this is where dignity goes to die
I saw Contagion and, surprise surprise, it actually wasn't totally a piece of shit! There is actually nothing I love more than a good disaster film (unless it's a disaster film where stuff blows up), so I was already predisposed to like it. I deeply enjoy that the director of the CDC has come out in support of this movie all, "THIS COULD REALLY HAPPEN," and that they have all the markers for an epidemic: deforestation, cross-species contact, improper cleaning, transmittal rates; although I wept a little bit during the movie when the one rhesus monkey living proves that the vaccine works. Oh, okay. SCIENCE!!! Still, I thought the movie was surprisingly well put-together and I really liked all the scenes that lingered on points of contact like door handles, silverware, tabletops, glasses. Everyone was like "THAT CAST DUH IT WILL BE GOOD," but seriously casting means nothing if the story doesn't work. Also, how pleased was everyone that Gwyneth bit it in the first five minutes and then turned out to be patient zero? Perf. Go see it, everyone! Except do not see it if you are paranoid about contracting illness. It will just exacerbate your paranoia and make you want to buy Purell.
I'm super behind on TV because I have to move and write a personal statement for grad school applications and my life is in shambles. IDK all the awards for LAST week's Breaking Bad with Gus. I definitely felt like they implied that Gus and his partner were lovers BTW for anyone who missed my assertions on Tumblr. But I get that it's open to interpretation.
In other news, I just wrote some sappy Game of Thrones cast RPF and I am JUDGING MYSELF. I HAVE NEVER JUDGED MYSELF HARDER. Like, the time I wrote Mark/Eduardo fic about a chicken does not even begin to come near the shame I feeling right now. Also it's flocked on falseeeyelashes's journal but it's over 1K so I'm reposting it here for posterity wow don't click the link. ANYWAY, this (my) RPF universe is based almost entirely on this amazing video and also redinteriors hateful influence.
game of thrones rpf
in the dimming divide
#gameofthrones jagerbomb roundrobin. this is going to be deadly. finn/gethin, others.
as ever, please do not link this fic to anyone associated with the making of game of thrones, up to and including the actors themselves. I WILL FIND YOU.
#gameofthrones jagerbomb roundrobin. this is going to be deadly. They’re supposed to be doing a read-through but then Gene and Alfie came tumbling in with an entourage of their drunken, sweaty colleagues all chanting for Jaegermeister and now everyone’s sitting in a haphazard circle, knocking back jagerbombs in an endless loop. Finn swallows his own then watches Geth throw back his third shot, pulling a truly awful face. It’s difficult to hear anything over the noise of fifteen drunk actors chanting Jager, Jager, Jager but he’s fairly confident in translating Gethin’s muttering as, “Kill me, for the love of God.” He’s beginning to draw in the corners of his mouth in an unhappy little frown and rubs at his eyebrow every few minutes. He actually scowls when Gene completes the circle and sends them into their fourth round.
Finn puts a hand on his shoulder - gently because sudden moves around a tired Gethin have been known to result in blood noses and chipped teeth - and squeezes. He scratches at the freshly shorn hair at the back of Geth’s neck and when Gethin glances at him, his gaze is a little less baleful. He doesn’t shift, exactly, but there’s pressure against Finn’s fingers that wasn’t there before.
The game ends in an uproarious cheer when Finn’s elbow somehow connects with Kit’s chin, sending jager and red bull all over his face and into his hair. Alfie relinquishes the case of awful, really fucking terrible beer he’s been literally fucking sitting on and someone has brought vodka from another room while over it all Gene is yelling, “Don’t touch the minifridge!” over and over again nonsensically. Finn’s vision spins when he stands, amber-red of the lamps chasing crimson across his eyes. He steals a sip of Gwen’s beer to wash the sickly sweet anise flavor out of his mouth, accidentally gets embroiled some kind of circular argument with Richard about sword fighting until Rich stops mid-sentence and says, “Sorry, what the fuck am I talking about?” Kit and Alfie are smoking out of an empty rice container, alternating taking turns to exhale out the four-centimeter crack they were able to hoist the window up. Finn takes one hit and chokes on the rough smoke; his coughs rip his throat raw.
