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yurimother · 4 years

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Interview: Shilin Huang, Creator of Amongst Us and Carciphona

Shilin Huang ( @okolnir )is a Canadian freelance artist and comic creator, known for her long-running series Carciphona. She has a Bachelor of Music in Performance from the University of Western Ontario. Carciphona is a long-form fantasy story set in a world where demon-magic is forbidden. The series follows a young sorceress named Veloce, and the mythical assassin assigned to kill her, Blackbird.

Shilin’s newest book, Amongst Us, based on the webcomic of the same name, is an alternate universe comic that reimagines Veloce and Blackbird as musicians and girlfriends in the modern world. You can support the physical release for Amongst Us book 1 on Kickstarter today.

The first book of Amongst Us is coming soon. How do you feel about the release?

Eager and relieved!! I had worked for so long to make the web format viable for print format, as well doing all the extra drawings that were necessary--like covers--that I had to keep under wraps, it felt great to know that that part is finally done and I can release my child into the wild. I was very worried too before the launch of the Kickstarter, because though I am the one who made this story, I am not quite a slice-of-life type of person myself, and it was hard for me to see value in this mundane, not-plot-driven kind of story as a printed book. But I was very lucky to have that worry dispelled!

What drew you towards creating comics and artwork? Was it a dream of yours?

I’ve been drawing since before elementary school because I enjoyed it, and somewhere along the way, I wanted to create my own characters, and then I wanted stories for them. It was always just me doing what I felt like doing, more so than something that I aspired towards achieving consciously. If I had to analyze the allure myself, maybe it was because people and the world are so interesting, I’ve always loved thinking about their nature and circumstances, and art/storytelling was the best way for me to explore and share those thoughts.

Could you briefly walk us through your creative process for making a page of Carciphona or an episode of Amongst Us?

Carciphona is a long, plot-driven story, and so the scale of preparation required before the page eclipses the actual drawing of the page itself. [A] small moment has some larger impact in the plot, character development, and accuracy of world-building. So I usually spend about half a year or more writing out an entire volume, read it over many times over the course of the years, before I do the same thing with sketching the entire volume on the computer, rearranging pages and panels and entire scenes for best delivery, before I finally commit to drawing out each page in detail on the computer.

Where Carciphona is like an elaborate set course where I chop up and measure ingredients and time their cooking with a careful game plan so everything can be served as they should, Amongst Us is more like an omelette that I’m making to taste. There is still planning and writing ahead of time, but each episode is much more self-contained, and I do more of the planning of the episode within the episode itself, adding and taking away details as I see fit before I feel like it reads naturally enough for me to fine line, colour, and paint.

You talk about being a self-taught artist, how did you learn to create artwork? What are some of your favorite educational resources?

While I did come across many tutorials, they were mostly short ones here and there made by my peers, so I don’t have any favourites in my mind that I can share ): . I learned by just looking at the art of my peers at the time and drawing a lot myself, thinking about what I could learn from each time I see something great, and what I could try next time to make the next drawing look better to me. When I had just started drawing digitally, the internet was quite new, drawing tablets expensive and uncommon, with no social media to share art or find resources. Over time, I did try to learn more properly by doing studies and seeking out professional tutorials, but I found that I hated it and decided that I’d rather learn and make mistakes at my own pace and be happy than to commit to effective and efficient learning and make myself dislike drawing.

Amongst Us is, of course, an Alternate Universe comic featuring characters from Carciphona. What inspired you to put your characters into a GL slice of life work?

Back in 2006, when I started drawing Carciphona, I had no plans of this frenemies dynamic for the two main characters, Blackbird and Veloce, and when the thought had occurred to me as I continue to tweak the story, canon GL relationships were still rare and rarely accepted. I was even told on many occasions by readers that they hope the two do not end up with some couples dynamic, or they will no longer be interested in the story. Ultimately, Carciphona was a fantasy story about an entire world, and I wasn’t going to risk the story’s reception over a small detail like whether or not Blackbird and Veloce sleep together, so I just played with the ideas of their relationship on the side, in paintings of many different AUs. Eventually, all that did was make me become so attached to the idea that I decided to say, screw it, I need someplace where they could be together, and I’m drawing an AU for real.

