commercial, theater, and opera [makeup]. Worked for Maybelline and Revlon, got restless, worked in Cincinnati on my first film in the summer of 1990, it was July so 31 years ago, A Rage in Harlem. And my boss said you come to Los Angeles, I’ll make sure you get on your feet.

Nerds and Beyond: So you mentioned that it’s been about 31 years since your career started, what’s changed over the course of those 30 years in your field?

Douglas: How much time do we have? I’d say the biggest, biggest change would probably be the way we make these things now. Although another large change, more specific, would be the materials that we use. There’s a constant evolution and reinvention of almost all aspects of the materials that a makeup artist uses. That said, I have to shine a light on the way we do things now with the onset of digital and digital cameras. Shooting on film now has almost completely fallen by the wayside. Film was very forgiving, quite frankly, and now it’s not so forgiving. And because of that, the bar has been raised. The wonderful thing about this journey is watching my peers just get better and better and better, my colleagues rising to meet the challenge of not having anything to hide from with this new way we make films.

Nerds and Beyond: So, sometimes you kind of throw prosthetics to the wayside in favor of a more traditional makeup. How do you make that decision on which one to go with?

Douglas: That’s an excellent question. The decision is based purely on what are we going to see. That’s where I start, what is the lighting? I have a conversation with the director of photography and I find out what is the dynamic. Obviously, I know from the script whether it’s an interior or exterior, or if we’re exterior but we’re going to be on a stage, if it’s day or night. These variables all play into my decision as to whether or not I should rely on my theatrical experience and ability to paint 2D to appear 3D, or go ahead and make small prosthetics and put them where I need to put them and use actual prosthetics in lieu of paint.

That has everything to do with lighting, locations, logistics, and because most of his [Loki’s] wounds appear on his arm and some on his face in the Void, it’s all very moody and very dark. And again, the theatrical quality of the paint is not going to be altered by the changing light, it’s just going to react the same way the rest of the face is going to react. It’s purple light, it’s going to make everything have a purple hue. There was no accounting for any correction that didn’t need to be done. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. It’s real.

Nerds and Beyond: So, you did make up for not only Tom on Loki, but you helped plan out the looks for everybody?

Douglas: Yes, what I do is I surround myself with strong talent. It’s all about team. I designed Wunmi Mosaku, Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Sophia DiMartino, and Tom [Hiddleston]. Regarding the rest of it, Neil Ellis, both Dennis Liddiard and I, added to the elements of his scars and wounds, which you would only see in close-ups.

The rest of it, the parameters are set — Blade Runner to Mad Men — and stay in those confines. And obviously, I choose color palettes for the women and there are parameters set for the men, but then it’s about team. I’m a big one on a team and not putting my thumbprints on other people’s work, but rather build other people up so they feel like they own what they’re doing.

My team consists of artists that also have stronger resumes and quite frankly, skills that exceed mine. It’s the mutual trust that allows us to keep a high level of artistic integrity in every aspect of the job. It also means I get the very best from my team, and it shows on the screen.

So, I didn’t have every look in my hand. Dennis Liddiard designed the Mobius character and I had Ned Neidhardt run with Gugu and turn up the volume on some of the elements that she already possesses that we can play with. Her eyes and lips, I think Ned turned the volume on both. And because we’re shooting in order, it’s a progression in the makeup you did.

Nerds and Beyond: When it came to Sylvie and Loki, when you when you’re doing those, did you try to kind of plan them both to have any similar things to give them a Loki look?

Douglas: It’s a fair question, but the answer is no. So again, I think the characteristics and traits that were going to be similar among them, aside from wardrobe and costume hints, were all character driven. And I did nothing with the makeup and hair to try to make them look or even closely resemble each other.

Nerds and Beyond: I want to kind of back up a little bit to Tom in the first Avengers film. That was by far one of his most standout looks. Can you tell me anything about what went into the creation of that absolutely tormented, haunted look that he had throughout that entire movie?

Douglas: Yeah, and that’s probably one of the elements that, because the character has evolved, we kind of left with Avengers because by the end of Avengers, and we carried it into Endgame, he does have a bit of an edgier look in Avengers, and not many people pick up on it. But the reality is he’s a little sculpted in Avengers.

I remember sculpting his cheekbones and temples, and doing a little play on his forehead for when he’s in the cell on the Helicarrier carrier with all that overhead lighting. I did like a little devil horn shadow, which is so subtle. The only person who’s going to notice is anybody who looks back at it and having read this and knows what to look for, but it is so nuanced and so subtle. And that’s the only place I think we did that. But the rest of him is very much chiseled and sculpted, but it’s a light touch.

And I think, again, as he evolved through the Marvel Universe and into the other movies that was something that was easy to leave behind, because I think that look played directly into his evil desire to rule over Earth. We rested that design element with that storyline.

Nerds and Beyond: It’s very clear too and I’ve always loved looking at that, because I’m a huge fan of the character. I’ve always loved kind of comparing how he looked in that movie to the rest of them.

Douglas: You’re on to me!

Nerds and Beyond: I’m not! I swear [laughs] So, what’s your best method for making the actors comfortable in the makeup chair? And with the final outcome?

