#Dude devours compliments in general

[cosmicwhoreo]

pb calling his love beautiful.

don't feed his ego Peebz-

[jayktoralldaylong]

Shi Qingxuan is throwing a slumber party. All the gods are invited. There's just one catch. It's a girl's-only slumber party. To get in, they have to come in their female form. So who's attending? Let's go! 😆 (Note, these are just my opinions, feel free to add yours):

Ming Yi - Ming Yi no longer has anything to lose. She's been doing thing for way too long now. She shows up before everyone else so she can devour twice as much food.

Pei Ming - Much to Shi Qingxuan's absolute horror, Pei Ming is the next guest to show up. The famous is general is in fact shameless enough to switch genders so she can check out what the other gods look like as girls. 😎 Besides, much to her pleasure, her female form is sexy and she wants to see how many lesbians she can pull.

Ling Wen - Pei Ming dragged her along. She doesn't have time for this and has too much work to do. However, it is a nice change to have a goddess gathering, especially with all of the issues with her gender and the misogynistic times. She gets to hang out with the chill goddesses in heaven without too much effort on her part since she gets to come as herself. She needs the rest and self love.

Shi Wudu - She was surprisingly very hard to drag into this party. "If I go along with this it will only encourage Shi Qingxuan's nonsense" she said. She showed up anyway cause all her best friends were going and her sibling was hosting. It would be rude not to go. Of course she's shown up as the best dressed gal, with a slit in her dress and everything. Pei Ming fails at pretending not to oogle her. The three tumours definitely spend the rest of the night gossiping and giggling like mean girls.

Xie Lian - Let's face it, Xie Lian is coming as a cross dressing dude. MXTX was very explicit about how Xie Lian feels about being a woman. I think all the emphasis was to make sure no one got it twisted. Xie Lian does not turn into a girl to have sex, he is 100% a gay man. He is a man who's in love with a man and it's something he does not want to erase. Shi Qingxuan will make an allowance for him, but he's definitely crossdressing in a pretty white dress.

Hua Cheng - We're not gonna explain how he got there but he's attending anyway. He will be joining his cross dressing husband. Hua Cheng is probably more thrilled about crossdressing than Xie Lian is. He's got earrings, heels, a sexy red dress that Xie Lian can't stop staring at (and feeling a little jealous when others' stare. Probably gonna end up leaving that party early so they can do something about all the worked up feelings Xie Lian is gonna have).

Mu Qing - Mu Qing heard about the party and had no intention of intending. Then he heard Xie Lian would be there. He helped Xie Lian into his dress because Xie Lian is terrible at makeup. Xie Lian insisted he come too. Mu Qing came too. She's a little shy at the party. She gets even shyer when everyone tells her how pretty she is. They're amazed by it. All those compliments send her hiding somewhere so she can social recharge.

Feng Xin - He also had no plans on going till he heard Mu Qing was going so of course he showed up. She was also stunned by how pretty Mu Qing looked. Mu Qing helped her fix her hair cause it was a mess. Pause at the awkward moment where they're closer than they expected to each other. Split to opposite ends of the party. Keep bumping into each other. End the party kind of curled up together cause it's just warmer that way and they're still getting used to their new bodies.

Quan Yizhen - Got invited and came as a dude. There was nothing anyone could do about it. Quan Yizhen didn't know how to change into his female form and he didn't see why he should. Someone got Yin Yu. Quan Yizhen finally switched to female. She was absolutely adorable. Especially how she followed Yin Yu around for the rest of the night. Qué curly haired girl in the most adorable robes marching after Yin Yu everywhere.

Yin Yu - Somehow found himself bundled to a party with Crimson Rain and given spiritual powers so he could switch genders. All because his former junior was causing trouble (yet again, surprise surprise. Yin Yu doesn't get paid enough for this). Qi Ying is even cuter as a girl though so Yin Yu can't really complain. She pets her hair and they spend the rest of the slumber party together.

Qi Rong - (So somehow the calamities are attending too). She just wanted to show off being the hottest girl in the room. Failed miserably. Tried to beat Ming Yi at eating all the food in anger. Failed miserably yet again. Cried to Guzi 💀 (Who was allowed in since he's just a kid). Got chased around by Lang Qianqiu. Ended the party curled up fast asleep with her arms protectively around Guzi in a hidden unnoticed spot at the slumber party.

Lang Qianqiu - Didn't really want to go (Busy dealing with teenage angst), all that changed when he heard Qi Rong was at the party. She stormed in just like her male counterpart always does (like a wrecking ball!). Chased Qi Rong everywhere. Got distracted blushing over Xie Lian. Hua Cheng noticed. Hua Cheng proceeds to give a display of how close he and Xie Lian are. Lang Qianqiu backs off after that. Gets with Shi Qingxuan with heavy drunk singing about angst, love and innocence shattered.

Pei Su - Got pardoned for the night so she could be Pei Ming's little helper. She ended up spending most of the night with Banyue, blushing at her compliments and feeding each other snacks.

Banyue - Was excited that she could attend. Followed Xie Lian everywhere and happily did whatever she was doing. Got distracted when she saw Pei Su. Fawned over how pretty she looked.

Yushi Huang (Rain Master) - She was the last to show as she was surprised anyone was inviting her for something. She also doesn't get out much and had to be kicked from her farm so she could have a bit of fun for once in her beautiful life. She settled beside Ling Wen and actually enjoyed the event.

Jian Lan - Was told no babies allowed and ditched.

Xuan Ji - Was actually given an invitation (cause Shi Qingxuan hadn't realised Pei Ming would show up). Ends up bonding with female Pei Ming who she's ranting to about her horrible ex 💀. Pei Ming has no idea she's Xuan Ji cause they don't exchange names.

Jun Wu - He heard about the party. He thought it was cute. He did not attend. (You'd think wearing a new face wouldn't matter as much. He likes keeping an eye on his favourite son but he's not that desperate. 💀 - I get the feeling Jun Wu wouldn't even know what to do with a female body. He's barely gotten through studying his own).

[forthehpfanboys]

Hi! Can you please do a headcanon of being Blaises boyfriend with a bit of smut?

YES THE FUCK I CAN. I'm gonna make it as house-neutral as possible. Since I already did Hufflepuff Boyfriend, and most of it was generic, I figured I'd focus more on the smut.

Warnings: SMUT (MDI), bondage, oràl, mentions of kinks.

§×§×§ §×§×§ §×§×§

Ok, so this boy

Excuse me

This absolutely MAN

Hear me out, right?

He's kinky.

Blaise adores to show off. He'll do it anywhere.

Your Common Room, his common room, a broom closet, his dorm at like 3am when everyone's sleeping so you have to be quiet, the library, even just touching you in the Great Hall.

He loves when you sit on his lap in the Slytherin Common Room tho. Definetly one of his favorites.

His hand's'll be on your thighs while his chest presses into your back and he's just having a casual conversation with Draco while reading your school books.

If he has you facing him though, his hands are definitely running over your clothed dick and he's acting like he's innocent, but even Draco knows different.

Blaise can and will have his hand in a pocket of yours at all times. Front, back, fuck it, side ways. All. Pockets. He has a pocket kink.

He's the kind of man where if you guys are grinding, he grabs your pants belt loops to get some control and ends up breaking them.

Ok, but seriously, he's kinky. He loves the sounds of chains. Probably has a collar hidden somewhere.

He's like a.. Like a classy Dom. If that makes sense? He'll dress you up in pretty attire and rip it off you and devour you.

Prefers sir over daddy any day. It makes him absolutely feral. If you wanna piss him off tho, call him 'daddy' in a snooty voice and he'll grab you by the tie and drag you to his bedroom.

If you call him Mr. Zabini, he will cum in his pants

Favorite position? Doggy. He loves to grab your shoulders or push your face into the pillow to muffle your moans.

Blaise just loves the power he gets from it. He can also throw you around how he likes. So he can force your legs apart or shove you flat against the mattress.

So naturally, he will try to pull your hair. I'm not gonna sugar coat it. If it's too short, he'll use your house tie. Only if your ok with it, of course.

The dude loves bondage. Like the Japanese knot stuff where it forms like diamonds across your skin?

He has ropes of all colors, sizes- he collects that shit snd takes care of them. He loves to experiment and practice knots.

He loves how the colors compliment your skin and how the pretty patterns stay the next day.

I got into a lot of detail for that.

His favorite is like a deep, emerald green with silver braided in tho 👀

Loves to tie your hands behind your back and fuck your mouth if you were being particularly bratty that day but you didn't hear it from me.

However.. He also loves pulling you over his lap in an arm chair, pulling off all of his rings and giving you the special job of holding onto them while he spanks you.

THIS DUDE LOVES TO HEAR YOU GASP AND STUTTER.

Blaise's got a voice kink.

He will disrepesct you in the best way, holy fuck.

By that, I mean, he mocks your moans and begs. He will call you his "dumb bunny" while squishing your cheeks together. He grabs your neck and demands you stick your tongue out and spits right onto it.

But his aftercare is something you can genuinely brag about.

Bath bombs, soft music, wine (if your of age), rose petals and soft candles. He gives you a massage and checks in and makes sure he didn't take anything too far.

And it's casual enough you could laugh about it.

"How would you rate this session?" "What?" "On a scale from 1 to 10, 10 being the best, what would you rate it?" ".. 7??" "How can I, as a dom, make it better for you?" "Blaise, this is nuts-"

He tucks you in after washing you off and taking care of you and gets you water and tucks you in and lays next to you and you guys snuggle till you fall asleep.

A new love for Blaise is here-

[neo-deobi]

[4:55PM]        Eric

I sipped the sweet yet bitter beverage as the hues of light shone onto the table colouring it in a slight orange that seemed to compliment the lights present in the café. The air filled with a strong scent of coffee and baked goods. I patiently waited for Eric to finish the game he continued to play on his phone.

Eric had me promise that we would work on the project together because friends help each other out. This was why we planned to meet at the café in the first place. However, things weren’t going as planned. I drank my coffee in silence while Eric told me a story about what a wonderful time he had with his bro at the baseball game. After he finished the story he went silent as he lost himself in his little world.

My eyes caught a glance of the lonely notes at the end of the table. I set back my drink, remembering the deadline for the project. According to the professor, 3 days were enough to complete it. In his words, he could complete it within a day and a half. Not that I care but for someone who teaches the same thing every year, I expected him to be able to do it within one; but of course we aren’t ready for that conversation.

Unintentionally a deep sigh escaped my lips. “Okay. Okay. Just give me a min and I’ll be done. Okay? Like I don’t even need the entire minute. That’s how fast I’ll finish it.” He replied. His voice as bright as ever, eyes never once leaving the screen.

I leaned back into the chair after grabbing one of the notes. I proceeded to read the notes as the warm atmosphere helped me calm the nervousness I had due to the sudden burden of assignments piling up.

A few minutes passed by as I read through the notes. Out of curiosity, I look up to find Eric still staring at his phone as his fingers repeatedly continued smacking the device.

“So, how many days?” I asked causing Eric to look at me in surprise.

“Huh?!”

“How many more days?”