Where do you draw inspiration from for your work? Both Amongst Us and Carciphona.

I love a lot of things, feelings, aesthetics, and I eat up all of that and take it back out in the form of my stories. The inspiration is everywhere, from beautiful imagery I witness in pictures and in real life, to [the] lives of people that I hear about or experience firsthand, to the ethics and structures of professions from mechanics to medicine… In feelings, knowledge, and perspective, there’s an infinite amount of things that makes me think, and that thinking is what creates AU and Carciphona, whether or not that line of inspiration can be clearly drawn back to the root of the thought.

What are some of your biggest challenges or fears creating Amongst Us? Was there any realization or advice that helped you overcome those difficulties?

My biggest fear is always in relatability because it’s a difference between me and the reader that I do not and cannot have a solution for because it involves another person. In such a relatable genre as slice of life/comedy/romance, where the readers have more experience and therefore more varied but stronger expectations of a version of life that is relatable to them, I know that even if somehow I become a master writer, I still would not be able [to] say whether I could story that others would get or would be interested in, especially because I am aware I am an oddball when it comes to how I think, how I live, and what I value. What helped me the most was simply seeing that there were readers who did enjoy the stories for what it was, and reminding myself that I’m telling the stories to find those who might enjoy it, not to avoid those who might not. It’s a different perspective, rather than a solution, so the worry constantly resurfaces, but I hope it becomes easier over time as I am proven wrong more often!

Amongst Us readers have gotten to see Veloce and Blackbird as an established couple, and now we are witnessing flashbacks to how they first met. Where do you hope to take the series in the future?

I intend to tell both of these timelines concurrently, so as the couple timeline ended at episode 20, I intend to end the flashback at around episode 40, and then switch again at episode 60, and so on. While this kills the momentum for each arc, I made AU so that I can have the cake and eat it too--I want both their back story and a happy ending at the same time without having to wait 10-20 years for it, like I do with Carciphona’s plot haha!

What is one dream or aspiration you would like to accomplish? Even if it is unrealistic.

My only dream right now is just to finish both Carciphona and AU before my time’s up! Funny how unrealistic is specified, it made me realize that I rarely consider unrealistic dreams/aspirations as worth thinking about as they are unlikely to happen when there are so many other things I want to do that are actually possible. Most of my unrealistic dreams actually revolve around music, a profession I had left behind with an aching heart. I dream to play a concerto with an orchestra someday, or even learn to conduct, but for now, drawing my dreams out feels enjoyable and fulfilling enough a compromise!

What advice do you have for people wanting to create artwork and comics?

The true challenge these days I feel like is rarely in the work itself; there are so many readily available free resources that anyone who is capable of working hard and thinking critically will sooner or later be able to master skills they acquire to some degree. What is truly challenging is finding, and then accepting, what paths work for you. Someone might find great joy in working in a studio with a group on something big, while someone else might only enjoy drawing what they feel. Both, in this current climate, will be compelled to adhere to the standards of drawing what others want to see in order to gain recognition and financial stability, one will thrive, one will not.

I think the most important thing to keep in mind is understanding what you want out of drawing/creating, and why. Understanding yourself is often not as straight-forward as it may seem, everyone has different circumstances that subtly motivates them to sometimes misdirect energy and misinterpret what it is they truly want. Some people need to be understood, some people want an excuse to execute, and some people want fame, money, recognition, validation. Whatever it is, and all valid, understanding and accepting your own motivations to create can tremendously help you find the path forward that is suitable for you, not anyone else, even if it might mean following an impractical path that no one else recommends.

Finally, after the release of the first Amongst Us book, what is next for you? Anything special your fans can look forward to?