Douglas: It’s dialogue; listening, talking to them, talking to their representation, whether it be an agent or a manager, and doing my homework and doing my due diligence to find out what’s going to make them comfortable the moment they walk through the door. I do my homework on them. It’s not just IMDb, it’s an internet search. So, I spend some time on the web and find out who these folks are, and if I find out, for example, they’re not one that likes to talk a lot, well, the writing’s on the wall, we’re not going to talk a lot, we’ll cut to the chase and get to the point. But also, it’s about building a rapport and building a relationship. Also, knowing that, I’ve said this in previous discussions, knowing it’s necessary to get out of the way.

Like if, for example, I’m not a proper fit for somebody, I have to be plugged in, I have to be aware enough to understand that it may not be working before somebody says to me, “Hey, this isn’t gonna work.” So it’s just about being open, especially as Tom’s personal on these projects and running the department, knowing that I don’t get to do everybody. I don’t get to put my thumbprint on other people’s work. Because not only is that disrespectful, it’s very often unnecessary, because I hire good people. I hire contemporaries and peers. Truly, you’re only as good as your weakest crew member. I surround myself with good people.

So, take Owen Wilson, for example, it would have been wonderful to do Owen’s makeup, but there were times when he was not going to be shooting with Tom and I was going to need to be ready for Tom or available to Tom, so it didn’t make sense. So I never touched Owen, I had Dennis Liddiard design that look and run with it. And then Ned Neidhardt took over that look when Dennis had to depart. That’s just one example of not trying to do everything.

Another one was the Classic Loki. I wanted to do Richard E. Grant’s [makeup] so bad, I can’t even tell you. I’ve been a huge fan since 1987. I wanted so badly to bring that full circle, didn’t make sense. It just didn’t make sense. So again, I never touched him. It wasn’t necessary. Ned was always there. And I think the same thing happened to me on Ragnarok reshoots, which I ran in Atlanta again with Dennis Liddiard. I wanted so badly to do Sir Anthony Hopkins makeup, but it didn’t make sense. So I was happy to hand it off to Bill Myer.

Nerds and Beyond: Oh man, I loved Richard E. Grant in this show so much.

Douglas: He’s amazing.

Nerds and Beyond: He’s so good!

Douglas: He really is. And he’s that good in person. He’s just so fun and interesting and alluring and attractive. He’s such a wonderful, wonderful person and, of course, a phenomenal actor.

Nerds and Beyond: I was watching little videos that he posted and he just seems like the warmest person.

Douglas: You know, just one last tidbit about Richard Grant is he’s got wonderful stories and as he’s telling them he’ll often stop and pause and just laugh. Just laugh, not for the sake of the stories or for anybody that he’s telling the story to, but because recounting the story brings him true joy. So he’ll stop and embrace that joy. Oh, it’s so wonderful.

Nerds and Beyond: That’s so amazing to hear. What is the most memorable job that you’ve done?

Douglas: The most memorable … That’s a tough one because I have so many fond memories of so many projects. The first Avengers film was memorable because there was a buzz, there was a vibration, a frequency, that was in the air when we were shooting that. We kind of knew we were making something big and something special. I don’t think any of us knew how big or how special it would be, but that certainly is one of the most memorable and most special projects.

I’m pretty good about focusing on the positive aspects of all these things, regardless of how difficult the project may be for whatever reason. The pros always, always heavily outweigh the cons, but I have a lot of wonderful, memorable experiences. Another one, it’s the polar opposite only because of the conditions in which we shot, but Birth of the Nation was one of the most memorable and exceptional experiences of my career. I was on the wrong side of 40, had 25 years of experience, and had still never worked so hard in my entire life. We did a 50-day shoot in 27 days. So proud of the work we did.

It was 100 degrees with 99 percent humidity, we shot it in the summer in Georgia, in Savannah, so it was hot, humid, and just getting the makeup necessary to be on individuals to stay put was its own challenge. And then the other challenges only added to that. But Nate Parker, the director, writer, producer, and lead actor, he is a special human being. And he was inspiring from start to finish. Usually, the first people in are the teamsters, transport department, and usually I’m second. He beat me in almost every single day. He’s in three hours before he needs to be. That was a very special experience.

Nerds and Beyond: Finally, are you excited about the news of Loki Season 2?

Douglas: I’m beyond thrilled! I invite being in the dark a little bit, I kind of like surprises and I like not knowing, so I suspected, but hearing the news confirmed, I was thrilled, naturally. What are they going to dream up? This is amazing. How do you top season 1 of Loki? That’s the burning question.

[witchqueenofthemoon]

BODY AND SOUL Part 8 (Duncan Shepherd/Mackenzie Stone Millory AU)