He stared at me for a while trying to understand before he scoffed in disbelief. “Wah- Little old me can’t even live a little?!”

I smirked at his reaction. “By all means enjoy your time but this project won’t finish and submit itself.” He makes a painful expression towards you.

“Dude please, my brain has worked too much to just start studying.” His words exaggerating as he spoke. You pursed your lips, nodding your head up and down. Placing the notes back on the pile of notes that laid untouched on the table.

“I could delay it in return for a treat I guess.”, I said as I looked out the window thinking about something to distract myself for the time being. Eric went back to playing his game, aggressively nodding his head.

“Yea, you do you, my liege. You do your thing and I do mine. Then we work on the project, maybe tomorrow” I side-eyed him, annoyed by his carelessness. As I stared, I noticed the rather generous sized cake slice sitting on a plate waiting to be devoured. It was nicely placed in the centre of the table.

Before I could think, I reached for one of the forks on the plate. As if on instinct, Eric noticed the gesture. Right as I dug the fork into the slice, a gentle yet firm grip seemed to keep me from digging in further. I looked up, eyes catching Eric's.

“I thought I could treat myself.”

“Of course you can but your own slice.”

“Don’t you think that is a bit unfair? Besides, you were supposed to pay today and I want cake.”

Eric thought for a while before he spoke, “This is the one I got for myself. So me being the great person I am, I’ll offer a deal. I’ll buy you the entire cake for when we leave but this slice is mine alone.”

He flashed a pretty smile, lifting my hand in the process. He placed it onto the table and patted it before retrieving his own to hold his phone that he had forgotten during the little conversation.

“You’re aware this was the last slice of the Oreo cake?” I asked.

“Oh, I know. Sucks to suck I guess.”

His eyes retrieved to the screen and mine returned to the scrumptious treat sitting in front of me. I shoved the fork in cutting off the tip before Eric could process what had happened. His eyes widened, looking up as he heard the sound of the utensil scratch against the plate.

By the time he reacted, I had already moved the dessert into my mouth. The sight leaves Eric speechless and his hands dropping the phone as they reach for his head. He shrieks in disbelief while I stare at him in shock.

[masterlist]

[rainybubbles]

Imagine disappear, and Bakugo is searching you.

• That was during a normal day; you peacefully walked during your rest day.

Distracted by the advertising spots where Shoto sold cold sobas with his hero pro suit, and where Midoriya and Bakugo showed up there, perfume with the tittle "wonder duo, wonder smell, Axe."

• Then, everything exploded.

• You couldn't think that, your ears whistling and the ground trembling uncontrollably.

You were born without a quirk, but you went to Yuei in general, and you had to do some obligatory emergency formations.

• So you had the good reflexes, and you seek some shelter, but the notorious villain who attacked, saw you.

After all, you were his target.

He used again his exploding blast wave quirk; you felt on the ground.

• The other civilians screamed in agony, and some of them desperately tried to intervene, but the exposed floor was instable and their sens perturbed.

And for the communications, the villain's waves probably had been affecting it.

You heard some steps, came near to you.

•"What if we take the number 1 of the number 1 neh ?"

He laughed mockingly and...

You had a used total black out.

• A few minutes later, the heroes arrived, but the villain escaped with you.

• The witness explained the chaotic scene and some heroes were called to search you.

• The worst inevitably came when Bakugo heard the news.

He was coming back from a stupid mission with a pick-pocked who had the gluing ass quirk and which had fun to steal handbags with sitting on it.

And he heard that.

You...

You, his pillar.

• The one who he met in his therapy.

The one who helped him with this therapy, who helped him to better understand the no-quirk person.

The one who doesn't abandon him.

• You had also managed his social medias a while ago and the majority of his follower due to your work, your fucking photography.

(he knew that most of them were while he was with you, because when you're here, he can smile, he can stop screaming...)

• And you're missing, you disappeared.

He exploded and called the 1-A.

• He would never do this before, but he knew that among those extras, some of them like Shinso or Fumikage, were more adapted to him, to find you.

• Everyone started to search you or wait for the probable ransom because...

"'THEY'RE IN DANGER BECAUSE OF ME !" Bakugo screamed.

"Kacchan, calm down."

"Izuku, it's serves nothing to try reasoning him. Moreover, I would like to contradict him, but..." Momo started

"Y/n was in danger because journalists saw them, with us. More precisely, with Bakugo. Your relationship is platonic, but the gossips were persuaded that you're going out. So the villain just kidnapped the person who the heroes care about, in particularly the number one. And he found y/n." Tenya said.

Bakugo stopped and disproportionately hurt the wall.

He knew it.

But fuck, if he looked out for...or if...

If you lived together, if he had the balls to confess at the graduating ceremony, maybe you would not been in the street but at his home or...

"Bro, you can't do anything to change the past. On other hand, when we will find them, it will be come the moment to be manly, dude !"

• The red hair was aware of Bakugo's feeling toward Y/n, the class, too. But he was the only who directly had the confirmation by Bakugo himself.

Eijiro even had thought that the blonde will confessed, but Bakugo wanted to be the number one before this, like he didn't deserve Y/n if he didn't reach this objective.

• "We will put all the means into action to find them. The important thing is to not let our feelings take over us. The more time we waste, the less chance we have found them safe." Jirou said.

• All nodded their heads.

Flashback :

"I'm sure that you will finish with a pro hero." Y/n said while they were eating with Bakugo on the roof.

That was during their third year at Yuei, all the Fridays lunch were with them.

All the lunch was for them, but sadly the Bakusquad didn't let him the choice. So he negotiated the Fridays.

"Tss why are you saying this ?"

" Well, I'm sure that if you let you carry away, you exploded. So imagine if a normal civil is sucking you and bam you exploded at their face in the both sens of the term..."

"Y/N WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ?!"

They laughed.

"Sorry, I just wanted to see your reaction. I'm sure that everything is working, even down there."

Bakugo grumbled.

"Tss, sure it works. If you wanted so bad, I will make you a round on it, asshole."

Y/n blushed.

"Maybe one day..."

Bakugo was surprised by the answer, but let this in suspense.

If he knew it...

He would have devoured this lips a long time ago.

He would have said to them so much compliments, at a point so high, that it would equal with his ego.

End of the flashback

"You have to sleep." Kirishima said.

"Fuck no, I stay here."

"He didn't call, and it's been a week. Katsuki, you must sleep. Don't even dare take a coffee, yourself said it was horrible for your "fucking and perfect health, extras." "

Bakugo put the goblet and let a frustration sigh.

Nothing.

Not a fucking ransom.

No demand of money, no explosions or news of them.

They were nowhere.

"WE GOT NEWS !" Izuku screamed.

Katsuki stood up, but a black stain appeared, following by several others before everything turned black, and he collapsed on the ground.

________________________________

"Hello Aurora Bakugo, and welcome to the world of the living." a distant voice said while he painfully opened his eyes.

'Shit even here you placed a Disney reference y/n." Katsuki grumbled

He stopped himself.

Y/n ?

Suddenly he straightened up to see them next to him, with some injuries and a splint on the hand.

'Wait, what's going..."

"You fainted due to the lack of sleep and food. They took you to the hospital, where they did the necessary. It's been 10 hours since this, because like during high school, you're a grandpa who needs his sleep schedule."

" And you, you..."

"'are fine. The villain waited, to make it more dramatic and show my beauty at all the city's screens because "mouahahaha I stole Bakugo's partner", except that unfortunately for him, I'm not your partner. But, well, he was persuaded of the contrary and his ass was kicked."

" You can become it."

"What ? A villain ? Ah no, thanks. I put gloss, so I can't become a Tomura number 2, it will be a failure."

"Tss, I talked about been a partner."

"Deku will be jealous."

"Like you can equal him."

" It's true that his thighs are unbeatable."

"Yours too."

You blushed.

"You must be in morphine."

"No, I'm just under adrenalin because the person I dearly loved was kidnapped, and they're just here because I was a coward."

"You didn't be a coward. You're still a coward. But it had nothing to do with this kidnapping."

"I was unable to tell you, that I love you."

"But you made it today and, that's what it counts."

You smiled at him.

Oh, this radiant smile.

Fuck, he will be ready to fight with All Might just to see it.

"I love you back Katsuki, if your brain hasn't understood it yet, which maybe will the case seen how you stared the wall."

"Shut up, I just observed..."

"Observed ?"

"You."

You took his hand in your free one.

He leaned towards you, but...

"I may be disappeared, but your fresh breath too, above all that you stayed here ten hours. So if you want to passionately kiss me, you have to wait."

"I will wait for the time it takes. I'm the fucking number one."

.

.

.

"With Izuku."

"Shut up."

You laughed.

Yes you disappeared on his life, on his heart, on this city, but now you're back...

He, sure, count to brush his teeth to finally kiss you.

But he wants, too, to give you the envy to stay at his side in order that never this lack reappeared.

(sorry for my mistakes and my english, it‘s not my first language

(ó﹏ò｡)

[illeee-girl]

La La(chimolala) Land Chapter Two: Over My Iced Vanilla Latte

jimin x reader genre: fluff, fluff, and more fluff word count: 1.5k warnings: none

[Inspired by La La Land]

Read on Wattpad

Read on Ao3

“I still don’t understand,” Jessenia says, stopping in between generous applications of mascara to shoot you a doubtful look. “You met some Korean tourist dude on the top of City Hall, just gave him a copy of Red Writer, and now you’re meeting him at a Starbucks to hear his feedback?”

You attempt to square your shoulders, though it doesn’t quite work. Your roommate—sweet as she is—can be a little intimidating. “That’s about the size of it.”

“That’s about the size of it,” she mocks. “Listen to yourself! You sound just like Sybil from Downton Abbey.”

“Life goal achieved, then.”