My game plan through the decades has always been to just keep going. I did choose long-form projects such as the comics that I draw, and the best thing I can do is to just keep it up and reach those exciting points of the story that I’ve always worked towards, no matter how uneventful that may make my work routine sound. However, I do have a little side thing with a(nother) recurring theme that I’ve been doing here and there for fun whenever I had time, people who keep up with my social media art posts may have noticed. If I ever accumulate enough material, maybe there will be some bonus snacks for my readers on the horizon!

Read Carciphona and Amongst Us online now and be sure to support the physical release on Amongst Us book 1 on Kickstarter today. Also, be sure to follow Shilin on Twitter @Okolnir.

#yuri #news #essay #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtq+#queer #gay #shilin #girls love #gl #wlw #essays #interview #art #artist #comics #indie #carciphona #amongst us

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faunusrights · 3 years

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if it’s a gentleman’s sport then why am i, ruby rose, so good at it? - snooker au

i straight up started writing this at like 11:45pm on my phone directly onto tumblr before i passed out for the night. is this garbage. yes. do i care. no. this is a part of the snooker au i’ve joked about before, which is a winter/ruby Sports Anime-Esque adventure into one of my favourite niche sports, up there with professional air hockey and rally. snooker is good! you should check it out! it’s like pool but more confusing, and you have to wear a waistcoat whilst you play it. i don’t make the rules, i merely enforce them.

///

“I never thought I’d say this,” Blake says out of nowhere, and their eyes are going sort of wide with the realisation, catching on the golden lights of the hall and glimmering a soft amber, “but I actually think I’m compelled by this horseshit.”

Weiss sighs so hard that it sounds more like a wheeze, but Ruby’s already overjoyed, turning towards Blake and Weiss with her cue held overhead, readying a cheer. “I knew it! I told you! Snooker is so good, right?”

Weiss had known coming to Patch’s single snooker hall to watch Ruby practise had been a bad idea for myriad reasons, the chief of which was that Ruby is almost certainly on a crash-course with Weiss’s older sister as she climbs the precarious ranks at an almost flippant pace, but the second was that the last thing she needs is for her datemate to find literally anything interesting in a sport about knocking balls together. Tragically, Weiss has always been somewhat adjacent to snooker given its status as the Gentleman’s Sport and its broad appeal in Atlas, and she’d hoped vaguely supporting her sister’s career whilst also strategically moving herself to Vale meant Weiss would never have to interact with it or any of its players again. Alas...

“It’s deceptively simple,” Blake muses aloud, and Yang tuts from where she’s stood at the opposite end of the snooker table, waiting for Ruby to take her turn.

“Yeah, and deceptively slow when your opponent needs to take five minutes to brag about it between shots. Chop chop, Ruby, we’re not hanging around here all day.”

Ruby pouts, making a show of rounding the table to eye up her angles. “But it’s so fun to talk about! It’s, like, ASMR the sport! And what with all the strategy and the thinking ahead, it’s like... it’s like... ball chess!”

Weiss facepalms. “Maidens have mercy.”

“I’m not wrong,” Ruby insists. “It’s exactly like chess. Ball chess.”

“It is a lot like chess,” Yang admits, and Weiss is glad she looks about as glum about it as Weiss feels. Blake, unfortunately, still looks horribly captivated. What a disaster.

“Ball chess,” Weiss repeats, and it hurts her to even say. “My sister would tie your spine in a knot for that one.”

Ruby snorts, but she finally leans over the table, eyeing up the distant black that Yang had missed. It’s a long pot — Yang had tried to get the cue ball to safety and had failed that endeavour, too, managing the distance but not the snooker — but Ruby doesn’t even hesitate before lining herself up, eyes focusing between her target and her goal before striking true, the cue ball sailing smooth down the table... before it catches the angle just so, the black knocked into the corner pocket with such ease she may as well have picked up the damn thing and dropped it in herself. The cue bounces off the foot cushion before rolling to a calculated stop for an angle on the next red, and Ruby nods appreciatively before turning back to Weiss with a grin, Yang quick to replace the black onto its spot at the bottom of the table.

“Yeah, but she’s gonna have to be nice to me. Way I see it, we’ll first meet in the hall during, like, semi-finals or whatever. Gotta have manners, Weiss.”

