#kralie

He wants the one thing he can’t have.

The longest letterboxd list known to mankind. He rates every movie and leaves the longest reviews on them.

Doesn't have a specific taste in movies but Tim and Brian and Jay have in fact said that he is the most pretentious film bro they know.

Has a beat up IPod 5th gen that he just can't get rid of because "physical media is coming back guys".

Somehow in the same breath he has a new phone with an already cracked screen. How that happened he wont tell.

Talks about his college film like it is going to give him his directorial big break.

Never shuts up about movie making fun facts he knows.

Romanticizes late high school/college as the best time in his life when it in fact was the worst.

I think he misses the misery sometimes because at least then he wasn't alone.

Keeps every movie ticket in a photo album.

Has the worst sort of short term memory. He could tell you something he did 6 years ago better than something he did that day.

Really deeply buried anger issues. They come out at the worst times or when he's panicked or stressed about something.

Adding to that did you know he is easily stressed out?

A perfectionist if what he's doing isn't immediately perfect or he's not 100 percent good at something the first time he does it he's swearing it off for life.

Has a million different half done projects. Short films half casted, scripts barely written, and projects barely filmed. He really can't help that he as 1000 different ideas for things.

He always tries to apply logic to things. If he can't? Then he ignores it and shoves it under the rug.

He also does this with anything small that he doesn't deem "an issue until it is."

"That's for future me to figure out." Future him thinks past him is a dick.

Goes through phases where he recluses because he gets paranoid and spirals.

Alex kralie fanart for @asktheark

Tim Wright and Alex Kralie based Gay flags! ( From the Marble Hornets) ^^ For an anon~ Hope you like them!! ^^

Alex can’t figure out what’s up and what’s down and Tim’s peeking at him like he’s some trophy, something to be admired—wasn’t he always proclaiming how much he enjoyed Alex’s pictures? Sure, he’d been practicing his photography to complete that major but nothing could be as beautiful as watching Tim try to keep himself upright, Alex’s colored vision staring into Tim’s bleary hazels, those warm colors more appealing than any neon and fuck if he didn’t want to chase that down.

At least then he’d be able to find somewhere to put all this pressure building in his chest, the bottle spinning fast enough to send him reeling back and fuck he couldn’t remember who’s turn it was, if he’d been the one to spin, everyone’s hand felt like each other’s and

The rim lands on him and he can’t find it in himself to be mad, not when that smooth olive skin turns a bright pink, Alex’s head caught in a tilt as if Tim’s flush was blinding.

Neither of them say it, they don’t have to, not when Alex lazily stalks over to the nearest closet, not when his digits twitch, not when he remembered just how closely his eyes had been following Tim’s bottle when those pink protrusions met them so gently.

He feels sick to his stomach, like he always does, but the room stops spinning the minute they reach the entrance—and for a moment he allows himself to fall into those desperate depths, following the heat of his heart when the music blasts through his ears.

I want you to meet me halfway.

The kiss tastes like Tim’s Marlboro Reds, a hum comes from one of them, Alex can’t make out who—not when they were smushed together so tightly, Tim’s canines poking through Alex’s sensitive skin—it’s rough, teeth snapping as if they’d both been two animals instead of anything serene. Alex takes it, the flavor of the other’s spit a serenading force that lulls him, stirs something in his body that he can’t describe other than ache.

He feels like puking, the hands are too warm, all this touching making his knees wobble—Tim isn’t doing much better, though they both push and shove each other back and forth like this had been some wrestling match—Brian occasionally watched WWE, this was familiar. Alex could make himself believe that anyway, could allow himself to fall into whatever rhythm they’d sucked each other into when Tim’s teeth gnaw into his Adam’s apple—a rasp, Alex chokes on any words as if Tim had stabbed him rather than loved. It hurts more than anything else he’d ever felt, dragged something irritated and yearning from those heavy depths. Alex chases it, runs his hands along those curls he’d been eyeing all night, holds in that Marlboro as if he couldn’t breathe without it. Tim was so close, and fuck was this more cinematic than anything else he’d ever done.

They don’t speak once, they don’t need to, not when they’ve already said it all.