Jessenia lets out a heavy sigh. “I just can’t believe you literally handed a complete stranger a copy of your work. He could totally just steal it! Sell it to a film studio, or make a movie out of it himself—”

“That seems a little unlikely, seeing as how I’m unable to sell it to anyone.” She walks over to where you sit on your bed, completely interrupting her makeup routine. Now you know it’s serious. “Y/N. I’m only telling you this because I love you. Be careful. You don’t know squat about this guy.” “I do indeed! I’ve watched him walk away. He definitely does squats.” If you’d delivered that line in any other situation, Jessenia would have been doubled over in laughter. You always made her laugh. But this time, it didn’t have that effect. She sashayed over to her closet, digging through halter dresses and high heels. She had an audition that afternoon. “Don’t let some cute butt distract you from the reason you came to LA.” You suppress a laugh—but not a smile. “Jess,” you start, forcing yourself to be serious. “You’ve known me since college. You know I’ve never let anything—let alone anyone—distract me. This is just . . . I don’t know, Jess, it feels like a breakthrough. An outsider’s perspective will be helpful. Maybe he’ll give me an idea for something—something good—that’ll finally sell Red Writer.” “Maybe,” she responds, “though he sounds like just a himbo to me.” “We don’t know squat about him, remember?” She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “Even himbos can do squats, Y/N. Boy ever can they do them.” _________________________ The Metro ride downtown is longer than you remember—probably because you don’t have a manuscript to pour over to pass the time. Jimin has the only print copy of Red Writer. That fact—and Jessenia’s words—make you more than a little anxious. Sure, you’ve got soft copies backed up on your hard drive and files placed on approximately 5 USB drives—you’re not stupid—but him having the paper manuscript feels a little . . . strange. Out of place. Intimate, almost. No pantsuit this time. There’s no need for it. This isn’t a business meeting—at least, not technically. You opted for a pair of loose-fitting jeans, a pastel purple t-shirt, and a whitewashed denim jacket. It’s not a bad look on you. But when you walk down the Grand Park stairs and spot him through the fountain, you realize you’ve greatly underestimated the level of fashion called for in the situation. He’s in ripped, black jeans; a thin, white shirt that somehow looks both loose and form-fitting; and a silvery-gray leather jacket. And he’s wearing jewelry—a Harry Styles amount of jewelry. Stud earrings. A black Chanel necklace. Rings on almost every finger. Like before, you think: Who is this guy? He sees you across the way and waves. Too late to turn back and try to throw together a better outfit. You’re suddenly mindful of how bulky your denim jacket is, but why should it matter? You fit in with the crowd of Californians much better, while he sticks out like a sore thumb in that getup. A surprisingly sexy sore thumb. Never mind that. You’re the writer in this situation. You’re the one who’s created something amazing. He’s just the reader. Assert your dominance, Y/N.

“Hey,” he says as you approach. “Love the jacket.” “Thanks. Nice . . .” you trail off, gesturing at him awkwardly, not sure where to look. “Nice outfit.” “You don’t think it’s too much?” “You look like you should be riding horses down Rodeo Drive with Usher.” He puts a hand over his heart. “You have no idea how much of a compliment that is for me.” Enough chitchat. The sun is starting to get lower in the sky, and you don’t particularly want to have to ride the Metro home in the dark. Besides, you’re starting to look at him—like, really look at him. And you think—though you figure you’re probably mistaken—that he’s starting to look at you. “Want a drink?” He asks. “I’m buying.” “Too late in the day for caffeine,” you respond. You need to make this as fast as possible. “Then get a decaf, or a tea.” He opens the door to the Starbucks, leaving you no choice. Once you get your drinks, you pick a table back outside; the weather’s too nice to pass up the opportunity. Besides, whoever’s running that Starbucks chose to play mood music over the loudspeaker. Quite the departure from the ambient, helps-you-focus stuff they usually go for, you think. The current playlist, in the current situation, with the current company, will surely not foster productivity. “So, what comments do you have about Red Writer? Is Marianne too headstrong? Are the bandmates too stereotypical? Is it too early 2000s to appeal to a modern audience?” He holds up a hand. “Whoa, slow down. I have yet to touch my Americano.” You decide to be straight with him. “I don’t have time to prioritize coffee over work. Every second that passes, someone else gets closer to becoming a successful screenwriter, and I lag behind while they take my place at the writer’s table—” “Whoa there. Take a sip of that iced vanilla latte, and breathe.” You do as he says, but not without rolling your eyes. After a swig, you look down at your cup. You have to look somewhere. The setting sun’s starting to backlight his blonde hair. It’s as if nature’s purposefully trying to complement his beauty. “I loved it,” he says softly. You look up. He’s smiling, and it’s real. It’s genuine. He isn’t teasing. “You do?” “Are you kidding?” His dark eyes light up as he begins to recount the plot of your screenplay. “Nerdy college girl is a journalist by day, songwriter by night. Her best friend’s in a small band from the Valley, and she basically begs this friend to let her write their lyrics, so she can get experience points. The band absolutely takes off, and the girl gets tons of gigs as a lyricist for struggling performers who’ve recently signed with big labels—only to find out that her real dream is to sit in coffee shops and play the simple, acoustic music she writes herself, just to uplift and relax people.” It takes you a minute to register that he’s praising your work. You’d forgotten what that felt like. It’d been years since someone had given you positive feedback—outside of your close inner circle of family members and roommates, that is. Panel after panel of producers had taken one glance, said “no,” and put your manuscripts through the shredder. But no more. Someone not only liked what you’d written. He loved it. “I devoured it in one night. Couldn’t go to bed until I finished it.” “That’s how I felt when I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time!” “Nerd.” You choose to disregard that last little comment. Someone felt the same way about your work as you’d felt about Jane Austen’s. I’ve made it! “I just have one little criticism.” Uh oh. Here it came. “What’s that?” “Your description of the bandmates . . .  it’s not accurate at all.” _________________________ “So let me get this straight,” the manager of the Starbucks in Grand Park stared Park Jimin in the eye. “You’ll pay me how much to play this CD?” “You heard what I said,” responded the fashionable, blonde Korean man standing on the other side of the counter. “And I’ve got cash.” The manager shook his head, but acquiesced. “Okay, man. I’d be a fool not to do it, I guess. You know how much cannabis that kind of money can get me?” Jimin chose to ignore that last little bit. “One question, though. Why? What you’ve got written on here seems pretty standard. Chris Brown, Boyz II Men. . .” “It’s . . . none of your concern.” Jimin ran a hand through his hair, looking a little nervous. “But since you’re being so kind, I’ll tell you this much: it’s undoubtedly worth it.”

[vincess-princess]

red lips, fingertips

the stripper!Vince fic i promised to @witchy-tombstone-smile on a condition that she finishes this amazing drawing <3

Word count: 2033 Warnings: language

“Come on, Mick. That’s your day. Have some fun!” Nikki nudged Mick. The stripper in front of them arched his back and winked at Mick. The stripper had flowing ginger hair and wore only very tight shorts. He was gorgeous.

Mick looked at him indifferently and turned away.

“I’m too old for this,” he sighed. It was so strange – so unbelievable – to be here, of all places. To look at men and not be afraid of their attention. Mick didn’t have high hopes regarding himself – he was an old fart reaching his forties – but even watching men ordering drinks to one another, dancing together, embracing each other was making his deeply-rooted paranoia come out of its cage. You’re in danger, the fear was saying. You, and all of them, are in danger.

“Old?” Tommy appeared by Mick’s side. He already had a drink in his hand and a man winking to him from the other corner of the room. “Are you kidding? Everyone loves an older man. Maturity is sexy, y’know.”

“C’mon, man, relax!” Nikki patted his shoulder. “You’re not in the fifties anymore. Everything here is legal and allowed. I’d even say, encouraged.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s safe,” Mick murmured, but did try to relax, breathing in and out, in and out, calming his racing heart. The tension in his body somewhat weakened, but didn’t go away completely.

“Well, look at how many buff dudes we have out there,” Nikki laughed. “They will protect us.”

Mick had already noticed a group of buff bearded dudes in leather and felt even more disappointed than before. The clubbers surely had a wide choice of men to pick up on, and Mick wasn’t included. Compared to most of them, Mick felt frail and old. This was the place for younger people, like Nikki and Tommy. Mick did not fit in.

Nikki went to the bar to grab drinks, and Tommy patted Mick on the back and headed to the man who bought him his drink. Judging by the looks they exchanged, he was going to have quite an exciting night. Mick wished he was half as comfortable with himself as Tommy. But they belonged to different generations.

All the tables near the ginger-haired stripper were occupied, some people were even sitting on the floor in front of the stage. There were two more strippers performing who had a free table or two nearby. Mick wanted to pick a seat somewhere in the back, but the only available place was right in front of a pretty blonde in pink stockings. This one was not like the ginger – maybe not so stunningly beautiful, but more flexible and agile, and his dance moves were more complicated, aimed rather at showing off the talent than attracting men. There was something in it, something Mick liked more than anything else.

Just as Mick was about to sit, the pretty blond spun around the pole, caught Mick’s gaze and smiled at him. Mick knew, of course, that it was just the boy’s job, but the smile still felt like an electric charge went down his spine.

Mick reached for his wallet, opened it and sighed. His band had just lost a vocalist, and he couldn’t tip the boy more than five-six dollars. Still, that was better than nothing. He stretched out his hand and passed the money to the stripper. He saw this and smiled again, this time wider, with more feeling, and Mick thought, to hell with all of this, and took a few more dollar bills out of his wallet.

Their hands touched when he handed the boy the money. The feeling of his warm fingers lingered on his skin for a moment.

“O-oh, Mick, you couldn’t choose a better place,” Nikki laughed, putting two glasses of beer on the table. Mick didn’t pay attention. He was watching. Long blond hair contrasted with the slim tanned body, pink stockings underlined the perfect shape of the boy’s legs, and heels so high only looking at them was making Mick feel sick. But the boy wore them like someone else would wear sneakers.

Mick grabbed the glass and downed it in a heartbeat. Alcohol always made everything easier. Like watching the pretty stripper dance. Mick genuinely liked it, but felt ashamed for enjoying it. It felt like a blasphemy, a terrible violation of privacy. He didn’t believe strippers were doing what they were doing just for the fun of it. There was no fun in putting your body on such a display, in spinning and arching their backs and swinging their hips and accepting rude comments with a smile. Mick didn’t believe that smile. It was only on the stripper’s lips; his eyes remained indifferent and his face looked tired. How old was the boy, eighteen? Twenty?

“Nice ass, baby!” Nikki shouted at the stripper and threw a dollar bill in his direction. The boy bended over, carefully picked the money up and put it into his panties, all of that in the course of completing a hard movement on the pole. He surely was good at dancing.  

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Mick winced. “It’s rude.”

Nikki blinked in confusion. “Rude? Since when do you care about rudeness?” He picked up his glass and took a sip. “It’s a stripper, Mick. He gets that every day.”

“Yeah, I see-“ fuck, what is he even talking about? Why the hell would he worry about feelings of a stripper? – “but you wouldn’t just throw that at a man on a street, would you?”

“Why not?” Nikki grinned. “I might if I see an ass that fine.”

Mick rolled his eyes. Well, it was just Nikki being Nikki. He wanted to say something about behaving in public, but at this very moment Tommy approached their table.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Tommy sat down with them, a drink in his hand. That was most likely his third or fourth one, judging by the way he was staggering on his way to the table. They had barely spent an hour in here…

“Mick chose it,” Nikki snitched. Tommy laughed. Mick wanted to strangle Nikki with his bare hands.

“Well, man, you’ve got a taste,” Tommy smirked. “I like this one even more than the ginger. I mean, the ginger has a fine ass, but the blondie is more flexible.”

“Hey, hey, man,” Nikki nudged him, “leave this one to Mick. Don’t you see how he almost devours him with his eyes?”

Mick immediately looked away, but what was done was done. He felt hot shame burning his cheeks. He was pretty sure he stripper boy could hear their entire conversation. Now Mick wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes ever again, let alone talk to him. And Mick, unfortunately, wanted to do exactly that.

“Could you two shut up and not spoil my entire evening?” he hissed, squeezing his glass in his hand with so much strength it almost cracked.

“Wow, wow, man,” Nikki’s stupid grin finally switched into a more serious expression, “we’re just fucking around. Don’t take that so seriously.”

“No one’s gonna take your boy,” Tommy said. “Don’t worry.”