“She’ll obliterate you,” Weiss fires back, because she might not care for snooker but she’s Winter’s number one fan hell or high water, and that means tossing out the threats. “As soon as you miss, she’ll clear the table and wipe the floor with you.”

Yang makes a wriggly hand gesture at that. “I dunno. Your sister’s pretty fucking methodical, but I’ve yet to see anyone put Ruby in a position she can’t cheese her way out of. I don’t think you can actually, like, snooker her in a way that matters.”

“It’s trajectories,” Ruby cuts in as she lines up her next shot on the red — there’s only two remaining after this, and Yang’s score is lagging dangerously behind with Ruby’s determined focus to keep herself centred on the black. “Even then, you just have to get fancy with your curves. A snooker is just when your shot isn’t a hundred-percent chance, but I can do a lot with ninety.”

At that, she sinks the red, the cue ball puttering its way back around to give her another straight shot on the black to the opposite corner pocket. Yang’s already losing the will to live, it seems. Weiss can’t blame her. Blake, however, seems more interested than ever. “So, Winter’s methodical and you’re... what, spontaneous?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ruby answers, shaking her head. “It’s more like... since we’re calling this ball chess—“ (“No we’re not,” Weiss interjects to no avail) “—it’s more like Winter’s one of those chess players who knows all the strats, right? Like, uh, Queen’s Gambit or Fool’s Mate or whatever the shit they’re called. So long as every move goes to plan, she’s pretty much unstoppable. Me? I’m like one of those kids who gets a Rubik’s Cube and then completely ignores all the instructions. Like, I totally mess it up before I solve it anyway.”

“Which Ruby has done before,” Yang adds solemnly, and Ruby grins.

“Which I have done before! So, with Winter, as long as she doesn’t miss the pot or fuck up her safety, it’s her game. But I like the unexpected! I like being jammed into a new situation and figuring it out from there. It means I adapt a whole lot better then I fuck up and miss my shot, or the cue doesn’t end up where I planned.”

Blake nods, doing that thing where they sit up straight and cross their arms because they’re getting really quite engaged with the matter, and Weiss hasn’t yet found the inner strength to tell them it makes them look like a carbon copy of their father. “Polar opposites, then?”

“I guess,” Ruby shrugs. “Like, if you give her an inch she’ll take the mile, but if she screws up, she’s gonna have to work hard to put me somewhere I can’t crawl out of again.”

This is why Ruby’s nickname in these halls is The Escape Artist, and it’s the entire reason Weiss absolutely does not, in any capacity, want Ruby and Winter to play against each other. It’ll either be a match that’ll end in as few frames as physically possible, or a match that goes on until Weiss crumbles into fucking dust, and the odds are so 50/50 that she doesn’t like the look of either of them.

It would help if Ruby stopped being so fucking good at snooker, potting the black again with such ease that it’s like breathing at this point. Yang hisses between her teeth, and Ruby raises a brow as she stands up again.

“It’s ungentlemanly conduct to quit a game before you gotta do snookers,” Ruby points out, and Yang scowls.

“Ruby, I have done the maths, and there is not a chance in hell I’m winning now. The day I manage to get points off you missing is the day hell opens up and swallows me whole,” Yang says, though she doesn’t move to quit just yet, still holding onto her cue despite the knowledge it’s no good to her now. “Just clear the table so we can go and get lunch.”

“We could do that,” Ruby agrees. And then, she swings her head around to look at Weiss with an obnoxious grin. “Unless...”

“Ruby Rose,” Weiss snarls, “if you intentionally miss this final red just to keep this game on life support, I will end you.”