improv #dropitlikeitshot dance party. @lovegwendoline kicking ass. The room is stuffy and reeks of alcohol and too many bodies trapped in a tiny space. Finn’s shirt sticks to his back and his (ridiculous) hair feels wet and greasy on his forehead, but it’s still brilliant, better than brilliant and maybe it’s the Jager but it’s not just that, because it’s bigger and better than that. This is the best night ever, the most brilliant cast, he thinks. No job will ever be more fucking awesome than this.
Gethin is no where to be found.
Finn finds him sitting on the sink in the bathroom with his heels propped up on the towel warming rack beneath the counter. Fluorescent lighting washes out everything to an antiseptic, flat pallor. It’s still a bit humid from an earlier shower and when Finn shuts the door behind him, the music and Em’s yelling fade to a dull, indistinct rumble. Geth has a flask-sized bottle of Campari clutched in his fist, probably liberated from Finn’s own stash, and he looks morose. “Is that mine?” Predictably, there’s no response. It’s hard not to laugh at Geth’s face, blood-shot eyes narrowed and lips pinched. “You don’t have to stay up, you know.”
“This is my room.” He has this prickly hatred of other people touching his belongings. Finn decides against telling him what Alfie and Oona look like they’re getting up to on his bed.
“My room’s free.” Finn tries not to grin when he says it but Gethin stares back him, unimpressed. “For sleeping!” Geth rubs his eyebrow again and passes the flat of his hand over his scalp, where a his hair now stands straight up like a rug rubbed against the grain. Finn chances a step forward and the space between Gethin’s legs widens almost imperceptibly. Finn slides a little closer, closes his fingers over Gethin’s knee. Geth watches his hand, purple-bruised around the eyes. Outside, something hits the wall and Alfie’s voice rises above the rest crowing in triumph.
Gethin scowls again. “Fuck, I can’t wait to go home and sleep in my own bed.” He’s joking but Finn feels abruptly sober, the warm, hazy feeling of alcohol freezing and condensing. Finn presses his thumb at the downturned corner of Geth’s mouth and feels the muscle there twitch. It’s all over soon. Geth’s leaving soon and it’s terrible, not just because Finn’s drunk, but because Geth leaving is almost the worst thing Finn can imagine right now, in the middle of a brilliant party with the best friends ever, and Finn finds himself making lists in his phone of everything they have to do before Gethin goes home. He’ll miss getting drunk and laughing their way through scripts and having a built-in best friend in scenes. He’ll even miss the way Geth is a supercilious asshole when he’s tired and forgets his lines. Finn doesn’t know how to put that into words without sounding like a lovesick prat so he just leans forward and Geth opens his mouth like he was waiting for that all along. Geth’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes medicinal from the Campari. Finn can feel him smiling a little, like it was all a game, and Finn feels slow and stupid from the jager and the weed and the humidity, but also from Geth’s fingers at his ribs ghosting along the bone. The beard he wears for Renly scratches Finn’s face; he’ll wake up tomorrow with scattered red patches along his cheek and jaw and Alfie will smirk at him over breakfast and pet Kit’s head buried in his arms on the table moaning that this is the worst hangover ever, I have never been more hung over.