“My boy? You talk about him like he’s a fucking thing! Right in front of him!” Mick snapped. He knew this strip club idea was a bad idea from the start, but not to such an extent. Not to the point of dehumanizing a man Mick actually liked. And by whom? By two of his closest friends.

He didn’t look at their guilty faces. He stared at the boy who kept dancing, in a desperate hope to catch his glance. But the boy didn’t look at him. Instead, he looked at the wall behind their backs, seeming to be completely immersed in dancing. Mick couldn’t know what was going on in the stripper’s head, but he was pretty sure there was nothing positive about him.

“Damn, man,” Nikki said, reaching out to touch Mick’s elbow. “We’re sorry, really. We didn’t think it would hurt you.”

“It didn’t hurt me,” Mick interrupted him. “But what about him?” He nodded at the dancer. He didn’t look very miserable, though. Somehow, Mick was pretty sure he could see a smile hidden in the corner of his lips. Whatever he thought of the conversation that was going on in front of him, he liked what Mick said.

“Oh, come on, he’ll be fine,” Tommy winced. “No one has ever died from a compliment.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Well damn, nothing satisfies you, I see,” Nikki sighed. “Okay, if that makes you feel better. Hey you, blondie!” he turned to the stripper. “Sorry for saying you have a nice ass!”

That was the last straw. Mick got up silently and marched towards the toilet, forgetting he still had a drink in his hand.

***

When he stumbled out of the toilet, the blond stripper had already stopped dancing. Now he was sitting at the counter sipping something that looked like whiskey. He had pants on, but they were unzipped. He probably had more to do with the club than just dancing. It was pretty obvious - Mick saw strippers talking to men in the club and leading them backstage.

For a second he indulged himself into thinking what he and the blondie could do, hm, backstage. But then he shook his head, pushing the image out of his mind. He was thinking about a real human being with agency, not a sex toy.

He wanted to approach the stripper, he really did. He had to at least apologize for Nikki’s and Tommy’s crude behaviour. But he wasn’t sure the stripper would see it the same way Mick saw it: a heartfelt apology, and nothing more.

Then the boy raised his head and saw him. The smile that Mick could see in the corner of his lips before now widened, turning into an actual smile. The boy waved to Mick and pointed at the chair next to him.

Something resembling electric shock went down Mick’s spine. He never could have thought such a gorgeous man would be interested in talking to him. Yet the boy seemed eager.

“Hey, I wanted to apologize-“

“No need to!” the dancer’s voice was deeper than Mick expected. His girlish appearance must have confused a lot of people. “I appreciate it. Also, it was fun to listen to. I could barely keep a straight face.”

“Well…” Mick was at a loss, “I’m glad that you’re taking it so easy.”

“Oh, you can’t imagine what I’ve been called in my life. And my ass is great, so your friend wasn’t that wrong.”

“Yeah,” Mick suddenly forgot all the apologies and phrases he prepared while in the bathroom, “he wasn’t. Still, it’s dehumanizing.”

“It is,” the boy sighed. Then he turned to Mick and stretched out his hand. “I’m Vince. You can call me Vinnie, because you’re sweet. But for you friends I’m Mr Wharton.”

Mick shook his hand with a smile. Vinnie then. Nice name.  

“Listen, I wanna thank you.” Vinnie said once they released each other’s hands, the warmth of his fingers sending chills down Mick’s back. “How about a discount?”

“What?” Mick blinked in surprise. Was the boy offering him- “No!”

“Okay, okay,” Vinnie shook his head. “I expected that. Let me at least buy you a drink.”

“Oh, come on,” a new idea suddenly surfaced in Mick’s seemingly empty head, making him inhale sharply. He could do that. He could really do that, because the boy seemed to like him. “It’s me who should be buying you drinks. How about your, erm, phone number?”

Vince giggled. “Wow, you sure take relationships seriously.”

“And you?”

“Not so much. But I like your approach. Phone number it be, then. But promise to call me.”

“Absolutely.” Mick just realized he had nothing to write the number with. The bartender put him out of his misery, handing him a pen with a sly smile.

Vinnie wrote his number on Mick’s right arm, their heads mere inches away from each other. Mick could feel the smell of his shampoo – something flowery.

“Now, I’m gonna dance one more time this night. Will you stay?”

“Definitely”.

[takerfoxx]

An entirely too long ramble about how much Imperfect Metamorphosis means to me

(Tumblr please actually show that submissions are not just text posts please)

So. It’s almost the last day of the decade. I usually get weirdly sad and nostalgic in the last 30 minutes of New Year’s Eve, but this time it’s been like, a whole week, and I’ve been reflecting on this decade as a whole as well as like, my path in life.

The 1990’s were the decade of my birth and early life.

The 2000’s were the decade of being REALLY into Harry Potter.

And my 2010’s were, wholly and singularly, defined and shaped by Touhou. 

I got into Touhou sometime around Easter 2010 when McRoll’d came into my YouTube feed, and something about the music was just so god damned catchy I just had to know where it came from. So I discovered Flandre’s fight and from there, I learned just how great the music of this weird bullet hell game made by some rando in Japan. It quickly became my Thing. When I wasn’t playing sucking at the games, I was listening to the music, and if I wasn’t listening to the music, I was at school (where I’d probably not be paying attention let’s be real here).

So there I was, happily consuming fanart and fansongs and fangames and doing that little smile in appreciation when you see a reference to a thing you like (shoutout to raocow for also playing a few Touhou fangames way back when). It expanded my gaming interests into the sphere of “modding games to make them harder can be fun and cool”, which then lead to a general interest in playing modded and moddable games. It even made me interested in visiting Japan (on my bucket list), not in that stereotypical “weeb” way of visiting all the anime and manga stores, but more in the “something I like put a country on my radar and holy shit some of those restaurants, l want to eat at ALL of these places because they’re gorgeous” way.

You’ll notice that I specifically withheld from mentioning Fanfiction. See, as a teenager who did have the “try something once and if I don’t like it I’ll probably hate it forever because it’s always like that” mentality, I had the unfortunate experience of coming across My Immortal. 

That, and the fact that one of my close friends in High School had taken to reading Twilight Fanfic (and complaining at almost every story she read and their bad use of tropes) kinda solidified fanfiction as “something dumb and stupid written by people who solely want to roleplay fucking the protagonist”. And on that pedestal sat the entire concept of fanfiction for a long-ass time (actually it was about a year and a bit).

Fast forward a while. Patchouli had cemented herself as All Time Favourite Character, I’d begun to grow out of my Harry Potter phase in search of new stories, and I’d made some new friends, one of whom said they read fanfiction all the time and some of it was actually better than original, published books because they had the freedom to explore ideas that weren’t entirely publishable. But also to roleplay fuck their waifus.

At some point in Summer 2011, not too long after it came out, I decided to replay Portal 2, and something about the story left me feeling… incomplete. Empty. I sought people discussing what they thought of the story and hidden nuggets of info peppered throughout the game, and at some long buried comment section on YouTube, someone mentioned how some fanfiction went into a headcanon and took it further. I read it, considered it for a moment, deemed it worthy of being called “not trash”, and immediately set to looking at the Touhou section on FF.net.

The first fanfics I read of Touhou were… Well, they were. There were some good ones and not so good ones. But they were all, in some way, at least interesting. I quickly discovered the frustration that New Friend had brought up once, of when you discover something great but it’s over all too soon. Setting FF.net’s search to include only 100k and up fanfics, I was delighted to discover that there was a fanfiction called “Imperfect Metamorphosis” that was over 350,000 words long. And then my carefully crafted plan of going to bed at a sensible time to maximise Summer Gaming Time was devoured by staying up until 4:30am, reading fanfiction on a shitty laptop that could barely run UFO. Thank fuck it was the summer holidays.

There was something special about Imperfect Metamorphosis. The characters all had their own personality, their own history, their own implied history beyond what was written, they had goals, thoughts, feelings, and different takes towards other people working to further their own goals. And it was all wrapped up in a package that started with a simple premise, grew to encompass a world more broad than mere canon or fanon, and then billowed into an eldritch monster of ungodly size (hi, Yuuka!)((kind of like this post huh)). 

I was so fucking hooked on IM. I went back to school with theories buzzing about my brain as to what was going to end up happening, my mind wandering to the latest chapter and the bits I thought were cool, actually having the drive to focus and actually learn something about story structure in English Literature. I suddenly had the tiniest flame of interest in creating. Maybe one day I could write fanfic, and do my tiny part in expanding the universe of fan-content.

Regardless of the fact that my own attempts at conjuring stories weren’t successful (for a while), IM was there to be read throughout my last years of Normal Schooling, and it served as both a rock and an escape from the stress of school. I laughed with the jokes, I took Marisa’s death harder than the sum total of Harry Potter’s entire bodycount, and I could never hear Soulja Boi without thinking of Mima trolling Satori.

Just like how Touhou expanded my gaming and cultural horizons, Imperfect Metamorphosis expanded my horizon with Literature. I got into reading Neil Gaiman’s work, I read some Lovecraft, I consumed all kinds of works of fiction, across a multitude of genres, which all felt, in some way, like I was reading them because of IM. I mean I only started watching Madoka, and any anime beyond that, because of Resonance Days. Interesting way of coming across a show filled to the brim with spoilers.

It’s been three years since you put Imperfect Metamorphosis onto hiatus, and I have never read anything that has filled me with such emotion to the same extent. Other things have come close, some of them were even written by other people! (the most recent mega-update of Walpurgis Nights hit me particularly hard). And Swiftly Descending Darkness has been such a great read thus far, the slowly ramping tension is so. god. damned. good.

And as I think I mentioned a while back, I finally managed to start grinding out a touhou fic at my own, absolutely glacial, pace. I always find myself asking “is this canon to Touhou, or is it just canon to IM?”. The line has forever blurred in my mind.

I’m not asking anyone to read my work. This isn’t a plea for you to return to the original IM at any speed, I just wanted to say thank you.

Thank you for writing Imperfect Metamorphosis. For the work that’s been a steady constant throughout the vast, vast majority of this decade. For inspiring a wealth of emotions and ideas in the mind of a British guy who you’ll never meet. For just, plain writing a good story.

And for making Marisa the biggest badass to grace the land.

Here’s to the 2020’s not sucking, and to the ever expanding list of stories written by Internet user Takerfoxx. Here’s hoping you find great success.

Thank you.

P.S. Oh, and The Friend Who Said Fanfic Was Good Actually? They’re now my Fiancée, as of last month. Funny how the world works like that.

@diggertron, dude, you honestly have me feeling pretty humbled right now. I have to admit, it’s getting harder and harder not to see anything but the flaws when I look back on IM or RD, to the point when anyone compliments me about my writing my reflexive response is to be self-deprecating about my weaknesses, but this has helped me gain some more perspective about my older work, and for that I thank you, and am glad you have stuck around for so many years. 

And congratulations on your engagement as well!

[shitty-tf2-headcanons]

Meet the Morale (Part 2 of 4)

Introduction/Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4

Not much is known about Morale. The most everyone knows is that his name is Tristan, he was raised by his grandparents in Canada, he joined the military at some point, and eventually went off to college to major in psychology. He doesn't tell the team anything else other than that.