BODY AND SOUL MASTERPOST

Author’s Note: Whew, okay y’all, Duncan and Kenzie are dragging me along at a breakneck pace, trying to tell me everything at once and I’m trying to get them to slow down so I can organize everything, but I can’t stop writing this fic. I’ve been forgetting to eat I’ve been so wrapped up in it. I keep trying to take a break for a day but I don’t feel like doing anything else half as much as I feel like writing. That’s an amazing feeling I haven’t had in...a really fucking long time, years and years. I have to thank some of you again for your love and attention to me and this story: @nat-de-lioncourt, @impiorumrequies, @carousallie (thanks for your tips about cool DC places, darling!), @ladywriter94 (who had a fucking dream about Duckenzie, oh my god, a dream I’ve vowed to make into a scene at some point), @ghostwithangeleyes (who made this edit a few days ago!), @icouldrun, @hi-ilovedamien (who made this which I fucking love and is writing an amazing Millory fic of their own that you should definitely read, Dichotomy), @killcort and @amanda-d0000, Thank you. There’s a lot of stressful stuff coming up for Duckenzie regarding outward pressures; the good news is, they have each other. Here’s Billie Holiday’s BODY AND SOUL, which is a song I had never heard before until a few days ago, though now I feel like it’s as integral a part of this story as any other song I’ve listened to or included as inspiration (and her name is Billie too; how amazing is that). I based Madeline’s little china dolls on the work of an existing artist, but I looked for her to link to it and couldn’t find it again; if anyone knows of an artist who modifies china dolls so they’re little grotesqueries, let me know, because it’s probably the artist I was thinking of. Like Annette, I found Madeline (who is based on Carrie Fisher) challenging but ultimately rewarding to write; she sees the world very differently than Annette, and it was important for me to communicate the differences in Duncan and Mackenzie’s upbringings with their mostly-single mothers. I listened to Rihanna’s KISS IT BETTER a lot for the sex. As ever, if you’re reading and enjoying, your comments and reblogs are everything to me.

Kenzie pulled at the latch handle on her mother’s hardwood front door, stepping inside warily, practically tip-toeing. She was immediately enveloped by the warm, wonderfully inviting, deeply nostalgic smell of her mother’s homemade spaghetti sauce; a smell she seemed to be able to pinpoint in her dreams sometimes (smells in dreams, always weird, she thought). It juxtaposed sharply with the sinking feeling now nestling deep into her guts, the foreboding feeling of being a disappointment to her mother, who she couldn’t help but idolize in her own secret way; couldn’t help but want to impress, make proud, bring contentment.

She moved slowly through the doorway, setting her satchel down by the door, slipping her kitten heels off and checking with a soft tap of her hand that her phone was still tucked into the large pocket of Duncan’s cardigan, then moved past the staircase and into the living room, with its large oak-framed fireplace and soft, squishy, jump-in-there mulberry-colored couch, gazing at the odds and ends of her mother’s house, the tchotchkes that defined so much of her mother’s energy in her head. Her mother loved weird paintings in particular; things that looked like other things; on the mantel was her growing collection of delicate china girls that had been reconfigured to feature odd anomalies; one girl had tentacles growing out of her arms, another was holding her own disembodied heart with a hole in her chest, one had a gaping hole in her side, her arm on the little porcelain patch of grass at her feet, and a dazed, zombie-like expression, her mouth a mess of blood and gaping teeth. Kenzie had bought a couple for Madeline one Christmas while she was still in college, seeing them in an online shop by an independent artist; their defiant monstrous femininity was Madeline always in Mackenzie’s eyes, and they’d made her think of her mother right away. Over time, Madeline had acquired more, and now they formed a small monstrous army there. On the wall over the fireplace, her eyes dusted over the large gold coin that was her mother’s Pulitzer prize; a prize Madeline had earned at an absurdly young age for a now-legendary editorial on her struggles with bipolar disorder. Kenzie scrutinized it with a mixture of pride and longing; she was already 24, older than her mother had been when Madeline had been awarded the prize. She wondered if she’d ever win something so prestigious for her writing; couldn’t stave away her doubt that she wouldn’t. Who cares, make art anyway, because it’s for survival, it’s for your own heart and soul, the memory of her mother’s advices past pushing between her ears. Momby, who was in the kitchen, banging pots and pans with pointed slamming and slapping; Momby, who was mad at her.

Kenzie slipped her hand into her pocket, her little fingers closing around the familiar smooth rectangle of her iPhone in its gold case, thumbing the moon sticker; thinking of you, Duncan, her memory flashing back to his lips under her ear (leaving an invisible gold tattoo) before she slipped away from him into the car outside Le Diplomate, the moment now frozen in time by a stranger’s camera, her heart ramming into her ribcage, her body immersed in liquid fire. I have to make Momby understand.

She entered the kitchen where to the right she saw Madeline at the sink, past the fridge, staring at the water falling from the faucet into the stainless steel pasta pot she held steady under it. Her lips were pursed together, her expression neutral, far away. She glanced over her shoulder at Kenzie, who stood in the doorway in her knee-socks, making her hands into fists and then relaxing them, hesitant. Glanced, looked back at the pasta pot, glanced back again, silent, on the edge of her anger, but unable to find words for it.

“Momby,” Kenzie started.

“Mackenzie, how could you be so fucking naive?”

The words stung her like a slap in the face.

“Men like that--” Madeline began, and Kenzie walked past her, tears already stinging at the corners of her eyes (oh god, Kenz, not already), trying to hide her face from her mother, trying to find footing in her slowly disintegrating composure. She cried so easily with her mother; maybe it’s because she usually felt so safe to. But not right now. Right now she wanted to hide in a hole until Madeline decided she forgave her daughter. Right now, Kenzie wanted to fast-forward to everything being okay, because it had to be. She couldn’t bear the idea of not being with him now. A sharp, imaginary spear of pain jabbed into her chest as Madeline finished her words. “Men like that will take everything away from you, they will try to control you and make you their slave and they will try to crush your spirit, Mackenzie.”