#my writing #rwby #ruby rose #snooker au #i have no idea why i was so compelled to write abt it last night but i WAS #anyway this thing literally isnt edited so dont squint too hard at the inevitable spelling errors #11:45pm murphy was a different person idk them

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eyeamsevn · 4 years

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A few years after I moved down to ATL, I started working for a really good but now defunct property management company named Archstone(This was 2001 and it had been acquired by Lehman brothers so when the 08 mortgage bubble burst, so did Lehman brothers and Archstone along with it. But I digress). Anyway, one of my coworkers was a guy from Lafayette Louisiana named Kenneth Glaude. He was a little older than me and was a hip hop head(and the dude was straight hilarious) so based off of that we hit it off really good off the rip. We'd work, laughing and talking music all day. I had just started dating a girl from New Orleans(Danielle) and he would hip me to Louisiana cuisine, he'd drive to Lafayette and I'd give him cash to stop in New Orleans and buy some boudin to bring back for me, or he'd go to Houston to pick up mix cassettes of artists from Houston's local rap scene, DJ Screw, Mike Jones, Screwed Up Clique, Slim Thug, Lil Keke, Big Pokie, Lil Flip, T. Ferris and Swishahouse, all of the cats who were coming up at the time. So many cats that I can't even remember. Sure I knew about UGK, The Geto Boys, Rap a Lot, J Prince, Suave House, Tony Draper and all of that but that was about it, this cat knew it all about the next wave of Houston rap so I knew Houston's rap scene was gonna pop long before the rest of the country did. I was listening to all of the newest and hottest Houston had to offer at the time thanks to my co-worker. He taught me about sittin on a slab, swangin, candy paint, chopped and screwed music, boppers....all of that. Anyway, he lived on the property we worked at so sometimes we'd spend lunch at his apartment or after work we'd sit in the living room, listen to tapes, vibe out and he'd break down who was who rapping, who produced what, what part of Houston they were from...basically break down the entire back story of all of these new artist and producers. When you walked into his apartment the first thing you noticed when you entered his living room was a giant 10" by 14" picture of him and Tupac framed and hanging over his fireplace. Finally(after hanging out there a dozen or so times) I asked him..."Say bruh, when you meet Tupac?" Well, story was that the pic was taken outside of a convenience store in Atlanta on Roswell road. He and his friend were going in and Pac was standing at a pay phone outside of the store smoking a cigarette making a call. They lose it!!!! This was shortly after the movie Poetic Justice had hit the big screen and it was a hit. He said Pac was real cool, finished his call and just started kicking it with my friend and his buddy. My friends buddy had a big crush on Janet Jackson so he asks Pac how was it kissing Janet in which Pac replied..."Just like kissing any other(let's just say he used the word "woman"...but you can imagine what word Pac really used). He said his friend really ain't like it when Pac said that. Well, at the time my friends mother had just died and he told Tupac...."Bruh, you need to write a song about appreciating your momma. I just lost mine and when your momma dies life ain't the same. You start thinking about all the times you took her presence for granted."...he said Pac was like..."Yeah? Hmmm..." and kinda grabbed his chin like he was in thought about it. Then, his friend had a disposable camera in the car that had a few shots left and they took pictures with Tupac and left. And that's how that picture came about...then he said about a year after that picture was taken one day he was driving down Peachtree street when he heard Tupac's Dear Momma on the radio.

True story.

#tupacvideos #tupac #tupacamarushakur #tupaclives #tupac shakur #tupacedits #atlanta

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ventcovers · 3 years

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Upgrades to 10 Hideous Air Vent Covers: Advantages of New Pacific Register Company

Don't let unsightly air vent covers distract from your home's aesthetic. Take a look at these great-looking improvements that you can buy or build yourself.

Marble it to the gills If your old air vent covers are detracting from the charm of your new marble floors, Metro Marble Repair is here to help. Custom floor signups are available in tile, glass, granite, porcelain, and limestone. Simply give them your supplies, and they'll create the ideal vent shroud for you. Sheet Metal with Designs Purchase some patterned sheet metal to take a more innovative approach to repairing an unsightly air vent shroud. Measure the vent openings then cut them to fit over the vent with caution. Bear leather gloves when chopping, then file down any rough edges with tin snips. If required, paint the covers, fasten the metal to thin wood strips, and seal the cover with small screws.

Using a Fiberglass Plastic Air Vent Shroud.