Well, he does like to tell them the story of how he found little Sunny. He was waking home in the dead of winter when he came across a starving little pup. He obviously couldn't leave her there so he took her back home with him and she just sort of became his number one gal. Sure she ended up being a little dopey and is more likely to bring you a grenade than a health kit but he still loves her. She means the world to him and he has no idea what he would do without her.

Overall, Morale is a pretty sweet guy. He’s always there to lend a hand to his team and also has a habit of picking up or buying anything he thinks his teammates would like. He’s always looking out for his team and is always ready to drop everything to go help them in any way he can. Long story short, he has a bleeding heart.

Though his constant need has made him very nosy. If he thinks something is wrong with someone, he’s gonna bother them all day about it till they finally tell him or snap at him. He’s also just nosy in general. He wants to know every single thing about you and won’t stop until you at least tell him when your birthday is. 

Morale is a bit of a yesman. It’s very hard for him to say no or refuse to do something when someone asks him too. He also tends to apologize a lot, even when he didn’t do anything wrong. His refusal to say no has led to him being caught in the middle of life threatening situations, most of the time with Scout or Soldier, and he barely makes it out of those. You’d have to really piss him off or catch him in a really bad mood if he says no to your request.

He willingly accepts Pyro’s hugs and muzzle kisses, sometimes he even initiates them, so he’s a pretty affectionate dude. He’s good at expressing his fondness through words but there’s something that much sweeter about hugging or giving a little high five or fist bump. He’s a strong guy too so his hugs are really tight and can be a bit painful if he squeezes too hard. 

Morale has a certain charm about him. The kind of charm that can put others at ease and get them to open up. This explains why he makes such a good party host or event host. His bright smile can win anyone over and his chill nature makes everyone a bit more comfortable. He lives for parties but he’s not much of a rambunctious party animal like Demo. 

His grandparents taught him that if he has nothing nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. Well, he took that to heart but managed to twist it around. Meaning he can call you a bitch to your face while maintaining that same smile and low tone of voice. He also tends to make a lot of backhanded compliments and doesn’t get in much trouble for it since people are just so confused and conflicted. 

Off the battlefield, he’s a nice chill guy for the most part. On the battlefield however, he shifts into a completely different person. His sweet smile contorts into a evil grin that resembles a snarl more than anything. His sleepy narrow eyes grow wide and crazed. His low tone of voice shifts into a near scream as he shouts praises at his team and screams profanities at the opposing team. The team flag he carries around isn’t so sweet anymore when the end of it is being plunged into somebody’s stomach. After the battle ends, he returns to his normal self and casually asks if everyone had fun out there.

Being the proud Canadian he is, he is a huge fan of hockey and is always trying to get the team to play with him. Though he becomes a wild animal when the skates are on and he’s brandishing his hockey stick. The team now know that playing hockey with Morale isn’t for the faint of heart.

This shouldn’t be surprising but Morale absolutely loves maple syrup. Always pours a shit ton of it on his pancakes and waffles and will devour it all. Sometimes he has to fight Pyro for the last bottle of syrup. Though they come to a compromise and share the syrup. 

Despite his outgoing nature, there are times when he just wants to be left alone with Sunny. His smile fades and he looks even more tired than usual. He remains silent as he runs his hands through Sunny’s soft fur, he doesn’t react all that much when she whimpers and licks his cheek. He stays like this for hours on end until he feels like he can face the world again. It’s only then that his smile returns and he gives in to Sunny’s whimpers, rubbing her belly and cooing over her. 

[thatwritingho]

nathan or skwisgaar sexcanons pls

SKWISGAAR

Skwis is a tricky guy to pin down on what he would actually enjoy about sex

Because Skwisgaar fucking a groupie, and Skwisgaar fucking someone he actually gives two shits about are very different things

Sure, he’s a kinky bastard, and that doesn’t change just because he likes you

But if you’re lucky enough to have broken through some of those emotional barriers he has up

You’re in for a lot of sweet, slow love making

He’ll still fuck your brains out and blow your mind in lots of strange, interesting ways that you’ve never experienced before

But he’s spent so many years having super dirty, filthy, emotionally distant sex

That vanilla sex is much more of a novelty to him than kinky shit

And he’s going to be happy to just be with someone without having the pressure to be perfect

Y’know how when you have sex with someone you care about, it feels a lot different than sex with a one night stand? That shit drives him wild

Dude is gonna play your body as well as he plays guitar

He’s super in tune to your every reaction, every little muscle twitch or change in expression or small noise you make he can decipher like a god damn WW2 code breaker

SO GOOD WITH HIS FINGERS LIKE WTF HOW???

And his damn mouth!!!!! Those lips are heaven

He is the smoothest mother fucker alive, and you better be prepared to have your pants charmed off literally and figuratively

He knows exactly how to touch you and what to whisper in your ear to have you fucking worship him as the sex god he is

And worship him you will, because this asshole loves having his ego stroked

It’s his biggest turn on

But it’s not as easy as you think

Compliments about his appearance and guitar skills don’t do it for him

If he wanted some lame ass generic bullshit that he’s heard every day for the past decade, he would just fuck a groupie

He wants you to tell him things he hasn’t heard before, or at least say it in a more creative way than some regular jack off would

Y’know, prove that you actually know him, and still want to fuck him

Because let’s face it that’s a big fucking fear he has, caring about someone and being rejected after he lets them in

He needs constant validation, both physical and verbal, that you actually give a shit

Poor baby has such abandonment issues

So he gets really turned on by you devoting yourself to him

And he wants you to give yourself to him, body and soul

He wants to own feel like he owns you during sex, but not in a in-your-face way like Toki does

Cums in you

Every.

Single.

Time.

It’s low key a sign of ownership

Sex with him is gonna be really intense a lot of the time

EYE CONTACT

Dude will fucking devour you with his eyes

He’s hungry for that emotional connection

BUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You gotta turn the tables on him sometimes too!!!

Let him know that while he may he own you, you own him too

Be rough with him

One night stands usually don’t have the nerve to, they get so caught up that they’re fucking Skwisgaar Skwigelf that they let him do whatever he wants

And he’s honestly a damn brat because of it

So you gotta put him in his place

Take control away from him

Make him lay there and take it as you fuck him

Have him kneel in front of you, grab a fistful of that luscious hair and make him eat your pussy with those perfect lips until you’re satisfied

EDGE HIM

Leave him hanging without getting him off!!!!!!

Who else would have ever dared to deny him his release?

Make him crawl and beg on hands and knees for you to allow him to cum

Forbid him from masturbating, and make sure he sticks to it

Make him experience sexual frustration before you give him what he wants! He’s not used to it, so it’s gonna drive him insane, and he’ll respect you for it tbh

Even if he doesn’t admit it out loud, you’ll be able to tell by his actions

Dude is gonna be putty in your fucking hands, trust me

He’s a lazy fuck, so aftercare isn’t gonna be the best

Mostly just cuddles, or laying next to him while he noodles around on his guitar

It’s actually super comforting, tho

Just laying and listening to him play, basking in the afterglow to the sounds of his guitar

This turned out way less kinky than I expected it would what with it being Skwis, but whatever, I still like it

Nathan is up next!!

[analogscum]

HARD ROCK ZOMBIES (1985, d. Krishna Shah)

NOTE: I RECOMMEND WATCHING HARD ROCK ZOMBIES BEFORE READING THIS REVIEW IF YOU WANT TO AVOID SPOILERS!

Human ambition is a funny thing. It can lead to great triumphs, but also great tragedies. Without human ambition, we would not have rock n’ roll, the most vital of American art forms. On the other hand, human ambition also lead the Third Reich to exterminate more than six million Jews, Catholics, homosexuals, physically and mentally handicapped, and Romani people. How does this tie in to today’s film, Hard Rock Zombies? Well, for now, let’s just say that it is a testament to both sides of the coin of human ambition that the sickos who made Hard Rock Zombies said to themselves, we’re going to make Hard Rock Zombies…and then actually went out and made Hard Rock Zombies. I’m honestly not sure if I mean that as a compliment or not.

We open on two metalheads riding a T-Bird convertible down a winding desert road. Lo and behold, they stumble upon a buh-buh-buh-baaaaabe hitchhiking. What are they gonna do, NOT invite this bodacious blonde into their sweet ride? We now cut to a dwarf with an eyepatch and a troll dancing around with a guy holding a camera by a river. You read that right. The metalheads and the blonde pull up on the other side of the river, strip down to their skivvies, and do a little skinny dipping. Suddenly, she drowns each of them one by one! And also does something else, because the water turns blood red, but I have no idea what that could be. The camera guy takes pictures of this gristly scene, while the dwarf and the troll celebrate the carnage. They chop off one of the victims’ hands, blondie picks it up and sings “I wanna hold your hand.” Again, you read all of that right.

Cut to: our heroes, the band, whom the movie never bothers to name (seriously, this band has no name), rockin’ out before a sold out crowd. Right away, we’re confronted with the major problem of all of these 80s metal horror movies: these guys just do not sufficiently rock. I mean, they have a synth player, for cryin’ out loud! This was not too long after Van Halen risked losing their metal fanbase by adding synths to “Jump,” because synths were pop, and pop was for pussies. But seriously, these guys make Billy Joel sound like Napalm Death. Oh well, at least the crowd of roughly 12 people seems to be having a good time.

Backstage, the band strip down to their banana hammocks, and their manager, Ron, tells them that they have to have their photos taken with a bunch of groupies. None of the dudes in the band, especially the lead singer, Jesse, seem to want to do this. They’re incredibly ambivalent about potentially sleeping with these women. Which of course is par for the course for 80s metal bands. Most of Motley Crue’s autobiography, The Dirt, is about the dudes politely sipping Earl Grey tea and discussing Nietzsche. We soon get an idea as to why Jesse is not interested in all of these women who want to ride his mullet, and believe me, you’re not gonna like it.

As he’s escaping all of these annoying women who wanna show him their boobs, Jesse runs into Cassie. Now, the movie is not entirely clear on how old Cassie is supposed to be, but let’s just say she’s young. Like, teenage. Like, below the age of consent. She warns Jesse to stay out of the town of Grand Guignol (subtle), where the band is scheduled to play the next night. Jesse instantly falls in love with her, because this movie hates you, and we’re treated to white hot, sexually charged flirting such as this:

Jessie: You're neat.

Cassie: No, I'm not.

Jessie: Yeah, ya are.

Cassie: ...shakes head...

Jessie: Yeah, ya are.

Guys, it’s rare that I make a point of writing down dialogue in these movies that we talk about, but Hard Rock Zombies left me with no choice but to slam that pause button and record some of these lines, because holy macaroni, peep this screenwriting magic:

“I got it from a book. You know, a boooooooook?”

“You guys ready for the show? The loud show? Loud music show? Rock and roll?!?!”

“Oh bullshit, young stupid!”

“You suck, mister! I know it and everyone knows it!”

Eat your heart out, Aaron Sorkin!