Kenzie jerked one of the squat wooden chairs from the round kitchen table in the corner and sat, setting her fingers against the edge of the table, gripping that edge for dear life, eye fixed on the brick wall behind it, refusing to look her mother in the eye. Kenzie, do not cry, do not fucking cry, don’t do it, you stupid crybaby bitch, don’t fucking cry--

But it was too late and she could feel the tears coming, pushing themselves out of her lower eyelids like a tide coming in to shore; she was powerless to stop them, just as the shore was powerless to stop that tide, that ocean wave. She felt the first of them course down her cheeks, and her lip trembled.

“Momby,” she whispered. “I love him.”

She looked over at her mother then, more tears falling down her cheeks now; Madeline stood with her back to the sink now, the faucet still running, her arms crossed, her expression full of fury. She saw her daughter’s tears, and her face crumpled a little; enough that Kenzie could see her falter internally, double-back on her anger, try to go forward with it again, and become stuck in an in-between of emotions.

“Mackenzie. My dearest. You don’t know him yet.”

“Momby, I will get to know him. Please listen to me.”

“Annette Shepherd has tried to ruin my career, destroy my credibility and my livelihood, she has tried to smear my personal life, tried to discredit my work, Annette Shepherd is an evil bitch--”

“Momby, this is not about you!”

Kenzie shocked herself with the shrillness of her scream; her voice rising until it seemed to shake her entire body as it came out, rocking her back from the edge of the table into the seat, and she turned her body to her mother, her own anger now finally having risen, the tears still stinging their way down her face. Her mother’s face went white with shock, and she fell into a stunned silence. For a few minutes, the only sound was the water running over the edge of the now-full pasta pot, and the tick of the little classic black Kitty-Kat clock against the wall leading to the dining room.

“Momby,” Kenzie said again, and her voice cracked a little--she hated to fight with her mother so much. She hated it, it punched a hole through her heart, it fractured her spirit and filled her with abject sadness. “Momby. Please. Let me make my own mistakes. You have to let me. You made mistakes too. Don’t I get to make any? Can’t I--” Her face collapsed, unable to stave off the sob building in her lungs any longer, and she gasped as it burst out of her. “Can’t I figure out myself if this is a mistake or not?”

Her mother’s face softened, her arms unfolded, and she turned, shutting off the faucet, moving to where Kenzie sat with her body now shuddering as she cried.

“Kenzie Lou,” her mother said, and she reached out to grasp Kenzie’s hand. Kenzie immediately felt enveloped in the warmth of her mother’s now-wrinkly touch. She gasped out a little sigh of tear-clogged air, forced herself to speak between her hitching breaths.

“Duncan isn’t his mother, Momby. Please, believe me. Why can’t you trust me?”

“Oh, sweet pea.” Her mother pressed her other hand over Kenzie’s, so both grasped her fingers. “I do trust you. But sometimes you feel blinded by something--by someone. Sometimes you can’t see what’s going on because you’re looking at one tree in a forest.”

“Momby, that’s not what this is.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel it. In my heart. In my spirit. He loves me and I love him and we want to be together and I love you so much, but I’m going to be with him whether or not you like it, Momby, and I’m an adult and you need to let me do this.”

Madeline let go of her, standing again, moving back to the sink, dumping the overflow water out of the pot, bringing it over to the stove, lighting it, grabbing the salt off the rack beside the stovetop, her expression exasperated again. Kenzie wiped at her teary face with the sleeves of Duncan’s cardigan, sniffling, feeling pitiable and tired.

“I’m not stupid, Momby, and I need you to trust me. I need that from you.”

Madeline shook salt into the water, still not saying anything, still pressing her lips together, her eyes unreadable behind her squarish black glasses, shoving the container back onto the rack; grabbed the glass bottle of olive oil beside the rack, shaking it hastily into the water next. She was thinking. She was listening; at least, I think she is, Kenzie hoped. I think she’s listening to me now.

“I know in my heart that this is what I want.”

“And what if he betrays you, my sweet Kenzie?” She could hear the edge in her mother’s voice; the edge of tears. Her own tears sprang back into her eyes, threatening at the corners. Oh Momby, she thought, don’t cry.

“You experienced pain, you were betrayed, and you came out the other side, you survived,” Kenzie replied, and her hand slipped down into her pocket again, clutched her phone in her wet fingers. Duncan, please, be true to me. Please, promise me I’m not doing this in vain. “If that’s what my path is, I have to see it through. Momby, you know, I was with Tyler for three years. I never once felt this way about him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Like my eyes are finally open. Like I finally understand.”

“Like you understand what?”

Kenzie stared evenly at her mother, who was now facing her again, hands resting against the back of her hips. She saw the moisture behind her mother’s glasses, could see the searching expression in her mother’s eyes behind the shield; knew that Madeline was as prone to tears around her daughter as her daughter was to her. And Kenzie knew that her mother was listening. Kenzie stood up, padding over to her mother on soft, earnest feet; she reached her arms around Madeline’s stiff body, burying her face in the crook of Madeline’s neck, pressing into her. She felt her mother soften in her embrace; felt Madeline’s own arms come around her little frame, hand coming up to stroke her hair.

“What it means to love someone,” Kenzie said into her mother’s skin, and her tears came back again, falling along the shoulder of Madeline’s indigo sweater, like little pearls of rainwater.