Gethin pinches him at the waist, hard, because Gethin is a tetchy ass, but it reminds him, oh right, that Geth is here, smelling like cigarettes and cheap floral hotel shampoo, fucking clean breeze or something, and tugging Finn closer, reeling him in by the seam of his shirt with short, impatient jerks. Gethin’s knees bracket Finn’s ribs; his hands climb up Finn’s chest. Finn presses his mouth against the warm, soft skin at the neck of his t-shirt, where it stretches thin over his collarbone. Gethin’s mouth is warm and he’s hot where he surrounds Finn, where their bodies touch from hip to nose, and Finn hates his poncy long hair but he likes Geth’s weakness for it, how he twines it around his fingers and holds it there for long moments when Gethin breathes against Finn’s ear. Come on, he thinks, skating his hand along the underside of Gethin’s thigh, scrapes his short nails on the rough jean fabric. This is the best and worst idea ever, Gethin’s sloppy kisses at Finn’s jaw, with the thump-thump of a bassline humming against Finn’s heart and the dull roar on the other side of the door.
“Shit!” Music and slurred, indistinct yelling wash over him and Finn is abruptly aware of pain blossoming at his hip where the door handle has slammed into him beneath Gethin’s knee. The door is cracked open and half of Kit’s flushed face and one glassy, half-lidded eye peers in. Gethin groans aloud. “Sorry!” But he just stands there and it’s only when Finn makes to push the door closed again that Kit apparently has the presence of mind to say, “I need to piss.”
“This is a hotel. There are many toilets.” Gethin is also a supercilious asshole when he’s uncomfortable or embarrassed or pissed off about being interrupted. Finn enjoys that about him.
Kit’s too stoned to leave though and when Finn pulls Geth off the counter and the door swings open, Kit nearly breaks his nose falling into the tiled floor. Gethin presses against Finn, neck and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, alcohol, arousal - something or maybe a combination of all three. Definitely the last, Finn amends when his back hits the opposite wall. “There’s still my room,” he murmurs as Kit pulls himself up and vomits spectacularly into the toilet. Instantly the stench of acid fills the bathroom. Gethin makes an unhappy sound. He hates to be wrong. “Nice and quiet,” Finn wheedles and Gethin puts on a patronizing show of long-sufferingly giving in, like he’s not hard against Finn’s thigh.
Finn is pretty sure that’s Alfie whistling when they emerge and he gets half a glance full of his idiot cast mates and crew, all sweat-shiny flushed faces, before Gethin tugs him into the blessedly cool and dark hallway, empty save for half-eaten room service trays lining the hall and one irritated looking bellhop. “Excuse us,” says Gethin but he slurs and they’re so drunk and Gethin smells so good that Finn kisses him again, in the hallway pressed against the hideous wallpaper and, well, if the bellhop gets an eyeful before he disappears into the elevator, neither of them notice.
end.
Wowwwwwwww. I'm going to go throw myself into traffic now.
I'm super behind on TV because I have to move and write a personal statement for grad school applications and my life is in shambles. IDK all the awards for LAST week's Breaking Bad with Gus. I definitely felt like they implied that Gus and his partner were lovers BTW for anyone who missed my assertions on Tumblr. But I get that it's open to interpretation.
In other news, I just wrote some sappy Game of Thrones cast RPF and I am JUDGING MYSELF. I HAVE NEVER JUDGED MYSELF HARDER. Like, the time I wrote Mark/Eduardo fic about a chicken does not even begin to come near the shame I feeling right now. Also it's flocked on falseeeyelashes's journal but it's over 1K so I'm reposting it here for posterity wow don't click the link. ANYWAY, this (my) RPF universe is based almost entirely on this amazing video and also redinteriors hateful influence.
game of thrones rpf
in the dimming divide
#gameofthrones jagerbomb roundrobin. this is going to be deadly. finn/gethin, others.
as ever, please do not link this fic to anyone associated with the making of game of thrones, up to and including the actors themselves. I WILL FIND YOU.