So the band arrives in Grand Guignol, and wouldn’t you know it, they pick up the same hitchhiking blonde, who invites them to stay at her family’s mansion. The family is pretty normal, you’ve got blondie, the photographer, the dwarf, the troll, the groundskeeper who, um, is that a Swastika armband he’s wearing, and grandma and grandpa, who speak in thick German accents and we meet them while they’re in the bone zone and the dwarf and the troll are watching them. Oh, and by the way, they’re secretly Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, and Eva Braun is a werewolf. I PROMISE THAT ALL OF THIS IS TRUE.

As it turns out, everyone in Grand Guignol is a backwards rube who thinks that rock n’ roll is the devil’s music that will lead to “physical sex” (again, actual quote). So they get super duper outraged when the band engages in some antics that wouldn’t be out of place in an episode of The Monkees. They skateboard around, do silly dances, and mug for the camera. The sheriff throws them in jail, the town council cancels their concert, and outlaw all rock n’ roll in general, leading to a scene where everyone throws their records and tapes in a pile and destroys them (again, subtle).

Meanwhile, Jesse and Cassie keep running into each other and falling deeper and deeper in love, and the movie keeps rubbing our faces in their obvious age difference, because apparently the overt Nazi imagery wasn’t cringeworthy enough. Just wait until we get to the song he writes about her, because you’ll have to go to jail once you hear it. They practice at the creepy mansion, and the family tries to electrocute them. That doesn’t work, so instead they murder the band members one by one overnight. The drummer is stabbed in a terrible homage to the Psycho shower scene, the keyboardist is felled by werewolf Eva Braun, I don’t remember what happens to the guitarist, I think he falls out of a window or something, and Jesse is crucified and disembowled with a weed hacker by the groundskeeper. This means Hitler is finally ready to turn California into the fourth reich…here we go…no turning back…complete with gas chambers. Which come into play later. THIS IS ALL FROM A REAL MOVIE THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

Luckily, before he croaked, Jesse gave Cassie a tape he made of a bass lick that can raise the dead. Look, just roll with me here, ok? You’ve made it this far. So Cassie plays the tape at the band’s grave, and they rise from the dead, ready to get revenge on Hitler and Eva Braun and co. In zombie form, they all sport weird mime makeup that kinda looks like KISS in the early days before they figured out their image, and they walk around as if they’re doing a combination of the robot and the Macarena. These are both choices that the filmmakers made. So they pretty much instantly murderize the Hitler clan with no problems, but whoops, they don’t stay dead for long, because now they’re zombies too, and they’re attacking all the hicks in town, which makes THEM zombies. Now we’ve got Nazi zombies and redneck zombies running around, which is not an ideal situation to say the least, but for now, the band have to go play their big gig.

This is where we finally get to hear Jesse’s love ballad to Cassie in it’s entirety, and, well, here it is…

“I’m so in love, but you’re so young.” BARF BARF BARF BARF ETERNAL BARF. Anyway, see ya in jail, which is where I live now because of this song!

I’m really loathe to talk about the rest of the movie, because at this point, it takes a turn into goofy comedy, and just completely falls flat. Not that their satirical bits about the PMRC and anti-metal hysteria were all that biting, but at least they were trying to say something, whereas these Zucker brothers-lite groaners are just insufferable. There’s a gag about a girlfriend who’s so possessive of her boyfriend that she won’t let any other women get near his severed head after a zombie rips it off, which the filmmakers obviously thought was beyond hilarious, but is really torturous. Then there’s an even less funny gag where some Pointdexter is like, hey, since zombies are brainless, they must be, like, allergic to brains? So if we all walk around with these giant cardboard cutout heads, they’ll leave us alone? Huh? And of course it doesn’t work, and of course the zombies just eat everybody, and as he’s being devoured, the Pointdexter yells, “Don’t believe everything you read!” Ugggh, read this: you suck, movie.

OK, there is one running gag from this section that I liked: after the troll becomes a zombie, he just eats his own body until he’s a burping skull. I happened to think that was charming and great.

Eventually the townsfolk try to sacrifice Cassie to the zombies, because they read that if the undead feast upon a virgin, then they’ll rest for another hundred years. Whatever. So Cassie is totally about to be gang banged and devoured by zombie Hitler and his gang (wow, what a sentence), when luckily the band shows up, and lures them away by playing that resurrection riff that Jesse learned from a book (you know, a booooooook?!?!) And where do they lure them? Ugh, sorry…here goes…they lure them to the gas chambers, where they’re all gassed to death. You know, like in the Holocaust? I have nothing more to say.

The film ends, in perfect fashion, by spelling co-writer/director Krishna Shah’s name wrong in the credits. Fantastic.

When a movie looks particularly bad, I often like to say that it reminds me of a fake movie meant to play in the background of a real movie. Well, as it turns out, that’s the actual origin story of Hard Rock Zombies. Originally, the film was supposed to be 20 minutes long and featured as the movie the characters in another Krishna Shah production, American Drive-In, go to see. Apparently Shah decided at some point that he could double his profits by turning Hard Rock Zombies into its own feature film. This begs the question: is this where all the Nazi stuff was added? Because it’s easy to imagine characters in a movie occasionally checking in with the drive-in movie and seeing a bunch of rockers rising from the grave, but that Hitler subplot is just so bizarre and so incongruous that I can’t help but think it was tacked on.

Hard Rock Zombies is the craziest film I’ve seen in awhile. It approaches Demonwarp and Spookies levels of what the hell am I watching madness. You genuinely will not be able to predict where this movie is gonna go from scene to scene. However, the tacked on nature of that madness keeps you at arms length a bit, and eventually it just becomes tiresome once you realize it’s not going anywhere beyond mere shock value. I mean, this movie is nearly an hour and forty minutes, and ends with a scene in a goddamn GAS CHAMBER. So, by all means, show this one to your friends, just don’t blame me if they never talk to you again. You may be right, they may be crazy, but in the end, it’s still rock n’ roll to me.

[babybluebanshee]

What the Mercs read

Lord help me, I’m back on my bullshit again. Yeah, in case you guys didn’t notice, I watched a bunch of SFM videos last weekend and now I’m back on a TF2 kick. So you get some headcanons! Yay~

Scout: Mostly comics and sports magazines. He doesn’t really have the attention span to read anything longer. If you try to suggest a book to him, he’ll be like, “Um, excuse you, that thing has 200 pages and, like, no pictures and you expect me to read that?” Spy did manage to get him to read a couple Hardy Boys mysteries once, but he’ll never openly admit to enjoying them.

Soldier: Despite what most people think, he can read. It’s just that he generally doesn’t look that deeply into it. He’s obviously read The Art of War (something a dude from the Midwestern US wouldn’t casually stumble across), but grossly misinterpreted it. He mostly reads war stories and westerns, and only because they are relevant to his interests. Start throwing around “literature” and “sci-fi” near him and he’s suddenly illiterate. That being said, Spy once got him a copy of Starship Troopers and he begrudgingly enjoyed it (and spent the next week shooting his rocket launcher at every bug he came across).

Pyro: Doesn’t like reading so much as being read to, which they frequently ask of the Engineer when he’s not busy. Their favorites are fairy tales and fables. Spy has made a habit of tracking down various volumes of different fairy tales from around the world for them, and Pyro is absolutely ecstatic whenever they get a new one.

Demo: Really likes folklore and history, much to the shock of everyone who knows him. Although he’s far more interested in the oral side of storytelling, he’ll flip his way through a volume of legends from around the world or Scottish history when he’s not in a yarn-spinning mood. Scout also introduced him to horror comics, and he loves a good monster story. After that, Spy let him borrow his copies of Dracula and Frankenstein multiple times.

Heavy: Dude has a PhD in Russian literature, so naturally, that’s what he loves. He mostly reads what a lot of my college professors call “art fiction”, about real people in the real world doing real things and having real feelings. He tries not to be, but he can occasionally be a bit snobby about it, because how can you read silly comics or adventure stories when the art of Tolstoy exists. Spy understands this and finds him Russian-translated works of other popular literary fiction. Heavy has no idea how Spy accomplishes this, but he does love the Russian copy of Revolutionary Road Spy gave him for Christmas one year.

Engineer: Engie has been addicted to science fiction ever since he was a little kid. From Weird Science comics to Asimov and Wells, he devoured tales of men pushing the boundaries of human understanding. Of course, while most boys were content to just lose themselves in the adventure and forget about it as they grew, Engie has turned the stories he loved into blueprints. He kept his battered copies of I, Robot, The Time Machine, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in his desk to pull out on slow evenings, to work on that real-life Nautilus or time machine he’s always tinkered with. When these eventually fell apart, Spy bought him leather bound copies of The Foundation trilogy and the complete works of H.G. Wells.

Medic: Most of the time, Medic doesn’t care for fiction, instead preferring medical journals or something similar. But there’s one genre he’ll always come back to, and that’s horror. It’s not even really that he finds the stories all that scary. In fact, he reads them as bedtime stories for the most part, to unwind after a long, grueling day on the field. He does this by sitting there and basically riffing on them. He read Psycho and Scout swore he heard him mutter, “Well that’s just inefficient body disposal” at one point while he was reading it. Spy has taken to buying him box loads of trashy paperbacks, usually picking them based on which ones have the most grotesque covers.

Sniper: Obviously, Sniper loves a good adventure. He’s happiest when his stories involve daring-do, man vs. nature type stuff, and maybe more than a little swashbuckling. Read loads of it is his tree hideout when he wasn’t throwing rocks at people who wanted to beat him up as a kid. His heroes were Allan Quartermaine, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Zorro, and Tarzan. Spy finds similarly pulpy dimestore adventures for him, although he tries to sneak in some actually literature from time to time. He hit real success when he gave Sniper a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, with Sniper devouring the rest of the series as soon as he learned there was more.

Spy: If you couldn’t tell by the fact he appears in every one of these, Spy loves books. Having grown up in as difficult a situation as he did (I’ve mentioned in other posts that Spy was a human trafficking victim, starting very young), reading was an escape for him. He taught himself to read, and whenever he had a moment of reprieve, he’d fish out the books he hid under the floorboards and lose himself in them. He kept up the habit well into his adult years, and reading provides him with a sense of calm, something not even a cigarette can replicate. He loves all sorts of stories, but finds himself drawn most to fantasy and mysteries. All of his books are well-thumbed, and are in English and French. It’s his go-to gift for people he really likes. If he needs to get a close friend a present of any kind, it is guaranteed to be a book, after he has carefully thought out exactly what they’d enjoy. If Spy gives you a book, you should feel flattered. It’s the biggest compliment he gives.

[easyfoodnetwork]

Inside David Chang’s New Memoir

David Chang on “Ugly Delicious” | Courtesy of Netfix

10 telling quotes from “Eat a Peach”

David Chang is one of the most influential restaurateurs of this century, a position he regards with no small amount of trepidation. And in Eat a Peach, Chang’s first memoir, the chef wrestles with his success as he chronicles his rise to prominence and the fame he’s experienced since. The beats of the book will be familiar to those who have followed Chang’s career, and much of it reads as if Chang is responding directly to those same people, critics included.