They stood that way for a little while; Kenzie could hear the soft hiss of the gas stovetop under the spaghetti sauce (simmering for hours now, filling the house with its rich, spicy smell) and the pasta pot, the soft ticking of the cat clock’s tail, back and forth, and the rustling of the trees outside in a drifting wind. A car passed by on the street, its rumble indistinct. And she could hear her mother breathing softly against her; feel the weight of her mother’s warm hand in her hair. And she knew: eventually, this would be okay. She knew with a startling certainty that sometime, someday, her mother would accept Duncan, and it filled her with emotion again, silent, still, and overwhelming.

-----

Madeline had driven Kenzie back to the train station after dinner; over her mother’s wonderfully spicy garlic meatballs and long handmade pasta, her mother had insisted on meeting Duncan this week; if it were up to Madeline, Kenzie thought, she would drive to his penthouse now, an accusatory finger in his face as soon as he opened the door, provided she could get up there without a doorman hurriedly chasing after her. She couldn’t erase the worried tone of voice her mother used for the rest of the meal; couldn’t erase the apprehensive gaze hovering on her mother’s face. This will take some time, she told herself, trying to reassure her frayed nerves. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was any lasting relationship. She wondered at her appetite, expecting it to have dissolved entirely over the stress between them, but she found she was starving; I guess I only ate half my lunch, she reminded herself, and no breakfast, didn’t have time for Duncan to make me eggs and toast again, and she felt wistful, wanting to go back to that first morning they spent together, the memory crystallizing in her psyche now; set to last forever. There will be so many days for us to have breakfast together, she told herself. God, I could die of happiness, I can’t believe it still.

She glanced at her mother, who was quietly staring out at the road, not speaking, lost in her own thoughts. Kenzie pulled out her phone and sent Duncan a quick text; she was disappointed to see he hadn’t yet replied to the last one that had included the link to the gossip website. Mom isn’t happy, but I think I made her understand, at least a little. At least for now. She wants to meet you soon; I thought maybe on Friday? She put the phone back in her pocket, determined not to stare at it in hope for a reply. He’s at dinner with Annette, she told herself. He’ll reply when he can. Her mother pulled into the station’s parking lot, the waxing half-moon scattering its light down on the platform.

“Kenzie Lou, promise me you will keep your wits sharp.” Her mother had grasped her hand before she got out of the Jeep, tightly, insistently. “Promise me you will keep your head. Words are just that; words. It’s action alone that proves affection. And I don’t mean just the bedroom kind.”

“I promise, Momby,” Kenzie said, squeezing her mother’s hand, unable to suppress the smile that spread over her face at that last part. “I promise I will.”

My heart is already lost in him, Momby, she thought. And in his bed. But my wits are always my own.

Kenzie waved a little as the beat-up Jeep Cherokee drove away, and her mother laid a light tap-tap on the horn (the way she always did) as the headlights turned to the street and the car accelerated behind Kenzie, drifting away into the waxing moonlight. She turned toward the station platform, seeing the glowing lights of the approaching train, still a quarter of a mile down the track; she held the strap of her satchel in one hand against her leg, and the other hand she used to pull her phone out of the big pocket of Duncan’s cardigan again. She’d noticed her mother looking at her clothing several times over dinner, and though Madeline hadn’t said anything; Kenzie could tell her mother knew the cardigan was too big for her; that Madeline knew it was his. But fuck it, she thought. I told her. It was awful. But now she knows. She pressed the home button of the iPhone, heart in her mouth, hoping Duncan had replied by now; but to her dismay there were no new text messages on her phone. She lowered her arm, thumb absently stroking the phone screen, her heart sinking. She realized in a wave how tired she felt; not a physical tiredness as much as an emotional ache. Her soul felt tired with all that had happened; her heart wasn’t used to being tossed back and forth this way, and now her body ached; ached with the hug she’d shared with her mother, ached with the come-down of adrenaline, and most of all, ached because of Duncan--the ardent touch of his hands and mouth and cock, but also the ardent immediacy of his desire and his soul, and they way they had touched her, touched her in the deepest part of her being. She felt lost in the depth of feeling that had surrounded her for the past few days; the thought of sleeping in her bed alone tonight made her want to burst into tears again, as if nothing at all had happened, as if she was now supposed to go back to things as usual, supposed to sleep somehow, supposed to bring herself down from the highest peak of heaven, back to earth, unbothered.

As the train pulled up, rustling Kenzie’s hair into her eyes and against her cheeks, she felt the swell of an incomprehensible emotion fall into her, one that felt like a door opening, or a book falling open, or the rush of air that comes before a storm. She felt lost in the feeling for a moment; a feeling that had no definition, no name, and no intention of explaining itself to her. She slipped her earbuds on, and, too exhausted to choose, hit the shuffle button in her iTunes library; as she eased into one of the long, flat seats along the side of the train, she heard the sweet voice of Billie Holiday slip into the buzzing space of her mind, calming her, sweet and understanding, full of that emotion she had felt, unable to name. My days have grown so lonely, for you I cry, for you dear, only...why haven’t you seen it, I’m all for you, body and soul...Kenzie closed her eyes, letting Billie’s voice wash over her, the train pulling her along, back to her empty little apartment, through the waxing moonlight.

What lies before me, a future that’s stormy, or winter that’s gray and cold...unless there’s magic, the end will be tragic, and echo a tale that’s been told, so often...my life revolves about you, what earthly good am I without you?...I tell you, I mean it, I’m all for you...body and soul...