This air vent shroud option is only for use on walls and ceilings, and it is a luxurious and sleek upgrade to standard covers. Installing the device is as quick as sticking it to the wall or ceiling with self-adhesive silicone. Attempt a Butterfly Although this is not a cost-effective choice, you might hire an artist to make air vent covers for you. Jerzy Sanecki of SaneckiArt, an Etsy customer, designs one-of-a-kind air vent covers, such as this butterfly style.

“I purchased five complete vent covers from Jerzy and am incredibly satisfied with the results. They are simply gorgeous and lovely, and we have already got compliments on them in our new home,” one reviewer says.

Check out these 100 stunning before and after home makeovers that will astound you.

Make an attempt at a minimalist style.

Through using the Aria Vent, you will achieve a minimalist look. When they go about making "seriously beautiful air vents," this maker has DIYers and industry pros in mind. With drop-in mounting technology, the original Aria Vent has a sleek, futuristic appearance. Minimalism is one of the 15 home patterns that Millennials are embracing.

Make Use of an Ancient Shutter

Consider converting an air vent that is prominently placed on a wall into a piece of art. Find an old interior window shutter and hack it down to size for the air vent. The shutter should be completed with trim before being primed and sprayed. Attach some D-rings to the shutter and hang it on the wall. Here's an example of how it'll look when it's done. You can find a lot of antique window shutters on Etsy. Check out these 12 easy-to-make room dividers, one of which is made from repurposed shutters.

It's a Tile Matching an air vent to the rest of the architecture will prevent it from being an eyesore on your floor. Custom tileable in-floor vents with a welded aluminum frame and reversible insert are accessible from Tile Lines. You have the option of cutting your tile to match! Here's how to tile a DIY backsplash, when we're on the subject of tiles.

Consider a mirrored finish.

Install mirrored finish air vent covers for a streamlined look that blends in with the surrounding fabrics. This option was designed to replace old louvered grilles and is a perfect match for walls and ceilings. Big mirrors are among the 52 objects that will make your home seem more expensive.

Air Vent Mask in Brushed Nickel, Art Deco

Install these chic air vent covers to bring more Art Deco flair to your house. These covers, which come in a range of sizes and finishes, are simple to install—just drop it into the opening with no tools needed! Taking a look at these 15 retro home patterns that are resurfacing. Use a period-style air vent shroud to add some style to your room. You'll enjoy this period-style scroll pattern air vent shroud if your home decor is more Victorian. It's made of cast aluminum and has a luxurious black finish due to a baked-on powder coating. It's also rustproof and needs no repair! Do you want to give your home a Victorian feel? The following directions will teach you how to build a Victorian screen home.

Ground Air Vent shroud (DIY)

Okay, I understand that this DIY floor air vent shroud isn't for everybody, and that's good. This idea would not have been my cup of tea if it hadn't been thrust upon me. We have kittens, you know. There are ten of them. Cats can also be jerks at times. And cats have a history of peeing on things when they're feeling extremely jerky. They pee down stuff, in this situation. And that's just what our cats did: they peed down the vents in our floor.

Now, I understand how revolting it is. I debated not posting it and our eventual patch on the site because it was so revolting. But, as you know, I tend to keep it real around here, and I think that if I'm having this dilemma, there must be other pet owners out there who are as well. So, if I can help any fellow feline lovers out there fix this heinous dilemma, I'll take the risk of missing a few readers in the process. Anyway, this concern began when we first moved into the house where we now live. We didn't have this problem in our old house because it didn't have floor air vents, so we were surprised to see our cats piddling down our cool, clean air vents in our new home. We did everything a cat owner could do in this situation—made sure there were enough clean litter boxes open, using feline pheromone diffusers, etc.—and it helped a bit, but we still had the problem on occasion. I ultimately decided to strategically position furniture to cover as many air vents as possible, but some air vents stayed exposed. We searched for floor air vent covers to buy to fix our dilemma, but the only ones that looked like they could fit were made of plastic and would crumble into a million pieces if stepped on. We had to come up with a plan because there was no way I was going to put up with this and keep our house smelling like we had so many cats, even if we did have too many cats. These are designed to go over regular 4 x 10 and 4 x 14-inch floor air vent signups. Since signups come in a range of sizes, if you don't have the same sizes as us, you'll need to do some weighing and estimating to ensure a decent match. We built them to fit snugly in the back and front so they wouldn't slip around, but we made the cover 3′′ wider than the floor openings to prevent pee from getting under the sides of the air vent, which are open to allow air movement.