Chang gives the behind-the-scenes play by play for each of his restaurant openings, from growing pains at his first restaurant, the East Village’s Noodle Bar, to the “art project” that was fast-food, fried chicken restaurant Fuku, to his regrets around Momofuku’s critically panned Italian restaurant Nishi. He addresses his reputation for anger in the kitchen, the fallout from the shuttering of beloved food magazine Lucky Peach, and that time he reduced Bay Area cuisine to figs on a plate. He also lays out his struggles with mental health, including a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and examines the ways in which this fact of his life is linked to his mistakes as well as his undeniable ascent in the restaurant world.

Here are some of the highlights:

Eat a Peach is available now on Amazon and Bookshop.

On his management style at Noodle Bar:

“I didn’t know how to teach or lead this team, but I was getting good results. My method, if you can even call it that, was a dangerous, shortsighted combination of fear and fury. My staff was at the mercy of my emotional swings. One second, we were on top of the world. The next, I would be screaming and banging my fists on the counter. I sought out and thrived on conflict. My arrogance was in conflict with my insecurity. Our restaurant was in conflict with the world.”

“I never resolved any conflicts between staff. On the contrary, if I heard that two cooks weren’t getting along, I’d see to it that they worked together more closely. That was one surefire method, I told myself, to ensure the place had a pulse. You could feel our anger the second you walked through the door, and that was exactly how I wanted it.”

On developing the Momofuku style:

“Roll your eyes all you want. God knows it sounds clichéd. But at that time most chefs in America were giving their customers different food than they were eating themselves. What we ate after service was uglier, spicier, louder. Stuff you want to devour as you pound beer and wine with your friends. It was the off bits that nobody else wanted and the little secret pieces you saved for yourself as a reward for slogging it out in a sweaty kitchen for sixteen hours. It’s the stuff we didn’t trust the dining public to order or understand: a crispy fritter made from pig’s head, garnished with pickled cherries; thin slices of country ham with a coffee-infused mayo inspired by Southern redeye gravy. My favorite breakthrough never made the cookbook: whipped tofu with tapioca folded in, topped with a fat pile of uni. So fresh, so cold, so clean, and so far outside of our own comfort zone. There were so many ideas on the menu that we’d never seen or tried before. The only unifying thread was that we were nervous about every single dish we served.”

On success:

“The only benefit to tying your identity, happiness, well-being and self-worth to your business is that you never stop thinking about it or worrying over what’s around the corner. If I have been quick to adapt to the changing restaurant landscape, it is because I have viewed it as a literal matter of survival. I have never allowed myself to coast or believed that I deserve for life to get easier with success. That’s where hubris comes from. The worst version of me was the one who, as a preteen, thought he had what it took to be a pro golfer. I believed my own hype and was a snotty little shit about it. The humiliation and pain of having it all slip through my fingers is something I’d rather never feel again. And so, I choose not to hear compliments or allow myself to bask in positive feedback. Instead, I spend every day imagining the many ways in which the wheels might fall off.”

On the demise of Lucky Peach:

“For anybody who thinks I didn’t feel a responsibility to the magazine, or that Lucky Peach wasn’t tied into the very heart of my own identity, let me explain something to you. To this day, it’s still something journalists ask me.

“You know what the name Momofuku means?

“It means ‘lucky peach.’”

On embracing his role as chef and restaurateur:

“All I ever wanted was to be normal, to think normal. I’m not a naturally loquacious person. I’m not outgoing or inclined to be a leader. I’m a wallflower. It’s been like that since I was a kid. For the majority of my life I was somewhere between ashamed and afraid of my Koreanness. I wanted not to be me, which is why drugs — both illicit and prescribed — appeal to me.

“The restaurants changed all of that. When I started Momofuku, I killed the version of me that didn’t want to stick his neck out or take chances. Even at its earliest larval stages, when it was more theory than restaurant, Momofuku was about carving out some sort of identity for myself. It would be my way of rejecting what the tea leaves said about me.

“Work made me a different person. Work saved my life.”

On rage and his diagnosis of bipolar disorder with “affective dysregulation” of emotions:

“Dr. Eliot describes it as a temporary state of psychosis. I can’t tell friend from foe. It’s as though I’m seeing the world in different colors and I can’t switch my vision back. It doesn’t only happen at work, either. I will lose it at home, which is horrifying. I lose all sense of what’s real and wish the worst on people I love most. My wife, Grace, tells me that when I’m angry, I seethe with such intensity that it can’t simply be emotional. It’s like I’m an animal registering dagner. There are times when Grace and I will be arguing and she’ll plead, ‘Hey, I’m on your side, I’m on your side.’ It will take hours for me to hear her.”

“I hate that the anger has become my calling card. With friends, family, my co-workers, and the media, my name has come to be synonymous with rage. I’ve never been proud of it, and I wish I could convey to you how hard I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve been entrenched in a war with my anger for many years.”

On his place in the world:

“‘What the hell is going on?’

“I call my friends and ask this all the time. They’ve heard me complain over and over that I have a problem accepting reality, because there’s no way I deserve the kind of good fortune I’ve had. I used to call it imposter syndrome, but now I understand it better as survivor’s guilt. All these people around me have died — literally and figuratively — and I’m still here. It truly feels like surviving a plane crash.”

On his first restaurant flop:

“I was on the verge of getting back on my feet after a very bad year, but the reviews of Nishi knocked me flat on my back again. I’m hesitant to admit this, but having to live through it a second time when The New Yorker published its profile of Wells put me in a bleak state of mind. I’m embarrassed that I let criticism affect me so intensely, but I felt closer to suicide in that periodthan I had in years.”

On being a part of the boys’ club:

“I’m literally one of the poster children for the kitchen patriarchy. In 2013, Time magazine put a photo of me, René Redzepi and Alex Atala wearing chef whites and satisfied smirks on the cover of their magazine and called us ‘The Gods of Food.’ I didn’t question whether any women would be included in the issue’s roundup of the most important chefs in the world because frankly it never occurred to me to ask. Even years before #MeToo started in earnest, the backlash to the all-male lineup was swift and deserved.

“At the time, I thought the point was about representation: there should be more women chefs covered by the food media, just as there should be more people of color. But no, we’re talking about something much more vicious. It’s not just about the glass ceiling or equal opportunity. It’s about people being threatened, undermined, abused, and ashamed in the workplace. It’s embarrassing to admit how long it took me to grasp that.”

On blindspots:

“Even this book, written with the benefit of greater knowledge and better perspective, is still riddled with problems. I’ve talked a great deal about the importance of failure as a learning tool, but it’s really a privilege to expect people to let us fail over and over again. There are too many dudes in my story in general, and you can still see my bro-ish excitement when I tell old war stories. Almost all the artists and writers I mention are men, and most of the movies I reference can be found in the DVD library of any frat house in America. It’s my truth, which is why I’m leaving them in here, but I wish that some of it were different.”

Disclosure: David Chang is producing shows for Hulu in partnership with Vox Media Studios, part of Eater’s parent company, Vox Media. No Eater staff member is involved in the production of those shows, and this does not impact coverage on Eater.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2RaDQMs https://ift.tt/3hhFoPk

David Chang on “Ugly Delicious” | Courtesy of Netfix

10 telling quotes from “Eat a Peach”

David Chang is one of the most influential restaurateurs of this century, a position he regards with no small amount of trepidation. And in Eat a Peach, Chang’s first memoir, the chef wrestles with his success as he chronicles his rise to prominence and the fame he’s experienced since. The beats of the book will be familiar to those who have followed Chang’s career, and much of it reads as if Chang is responding directly to those same people, critics included.

Chang gives the behind-the-scenes play by play for each of his restaurant openings, from growing pains at his first restaurant, the East Village’s Noodle Bar, to the “art project” that was fast-food, fried chicken restaurant Fuku, to his regrets around Momofuku’s critically panned Italian restaurant Nishi. He addresses his reputation for anger in the kitchen, the fallout from the shuttering of beloved food magazine Lucky Peach, and that time he reduced Bay Area cuisine to figs on a plate. He also lays out his struggles with mental health, including a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and examines the ways in which this fact of his life is linked to his mistakes as well as his undeniable ascent in the restaurant world.

Here are some of the highlights:

Eat a Peach is available now on Amazon and Bookshop.

On his management style at Noodle Bar:

“I didn’t know how to teach or lead this team, but I was getting good results. My method, if you can even call it that, was a dangerous, shortsighted combination of fear and fury. My staff was at the mercy of my emotional swings. One second, we were on top of the world. The next, I would be screaming and banging my fists on the counter. I sought out and thrived on conflict. My arrogance was in conflict with my insecurity. Our restaurant was in conflict with the world.”

“I never resolved any conflicts between staff. On the contrary, if I heard that two cooks weren’t getting along, I’d see to it that they worked together more closely. That was one surefire method, I told myself, to ensure the place had a pulse. You could feel our anger the second you walked through the door, and that was exactly how I wanted it.”

On developing the Momofuku style:

“Roll your eyes all you want. God knows it sounds clichéd. But at that time most chefs in America were giving their customers different food than they were eating themselves. What we ate after service was uglier, spicier, louder. Stuff you want to devour as you pound beer and wine with your friends. It was the off bits that nobody else wanted and the little secret pieces you saved for yourself as a reward for slogging it out in a sweaty kitchen for sixteen hours. It’s the stuff we didn’t trust the dining public to order or understand: a crispy fritter made from pig’s head, garnished with pickled cherries; thin slices of country ham with a coffee-infused mayo inspired by Southern redeye gravy. My favorite breakthrough never made the cookbook: whipped tofu with tapioca folded in, topped with a fat pile of uni. So fresh, so cold, so clean, and so far outside of our own comfort zone. There were so many ideas on the menu that we’d never seen or tried before. The only unifying thread was that we were nervous about every single dish we served.”

On success:

“The only benefit to tying your identity, happiness, well-being and self-worth to your business is that you never stop thinking about it or worrying over what’s around the corner. If I have been quick to adapt to the changing restaurant landscape, it is because I have viewed it as a literal matter of survival. I have never allowed myself to coast or believed that I deserve for life to get easier with success. That’s where hubris comes from. The worst version of me was the one who, as a preteen, thought he had what it took to be a pro golfer. I believed my own hype and was a snotty little shit about it. The humiliation and pain of having it all slip through my fingers is something I’d rather never feel again. And so, I choose not to hear compliments or allow myself to bask in positive feedback. Instead, I spend every day imagining the many ways in which the wheels might fall off.”

On the demise of Lucky Peach:

“For anybody who thinks I didn’t feel a responsibility to the magazine, or that Lucky Peach wasn’t tied into the very heart of my own identity, let me explain something to you. To this day, it’s still something journalists ask me.

“You know what the name Momofuku means?

“It means ‘lucky peach.’”

On embracing his role as chef and restaurateur:

“All I ever wanted was to be normal, to think normal. I’m not a naturally loquacious person. I’m not outgoing or inclined to be a leader. I’m a wallflower. It’s been like that since I was a kid. For the majority of my life I was somewhere between ashamed and afraid of my Koreanness. I wanted not to be me, which is why drugs — both illicit and prescribed — appeal to me.