#gameofthrones jagerbomb roundrobin. this is going to be deadly. They’re supposed to be doing a read-through but then Gene and Alfie came tumbling in with an entourage of their drunken, sweaty colleagues all chanting for Jaegermeister and now everyone’s sitting in a haphazard circle, knocking back jagerbombs in an endless loop. Finn swallows his own then watches Geth throw back his third shot, pulling a truly awful face. It’s difficult to hear anything over the noise of fifteen drunk actors chanting Jager, Jager, Jager but he’s fairly confident in translating Gethin’s muttering as, “Kill me, for the love of God.” He’s beginning to draw in the corners of his mouth in an unhappy little frown and rubs at his eyebrow every few minutes. He actually scowls when Gene completes the circle and sends them into their fourth round.
Finn puts a hand on his shoulder - gently because sudden moves around a tired Gethin have been known to result in blood noses and chipped teeth - and squeezes. He scratches at the freshly shorn hair at the back of Geth’s neck and when Gethin glances at him, his gaze is a little less baleful. He doesn’t shift, exactly, but there’s pressure against Finn’s fingers that wasn’t there before.
The game ends in an uproarious cheer when Finn’s elbow somehow connects with Kit’s chin, sending jager and red bull all over his face and into his hair. Alfie relinquishes the case of awful, really fucking terrible beer he’s been literally fucking sitting on and someone has brought vodka from another room while over it all Gene is yelling, “Don’t touch the minifridge!” over and over again nonsensically. Finn’s vision spins when he stands, amber-red of the lamps chasing crimson across his eyes. He steals a sip of Gwen’s beer to wash the sickly sweet anise flavor out of his mouth, accidentally gets embroiled some kind of circular argument with Richard about sword fighting until Rich stops mid-sentence and says, “Sorry, what the fuck am I talking about?” Kit and Alfie are smoking out of an empty rice container, alternating taking turns to exhale out the four-centimeter crack they were able to hoist the window up. Finn takes one hit and chokes on the rough smoke; his coughs rip his throat raw.
improv #dropitlikeitshot dance party. @lovegwendoline kicking ass. The room is stuffy and reeks of alcohol and too many bodies trapped in a tiny space. Finn’s shirt sticks to his back and his (ridiculous) hair feels wet and greasy on his forehead, but it’s still brilliant, better than brilliant and maybe it’s the Jager but it’s not just that, because it’s bigger and better than that. This is the best night ever, the most brilliant cast, he thinks. No job will ever be more fucking awesome than this.
Gethin is no where to be found.
Finn finds him sitting on the sink in the bathroom with his heels propped up on the towel warming rack beneath the counter. Fluorescent lighting washes out everything to an antiseptic, flat pallor. It’s still a bit humid from an earlier shower and when Finn shuts the door behind him, the music and Em’s yelling fade to a dull, indistinct rumble. Geth has a flask-sized bottle of Campari clutched in his fist, probably liberated from Finn’s own stash, and he looks morose. “Is that mine?” Predictably, there’s no response. It’s hard not to laugh at Geth’s face, blood-shot eyes narrowed and lips pinched. “You don’t have to stay up, you know.”
“This is my room.” He has this prickly hatred of other people touching his belongings. Finn decides against telling him what Alfie and Oona look like they’re getting up to on his bed.
“My room’s free.” Finn tries not to grin when he says it but Gethin stares back him, unimpressed. “For sleeping!” Geth rubs his eyebrow again and passes the flat of his hand over his scalp, where a his hair now stands straight up like a rug rubbed against the grain. Finn chances a step forward and the space between Gethin’s legs widens almost imperceptibly. Finn slides a little closer, closes his fingers over Gethin’s knee. Geth watches his hand, purple-bruised around the eyes. Outside, something hits the wall and Alfie’s voice rises above the rest crowing in triumph.