-------

Kenzie made it to the door of her little studio apartment, its familiar gold moon swinging back and forth as she pushed it open with her elbow, and uncaringly dropped her satchel on the floor; it teetered and fell over, spilling her Macbook to the side, a pen, a tube of chapstick, a packet of tampons and the little bottle of Tylenol she always carried scattering out. Who fucking cares, Kenzie thought, and she walked over to her bed, sat on the edge, kicked off her shoes, pressed her fingers into her eyes, and felt the involuntary shake of a sob escape between her lips. The silence settled around her, enveloping, like a thick blanket; she suddenly felt unable to breathe, felt more tears coursing in an unstoppable stream from her eyes, pressing her fingers in harder, relishing the cold feeling of her fingertips against the hot tears. She wondered with a sudden, horrible, shaking fear if Duncan was going to leave her, if his mother had managed to somehow sway him to drop her, dump her unceremoniously; wondered if Annette had convinced him somehow that she wasn’t worth anything after all, that his reputation was more important than dating some two-bit mediocre journalist, that he, the wildly beautiful and wildly rich and wildly perfect Duncan Shepherd, didn’t need her, didn’t love her, and didn’t want to see her again.

Oh no, she thought, as she felt the despair of her wildly derailing thoughts pressing into her throat and her lungs and her ribs. Oh no, oh no. And Kenzie couldn’t stop herself; she started to cry, cry so hard she thought she might break into a hundred pieces, cry so hard, tears falling like tiny crystals through her fingers, that she thought she might never stop. She imagined that her long, fraught argument with her mother tonight had all been for nothing; that that pain and the ache of her mother’s disapproval had been for naught, and the feeling that had washed over her that everything would be okay in the end was a fraudulent one; that the feeling had been a lie. She thought of his passionate kisses and his beautiful hands and wondered if they, too, had been a lie; if somehow she was as stupid and as naive as her mother had worried she was...and as Kenzie cried, she heard the trumpet of her phone ring out in her pocket.

She pulled it out, eyes wet and blurry with her tears, her mind aching. Duncan.

Baby, I’m so sorry it took so long to text you back. It took a long time to get my Mom to a place where she wasn’t being irrational. Thank you for sending me that link; everything’s okay, my Mom has seen it already, we’ll make it through this, I promise. She wants to meet you on Friday as well; can we see your Mom on a different day? I can make time on Wednesday or Thursday, I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to have dinner with both of them at the same time yet. I feel like we’re going to have to ease them both into this, and I want everything to work out okay. I want them to accept this (accept us, accept you, accept me) because it means more to me than anything else. You do.

I miss you terribly right now.

Kenzie’s breath hitched; the sob there stopped abruptly as the wave of aching relief washed over her. It means more to me than anything else. You do. I miss you terribly right now.

For a few heartbeats, she read the text again; one more time after that. Then, she typed.

Baby, can you come to my apartment? Please come.

For a moment her breath shuddered through her body from the comedown of her tears; and she stared at her phone, her mind blank of everything but her hope.

Duncan:  Coming to you, baby.

Her heart slammed into her ribs the instant she read it, against the edge of the bottom of her throat. Whoever is listening, she thought. Thank you. Oh god, goddess, Fate, thank you.

------

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes later when Kenzie heard the buzzer for the front door ring; it resonated in its shrill little voice through her apartment. She had been in the bathroom, trying to dry the worst of the tears and dab the worst of the redness from her cheeks and her nose; she turned, achingly, resigned to her tear-stained face, and practically ran to the button by her front door that unlocked the buzzer; she waited there, not moving at all, as if frozen, listening; she heard the front door snap open with a jerk, heard the sound of his pointed gait, the click of his boots in the hall, and then the insistent knock on her door, once, twice, three times.

“Baby,” she heard his low voice murmur, and she yanked it open, feeling her face crumple again, to her deep dismay; she couldn’t stop the feeling of relief that washed over her in more tears as she looked up into his face, flushed with what seemed to be the aftermath of him running up the sidewalk from the car, into her building; a curl of his caramel-chocolate-dark hair had fallen over his brow and his eyes were clouded with concern as they gazed at her tear-stained face, his expression one of desperate longing.

“Duncan--” she murmured, but that was all she had a chance to say; he had enveloped her in his arms with an entirety that stole all the breath from her body, pushing her back with aching gentleness, kicking her door shut behind him with one of his black boots, his mouth reaching down hungrily to hers in a burning kiss, the fingers of his left hand falling down to cradle her waist, the fingers of his right coming up to her neck, under the base of her skull, holding her face to him with aching softness that made her body vibrate with an immediate burst of feeling that sent waves of heat into the sensitive folds of her sex.

:”Oh, baby,” he whispered into her. “Oh, Kenzie, don’t cry, please don’t cry…” His voice made her tears threaten to flow again, though, despite his words; they were full of ardency, achingly gentle, and blasted with the tenderness of his own sadness and longing. He was afraid too, she realized, lost in his mouth and the warmth and pressure of his hands. He was scared, too.

“I thought maybe your mother--” she started to speak against him but he shushed her, with that aching tenderness, that insistent need to soothe her. “No, baby, no,” he said. “Nobody will ever come between us. Not her. Not anyone. I swear.” His hand came up from behind her head, his thumb trailing over the incline of her jaw, over her lips, over the tenderness of her sore cheek. “We’re together now. Me and you. Only me and you.”