“The restaurants changed all of that. When I started Momofuku, I killed the version of me that didn’t want to stick his neck out or take chances. Even at its earliest larval stages, when it was more theory than restaurant, Momofuku was about carving out some sort of identity for myself. It would be my way of rejecting what the tea leaves said about me.

“Work made me a different person. Work saved my life.”

On rage and his diagnosis of bipolar disorder with “affective dysregulation” of emotions:

“Dr. Eliot describes it as a temporary state of psychosis. I can’t tell friend from foe. It’s as though I’m seeing the world in different colors and I can’t switch my vision back. It doesn’t only happen at work, either. I will lose it at home, which is horrifying. I lose all sense of what’s real and wish the worst on people I love most. My wife, Grace, tells me that when I’m angry, I seethe with such intensity that it can’t simply be emotional. It’s like I’m an animal registering dagner. There are times when Grace and I will be arguing and she’ll plead, ‘Hey, I’m on your side, I’m on your side.’ It will take hours for me to hear her.”

“I hate that the anger has become my calling card. With friends, family, my co-workers, and the media, my name has come to be synonymous with rage. I’ve never been proud of it, and I wish I could convey to you how hard I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve been entrenched in a war with my anger for many years.”

On his place in the world:

“‘What the hell is going on?’

“I call my friends and ask this all the time. They’ve heard me complain over and over that I have a problem accepting reality, because there’s no way I deserve the kind of good fortune I’ve had. I used to call it imposter syndrome, but now I understand it better as survivor’s guilt. All these people around me have died — literally and figuratively — and I’m still here. It truly feels like surviving a plane crash.”

On his first restaurant flop:

“I was on the verge of getting back on my feet after a very bad year, but the reviews of Nishi knocked me flat on my back again. I’m hesitant to admit this, but having to live through it a second time when The New Yorker published its profile of Wells put me in a bleak state of mind. I’m embarrassed that I let criticism affect me so intensely, but I felt closer to suicide in that periodthan I had in years.”

On being a part of the boys’ club:

“I’m literally one of the poster children for the kitchen patriarchy. In 2013, Time magazine put a photo of me, René Redzepi and Alex Atala wearing chef whites and satisfied smirks on the cover of their magazine and called us ‘The Gods of Food.’ I didn’t question whether any women would be included in the issue’s roundup of the most important chefs in the world because frankly it never occurred to me to ask. Even years before #MeToo started in earnest, the backlash to the all-male lineup was swift and deserved.

“At the time, I thought the point was about representation: there should be more women chefs covered by the food media, just as there should be more people of color. But no, we’re talking about something much more vicious. It’s not just about the glass ceiling or equal opportunity. It’s about people being threatened, undermined, abused, and ashamed in the workplace. It’s embarrassing to admit how long it took me to grasp that.”

On blindspots:

“Even this book, written with the benefit of greater knowledge and better perspective, is still riddled with problems. I’ve talked a great deal about the importance of failure as a learning tool, but it’s really a privilege to expect people to let us fail over and over again. There are too many dudes in my story in general, and you can still see my bro-ish excitement when I tell old war stories. Almost all the artists and writers I mention are men, and most of the movies I reference can be found in the DVD library of any frat house in America. It’s my truth, which is why I’m leaving them in here, but I wish that some of it were different.”

Disclosure: David Chang is producing shows for Hulu in partnership with Vox Media Studios, part of Eater’s parent company, Vox Media. No Eater staff member is involved in the production of those shows, and this does not impact coverage on Eater.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2RaDQMs via Blogger https://ift.tt/3m9eNHM

[easyfoodnetwork]

David Chang on “Ugly Delicious” | Courtesy of Netfix 10 telling quotes from “Eat a Peach” David Chang is one of the most influential restaurateurs of this century, a position he regards with no small amount of trepidation. And in Eat a Peach, Chang’s first memoir, the chef wrestles with his success as he chronicles his rise to prominence and the fame he’s experienced since. The beats of the book will be familiar to those who have followed Chang’s career, and much of it reads as if Chang is responding directly to those same people, critics included. Chang gives the behind-the-scenes play by play for each of his restaurant openings, from growing pains at his first restaurant, the East Village’s Noodle Bar, to the “art project” that was fast-food, fried chicken restaurant Fuku, to his regrets around Momofuku’s critically panned Italian restaurant Nishi. He addresses his reputation for anger in the kitchen, the fallout from the shuttering of beloved food magazine Lucky Peach, and that time he reduced Bay Area cuisine to figs on a plate. He also lays out his struggles with mental health, including a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, and examines the ways in which this fact of his life is linked to his mistakes as well as his undeniable ascent in the restaurant world. Here are some of the highlights: Eat a Peach is available now on Amazon and Bookshop. On his management style at Noodle Bar: “I didn’t know how to teach or lead this team, but I was getting good results. My method, if you can even call it that, was a dangerous, shortsighted combination of fear and fury. My staff was at the mercy of my emotional swings. One second, we were on top of the world. The next, I would be screaming and banging my fists on the counter. I sought out and thrived on conflict. My arrogance was in conflict with my insecurity. Our restaurant was in conflict with the world.” “I never resolved any conflicts between staff. On the contrary, if I heard that two cooks weren’t getting along, I’d see to it that they worked together more closely. That was one surefire method, I told myself, to ensure the place had a pulse. You could feel our anger the second you walked through the door, and that was exactly how I wanted it.” On developing the Momofuku style: “Roll your eyes all you want. God knows it sounds clichéd. But at that time most chefs in America were giving their customers different food than they were eating themselves. What we ate after service was uglier, spicier, louder. Stuff you want to devour as you pound beer and wine with your friends. It was the off bits that nobody else wanted and the little secret pieces you saved for yourself as a reward for slogging it out in a sweaty kitchen for sixteen hours. It’s the stuff we didn’t trust the dining public to order or understand: a crispy fritter made from pig’s head, garnished with pickled cherries; thin slices of country ham with a coffee-infused mayo inspired by Southern redeye gravy. My favorite breakthrough never made the cookbook: whipped tofu with tapioca folded in, topped with a fat pile of uni. So fresh, so cold, so clean, and so far outside of our own comfort zone. There were so many ideas on the menu that we’d never seen or tried before. The only unifying thread was that we were nervous about every single dish we served.” On success: “The only benefit to tying your identity, happiness, well-being and self-worth to your business is that you never stop thinking about it or worrying over what’s around the corner. If I have been quick to adapt to the changing restaurant landscape, it is because I have viewed it as a literal matter of survival. I have never allowed myself to coast or believed that I deserve for life to get easier with success. That’s where hubris comes from. The worst version of me was the one who, as a preteen, thought he had what it took to be a pro golfer. I believed my own hype and was a snotty little shit about it. The humiliation and pain of having it all slip through my fingers is something I’d rather never feel again. And so, I choose not to hear compliments or allow myself to bask in positive feedback. Instead, I spend every day imagining the many ways in which the wheels might fall off.” On the demise of Lucky Peach: “For anybody who thinks I didn’t feel a responsibility to the magazine, or that Lucky Peach wasn’t tied into the very heart of my own identity, let me explain something to you. To this day, it’s still something journalists ask me. “You know what the name Momofuku means? “It means ‘lucky peach.’” On embracing his role as chef and restaurateur: “All I ever wanted was to be normal, to think normal. I’m not a naturally loquacious person. I’m not outgoing or inclined to be a leader. I’m a wallflower. It’s been like that since I was a kid. For the majority of my life I was somewhere between ashamed and afraid of my Koreanness. I wanted not to be me, which is why drugs — both illicit and prescribed — appeal to me. “The restaurants changed all of that. When I started Momofuku, I killed the version of me that didn’t want to stick his neck out or take chances. Even at its earliest larval stages, when it was more theory than restaurant, Momofuku was about carving out some sort of identity for myself. It would be my way of rejecting what the tea leaves said about me. “Work made me a different person. Work saved my life.” On rage and his diagnosis of bipolar disorder with “affective dysregulation” of emotions: “Dr. Eliot describes it as a temporary state of psychosis. I can’t tell friend from foe. It’s as though I’m seeing the world in different colors and I can’t switch my vision back. It doesn’t only happen at work, either. I will lose it at home, which is horrifying. I lose all sense of what’s real and wish the worst on people I love most. My wife, Grace, tells me that when I’m angry, I seethe with such intensity that it can’t simply be emotional. It’s like I’m an animal registering dagner. There are times when Grace and I will be arguing and she’ll plead, ‘Hey, I’m on your side, I’m on your side.’ It will take hours for me to hear her.” “I hate that the anger has become my calling card. With friends, family, my co-workers, and the media, my name has come to be synonymous with rage. I’ve never been proud of it, and I wish I could convey to you how hard I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve been entrenched in a war with my anger for many years.” On his place in the world: “‘What the hell is going on?’ “I call my friends and ask this all the time. They’ve heard me complain over and over that I have a problem accepting reality, because there’s no way I deserve the kind of good fortune I’ve had. I used to call it imposter syndrome, but now I understand it better as survivor’s guilt. All these people around me have died — literally and figuratively — and I’m still here. It truly feels like surviving a plane crash.” On his first restaurant flop: “I was on the verge of getting back on my feet after a very bad year, but the reviews of Nishi knocked me flat on my back again. I’m hesitant to admit this, but having to live through it a second time when The New Yorker published its profile of Wells put me in a bleak state of mind. I’m embarrassed that I let criticism affect me so intensely, but I felt closer to suicide in that periodthan I had in years.” On being a part of the boys’ club: “I’m literally one of the poster children for the kitchen patriarchy. In 2013, Time magazine put a photo of me, René Redzepi and Alex Atala wearing chef whites and satisfied smirks on the cover of their magazine and called us ‘The Gods of Food.’ I didn’t question whether any women would be included in the issue’s roundup of the most important chefs in the world because frankly it never occurred to me to ask. Even years before #MeToo started in earnest, the backlash to the all-male lineup was swift and deserved. “At the time, I thought the point was about representation: there should be more women chefs covered by the food media, just as there should be more people of color. But no, we’re talking about something much more vicious. It’s not just about the glass ceiling or equal opportunity. It’s about people being threatened, undermined, abused, and ashamed in the workplace. It’s embarrassing to admit how long it took me to grasp that.” On blindspots: “Even this book, written with the benefit of greater knowledge and better perspective, is still riddled with problems. I’ve talked a great deal about the importance of failure as a learning tool, but it’s really a privilege to expect people to let us fail over and over again. There are too many dudes in my story in general, and you can still see my bro-ish excitement when I tell old war stories. Almost all the artists and writers I mention are men, and most of the movies I reference can be found in the DVD library of any frat house in America. It’s my truth, which is why I’m leaving them in here, but I wish that some of it were different.” Disclosure: David Chang is producing shows for Hulu in partnership with Vox Media Studios, part of Eater’s parent company, Vox Media. No Eater staff member is involved in the production of those shows, and this does not impact coverage on Eater. from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2RaDQMs

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