“But people are going to fall right over these!” I can hear some of you shouting at the computer screens now. Let me ask you a question: how much do you walk on your house's floor air vent signups? Floor air vents are usually positioned in inconspicuous areas and/or parallel to a wall. When wandering around indoors, people naturally leave a foot or two between themselves and the walls. And as long as you don't make them the same color as the floor you're going to use them on, they'll be easy to find.

• Timber planks 10′′ x 3/4′ for the top of the air vent sheet. They usually come in 6-8′ lengths, but do the calculations to work out how many you'll need based on the number of air vents you want to protect. These are made of Pinewood, but any heavy wood would do (softer wood might split if it does ever get stepped on, but I still think the chances of that happening are pretty slim). • 1′′ x 3/4′′ wood planks for the air vent cover's foundation These may be difficult to come by, so you can have to break a wider plank down to size. If you do buy them, they usually come in 4-6′ lengths, so do the math and work out how many you'll need based on the number of air vents you want to protect. These are made of Pinewood, but any heavy wood would do. • Finish screws, 16 gauge, 1 1/2 inch • Weathered Gray Varathane wood polish (buy at Lowes) • Baby Gloves with Valspar Chalky Coating (buy at Lowes) • Uncolored Valspar Sealing Wax (buy at Lowes) Please note: I'm sharing the type and dimensions of the wood I purchased so you'll know what I used for this project, but you can use different types/sizes of wood if you can't find the same type/size wood at the hardware store or if you have scrap wood.

Instruments:

• Saw with no rope

• The Nail Gun

• Paint Brushes

• Cotton Rags

• Palm Sander

Directions: Cut the top and sides of the wood to match your floor air vent register's dimensions. For the 4′′ x 14′′ air vent register, we used dimensions of 17′′ x 9′′ for the top of the air vent shroud (two pieces of 10′′ x 3/4′ wood plank cut to fit) and 17′′ x 3/4′′ x 1′′ for the sides of the air vent shroud (two pieces of 3/4′′ x 1′′ wood plank cut to the 17′′ duration for the wide air vents). The top of the air vent shroud (two pieces of 10′′ x 3/4′ wood plank cut to fit) and 13′′ x 3/4′′ x 1′′ for the sides of the air vent shroud (two pieces of 3/4′′ x 1′′ wood plank cut to the 13′′ length for the large air vents) are the dimensions we used for the 4′′ x 10′′ air vent sing-up.

As seen above, nail the two top pieces to the two side pieces. Now comes the exciting part! Apply a wood polish and brush away the excess with a towel. Give at least a couple of hours for the paint to dry before going on to the next stage. Allow at least a few hours for the chalk paint to dry before going on to the next stage. Using the palm sander, distress the soil. It's completely up to you how much or how little you distress (or even whether you do it at all)! Using a wet towel, clear some pollen.

Apply a layer of sealing wax to the surface and brush away any residue with a towel. There's a lot of discussion on whether you can wax before or after distressing; I usually do it after because it covers the exposed wood as well as the chalk paint (and these will use all the protection they can get if my cats try to poop on them, which they haven't yet). Both of our air vent covers have been assembled and are ready to be mounted in the building! If you're having a similar issue with your cats as we were, I hope this DIY floor air vent shroud will come in handy! Our cats have been avoiding the freshly protected vents so far, and it's awesome to have them back in operation, particularly with the 100+ degree temperatures of our summers approaching! Thank you for coming, and please let me know what you think or whether you have any questions!

Pacific Registry Company sells decorative wall grilles and overhead registers.

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ohblackdiamond · 4 years

Text

till it shines (peter/paul, nc-17)

"Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel." "And no shows." "Yeah." During a five-day lull in concerts, stranded in an Atlanta hotel, Peter and Paul find a means to entertain themselves.