She nodded, unable to speak, her hands clutching at the thick smoothness of his leather jacket, leaning her face into his hand, full of such relief and warmth and sweetness suddenly that she felt faint with it; faint with the immediacy of him, where before her apartment had been cold and empty and void of him, faint with his realness, faint in the weight of his embrace. But then her head cleared; her sense sharpened, as if someone had turned a light on inside her; had turned up the volume of her spirit, had pressed a shot of adrenaline into her heart, and she pulled his face down to her, demanding, hungry; he came to her eagerly, a little moan escaping into her from his mouth, and she felt his aching need press against her belly; she pulled him over to her bed with its blanket covered in constellations, and she pushed him down insistently, needy and unselfconscious in this moment; she wanted him to know that he was hers now, she felt it acutely; there was a sort of possessive rawness growing behind her thoughts; she didn’t want to share Duncan with anyone anymore tonight, she wanted him to be hers now, and hers alone.

Duncan had leaned up a little on one elbow to look at her, gazing up at her from where he lay on her coverlet with hunger shining out of his gray-blue eyes; hunger, and that same look of wonder, of reverence, that had so thrilled and frightened her before. That hair still fell over his forehead; his beauty filled her with a demanding ache that she wanted sated, and she was going to make him give her what she wanted, and she felt, without any doubt, that he would give her whatever she wanted, with devotion.

“Baby, I want your tongue inside me.” Kenzie stared into Duncan (her boyfriend, her lover)’s eyes as she said it. She moved her hands down beneath the hem of her dress as his eyes followed, pulling the waistband of her black panties down; her nerves thrilled at the soft groan that came out of him towards her as she stepped out of them.

“Yes, baby, please,” he whispered, trying to reach for her.

“Not yet. Lay back.”

He looked at her, a thrill of gold light flickering through his gaze. Then he lay back as she had instructed, his eyes never leaving her face. She could see the rise of his erection under his tailored slacks; she could see his neediness, and it thrilled her.

She pulled the turtleneck dress over her head, throwing it onto the floor, her hair cascading around her bare shoulders now; she unhooked the clasp of her cream-colored bralette, letting it fall to the ground as well, her eyes never leaving his. His expression was divine; entranced. He was so beautiful; she wondered if she’d ever be able to look at him without feeling as though her body was simmering under a fire; his beauty pierced into her, causing her bare skin to burst into goosebumps as she stood there in soft light and shadow falling from the bathroom doorway, naked but for the thigh-high socks she’d been wearing all day; she pushed them from her knees, keeping her eyes locked on his.

“I want you to fuck me with your mouth, baby.”

“Yes, Kenzie. Please.”

She smiled at that; please. She liked that.

“Ask me again.”

“Please, Kenzie. Please let me fuck you with my mouth.” His expression was achingly sincere; he was truly begging her, and she loved it so much. She laughed a little, delighted. God, I love this, she thought. Him asking for it like this. This fucking Prince, begging to eat me.

She climbed on top of him; his hands came around her, but she pushed them gently down and he followed her lead, lowering them, gazing at her in desirous wonder. She moved up carefully, slipping over him so her knees came to rest on the coverlet on either side of his head, the softness of her ass sitting on his chest, right over his breastbone. He let a soft moan fall from his lips again; “Oh, baby--”

“Shhhh,” she insisted. He quieted. She slipped her hands around his wrists, bringing his hands up so they rested against her lower back, just at the incline of her ass. Then she lifted her hips, feeling the lips of her labia stretch, wet with her arousal, gazing down at him, expectantly.

“What do you want, Duncan?” she whispered, smiling, hovering there.

“I want you to sit on my face, baby,” he replied, eyes gazing into hers; she saw the wild, rough abandon buried in them; an abandon that was for her, and her alone.

At that she pressed down onto his mouth (that beautiful mouth, holding the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen captive), feeling the edge of his teeth graze against her clit, the warmth and wetness of his tongue press into her, slide up into the sweetness between her folds; she felt his hands move down to cradle her ass, clutching at her tightly as he buried himself between her legs, and it made her body shudder with a violent knowledge; he was going to make her come and he was going to make her come hard. He moved his head so she fell up and down onto him, each insistent lick of his tongue into her core rocking her body back in a haze of sunbursts behind her eyelids, fireworks, rolling thunder breaking into shocks of lightning.

“Ahhh, Duncan, baby, fu-uuuuuuuck---” and her words bled into a groan of wordless, overcome sensation; he was working himself into her so utterly that she felt like she was a spool of thread unraveling into warm water; the heat building down at her sex where his mouth sucked at her with insistence was causing her mind to hum with warning, hum with the threat of an onslaught of sensation she wasn’t sure she could prepare herself for. The press of his large hands clutching at her ass, the weight of his tongue pressed into that overwhelmingly sensitive bundle of nerves, moving down again to probe into her swollen pussy, licking up again, hard and soft, rough and then achingly gentle, and she shuddered; she felt her release coming from behind a corner, rushing up. His eyes came up to stare into her again, as if he could feel her climax approaching, she looked down into their blue depth, and that was what sent her over the edge, tumbling into the abyss of them: she screamed and her body rocked back with an involuntary spasm that stretched into a prolonged convulsion, clutching his skull, pulling his hair back, pressing her core down into his mouth with so much force she worried for a moment that she’d suffocate him; and he moaned under her, sucking the wetness that dripped out of her down his throat, eagerly, keeping his mouth there as her orgasm eked out of her in waves; she gasped as he continued to lick at her overly-sensitive, now-swollen clit, as if he was loathe to leave it.