Gethin scowls again. “Fuck, I can’t wait to go home and sleep in my own bed.” He’s joking but Finn feels abruptly sober, the warm, hazy feeling of alcohol freezing and condensing. Finn presses his thumb at the downturned corner of Geth’s mouth and feels the muscle there twitch. It’s all over soon. Geth’s leaving soon and it’s terrible, not just because Finn’s drunk, but because Geth leaving is almost the worst thing Finn can imagine right now, in the middle of a brilliant party with the best friends ever, and Finn finds himself making lists in his phone of everything they have to do before Gethin goes home. He’ll miss getting drunk and laughing their way through scripts and having a built-in best friend in scenes. He’ll even miss the way Geth is a supercilious asshole when he’s tired and forgets his lines. Finn doesn’t know how to put that into words without sounding like a lovesick prat so he just leans forward and Geth opens his mouth like he was waiting for that all along. Geth’s mouth is hot and wet and tastes medicinal from the Campari. Finn can feel him smiling a little, like it was all a game, and Finn feels slow and stupid from the jager and the weed and the humidity, but also from Geth’s fingers at his ribs ghosting along the bone. The beard he wears for Renly scratches Finn’s face; he’ll wake up tomorrow with scattered red patches along his cheek and jaw and Alfie will smirk at him over breakfast and pet Kit’s head buried in his arms on the table moaning that this is the worst hangover ever, I have never been more hung over.
Gethin pinches him at the waist, hard, because Gethin is a tetchy ass, but it reminds him, oh right, that Geth is here, smelling like cigarettes and cheap floral hotel shampoo, fucking clean breeze or something, and tugging Finn closer, reeling him in by the seam of his shirt with short, impatient jerks. Gethin’s knees bracket Finn’s ribs; his hands climb up Finn’s chest. Finn presses his mouth against the warm, soft skin at the neck of his t-shirt, where it stretches thin over his collarbone. Gethin’s mouth is warm and he’s hot where he surrounds Finn, where their bodies touch from hip to nose, and Finn hates his poncy long hair but he likes Geth’s weakness for it, how he twines it around his fingers and holds it there for long moments when Gethin breathes against Finn’s ear. Come on, he thinks, skating his hand along the underside of Gethin’s thigh, scrapes his short nails on the rough jean fabric. This is the best and worst idea ever, Gethin’s sloppy kisses at Finn’s jaw, with the thump-thump of a bassline humming against Finn’s heart and the dull roar on the other side of the door.
“Shit!” Music and slurred, indistinct yelling wash over him and Finn is abruptly aware of pain blossoming at his hip where the door handle has slammed into him beneath Gethin’s knee. The door is cracked open and half of Kit’s flushed face and one glassy, half-lidded eye peers in. Gethin groans aloud. “Sorry!” But he just stands there and it’s only when Finn makes to push the door closed again that Kit apparently has the presence of mind to say, “I need to piss.”
“This is a hotel. There are many toilets.” Gethin is also a supercilious asshole when he’s uncomfortable or embarrassed or pissed off about being interrupted. Finn enjoys that about him.
Kit’s too stoned to leave though and when Finn pulls Geth off the counter and the door swings open, Kit nearly breaks his nose falling into the tiled floor. Gethin presses against Finn, neck and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, alcohol, arousal - something or maybe a combination of all three. Definitely the last, Finn amends when his back hits the opposite wall. “There’s still my room,” he murmurs as Kit pulls himself up and vomits spectacularly into the toilet. Instantly the stench of acid fills the bathroom. Gethin makes an unhappy sound. He hates to be wrong. “Nice and quiet,” Finn wheedles and Gethin puts on a patronizing show of long-sufferingly giving in, like he’s not hard against Finn’s thigh.
Finn is pretty sure that’s Alfie whistling when they emerge and he gets half a glance full of his idiot cast mates and crew, all sweat-shiny flushed faces, before Gethin tugs him into the blessedly cool and dark hallway, empty save for half-eaten room service trays lining the hall and one irritated looking bellhop. “Excuse us,” says Gethin but he slurs and they’re so drunk and Gethin smells so good that Finn kisses him again, in the hallway pressed against the hideous wallpaper and, well, if the bellhop gets an eyeful before he disappears into the elevator, neither of them notice.
end.
Wowwwwwwww. I'm going to go throw myself into traffic now.