Kenzie collapsed down into the crook of Duncan’s shoulder; she continued to moan, her orgasm still hovering around the corners of her eyes, her body dissolving into a post-coital daze; tears pricked at her eyelids again, and she felt them course down her cheeks; will my tears ever end tonight? she thought, overwhelmed in her release. Her body continued to shudder under his gentle hands as he moved them, softly, up and down her skin; caressing her breasts, her waist, the bumps of her ribs, the incline of her hip bone, the soft skin of her upper arm, the indentation of her throat, and all over again, starting at the beginning.They gazed at each other, blinking slowly, not speaking; Duncan’s mouth was wet with her release, and she pulled him down to her; he kissed her deeply, the taste of her mingling between them again (like that first night), and clutching her hand in his larger one, tracing his fingers through hers, slowly.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Fuck me now.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, hesitant, delicate. She nodded; said “yes”; she sat up, pulling him with her, pushing his leather jacket off his shoulders (he yanked it off, lips connecting with hers again) and she pulled his soft long-sleeved black shirt over his head; he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them and and briefs off together in a fluid motion, kicking his shoes off, pulling his cashmere socks off his feet; he turned to her, grabbing harshly onto her legs at the back of her thighs, yanking her down the bed to press against him, his naked cock shuddering between his legs against her skin, and stood at the edge of her bed, holding her legs together and her knees up so the back of her thighs were resting against his the front of his, her feet brushing against his shoulder. He lifted her a little; and then he buried his length in her sensitive cunt, groaning, and held her legs up as he pounded into her, his knees bumping into the edge of her mattress with every thrust, burying his entire length deep into her again and again; she gazed up at him, her mouth open, unable to look away; Kenzie felt like an invisible thread had extended between them, tying them into each other indistinguishably, souls threaded through one another.

Duncan gasped, pausing for a moment, gripping her tightly, staring into her, his chest heaving, still buried inside her; “fuck me from behind, baby,” Kenzie said, and he smiled (baby that smile that smile, eat me up) and pulled out of her, soothing her body down, and using his strong hands he flipped her over; she moved so she came up on her knees, hands pressed into her coverlet so she was on all fours; she moved her ass up just a little, so it was higher, against head of his cock, expectant.

He grasped her around the neck (“oh god baby,” she gasped) and right under the space beneath her left breast, and he buried himself inside her cunt, his mouth finding the small space under her ear. “Fuck baby, this feels so fucking good,” he moaned into her. “Fuck, you’re so lovely, baby, fuck, I love you--” and she gasped against the weight of his hand which he tightened a little, tightened and made little stars come out under her eyes, “Fuck baby, I love you too,” she cried, “fuck, keep your hand on my neck that way, fuck that feels so good--” and he steadied his grip so his fingers splayed out and covered the front of her throat, possessively.

Duncan’s cock was wildly hard; Kenzie could feel the way it was stretching the lips of her labia, stretching her to the edge, burying itself so deeply into her she felt him bumping against her cervix with little dazzles of vague pain--he thrust into her again and again, hand steady on her neck, the other reaching down to her clit again; he pulled her up so she was pressed flush against him, her little body prostrate to him, his fingers working between her legs, lips still on her neck, hand still at her throat, and as he shuddered into her, coming deep inside her (“Kenzie, angel, I’m fucking coming--” and a longer “Fuu-uu-ck, fuck me, fuck” into the skin of her neck) she felt a second wave wash over her; an orgasm of smaller power than her first, like short tides bursting over a rocky shore one after the other, and she whimpered into his hand around her windpipe, shaking.

This time they both collapsed back onto the bed, hands coming around each other with need, holding each other between trying to catch their breath; “are you okay, baby?” Duncan whispered against her forehead, where a sweet film of sweat gathered along the hair at her temples; she could see sweat glistening on his forehead, too, and along the incline of his jaw.

“I feel so fucking good, baby,” she replied, hazy, quieting. “Do you feel good?”

“God, so fucking good,” he laughed, his lips falling on her shoulder blades, his hands trailing along her arms. Then his expression shifted, became serious.

“Kenzie, I’m so sorry I made you worry. I’m so sorry for not texting you sooner; today was terrible, neverending, but that’s not an excuse. I promise I will never ignore your messages or disregard them. It kills me that you thought the worst; that you were sad because of my lack of perception.”

“Duncan, it’s okay. I was just...blowing it out of proportion...today was just, so long--”

“Baby, no.” Duncan shook his head, hands falling down the wave of her hair, twisting his fingers through it. “No, I’m sorry. I should have texted you before I went to dinner and I didn’t. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

Kenzie nodded against his hand, closing her eyes, sighing. How are you real, she thought towards him again; how are you mine.

“I need to text Samuel to tell him to come back in the morning--” Duncan sat up a little, his eyes questioning, asking her. Kenzie felt a thrill course through her--he’s going to stay here with me tonight.

“Okay,” she said, smiling at him, hand trailing down his arm. “Yes. Please sleep with me here tonight.” And he nodded, leaning down to kiss her, and she felt like she was dissolving into the waning moon that hung in the window, dissolving into him, and both of them melting into the stars on her bed.