Notes: Inspired and based to a heavy extent on a very lovely, NSFW fanart concerning Paul's on-tour artistic endeavors. No, not the ones he showcases in galleries.

“till it shines”

by Ruriruri

It was the last day of the Gay Kitchen, with honorable maitre d's, cooks, servers, and busboys Peter Criss and Paul Stanley manning KISS' dwindling hotel fridge and supply closet. At least, it was supposed to be. Peter didn't know if after last night, it was still on the table.

At first, they'd really wanted to go all-out with the band dinners, but their budget hadn't permitted it. One last hurrah before they had to limp back to New York, with a single failed record to their names and all the notoriety of four strays in a junkyard. Back to Lydia for Peter-and Lydia wasn't so bad, Lydia wasn't so bad at all; she'd supported him through worse screw-ups and disappointments, but it was what she represented. A guy who still wasn't paying the bills four years into the marriage wasn't any better than a bum. She'd thought she'd found somebody who'd be going places. She'd been wrong.

For Paul, the prospect of going home was just as disastrous. At least, that was how he made it out to be. He'd get into these depressed rambles about his parents and his sister and his niece and how coming back just wasn't an option.

"Not an option? C'mon, you were in college, what, a couple of quarters-"

Paul had winced and licked his lips, a quick, nervous tic Peter had gotten far too accustomed to seeing as the band's money situation worsened.

"I only went a week. Don't tell Gene." And a swallow. "Look, it's stupid. I know. But I was born to play rock and roll, okay?"

"You're preaching to the fucking choir."

"I mean. if I can't do this, if I can't make this happen, I might as well not be here. This is the only outlet I've got."

Peter had rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to groan. Overblown as ever. Paul thought Peter was the dramatic one, the tetchy one, just because he had enough balls to address what was pissing him off instead of keeping it to occasional bitchy comments. Paul never seemed to hear his own whines.

"You think you're the only one with a dream around here?" Peter couldn't even bite back the rest. "How old were you when the Beatles got on Ed Sullivan? Ten?"

"Twelve," Paul had grumbled back. "Don't make this an age thing-"

"I was just out of high school. And I was already in bands-"

"Pete, I know, I know already. You keep telling me." Paul heaved a sigh. "You keep telling all of us."

"You've got to pay your dues, that's all it is."

"Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues." The right edge of Paul's mouth was starting to perk up.

"Yeah." Peter tugged absently at his bangs, trying not to let himself get too good a look at what he'd been seeing since before he even auditioned for KISS. The semi-permanent dye they all used worked fine on brown hair, but past that first wash, it was useless on gray. The streaks were more obvious against the jet-black backdrop than they'd ever been when he left his hair alone. "Look, I'm not gonna quit, I swear. If we have to end the tour, we have to end the tour. We get dropped from the label, we get dropped from the label. We lick our wounds and we try somewhere else. But until then, we got awhile in this hotel."

"And no shows."

"Yeah." No shows for the next five days at least. Their last pitiful handful of concerts, they'd opened for some redneck band. Outlaws or something. That was another depressing thing. Peter had always expected to at least be friendly with the bands they were the lead-in for, but they'd only been met with indifference at best and hostility at worst. Never ended up opening for the same band more than a few times, either. It just made the whole tour all the lonelier.

He realized after a second that Paul was staring at him. The guy had a weird stare. Kind of like a broke bagboy waiting on his tip, or maybe just like a girl who was really hoping for a proposal. Big-eyed, eager, and not remotely calculating. It might have pissed Peter off, if Paul didn't always follow it up with an abashed grin once he was caught.

"You're thinking about something," Paul said, before Peter could make the accusation himself.

"Yeah. I'm thinking we all need cheering up."

"You need cheering up, Peter."

"You just finished telling me you'd die if you didn't make it, Paul." He paused, still staring at the fridge. "And fuck, I'm gonna die if I have to eat at McDonalds one more time."

"Well, they've got Steak 'n Shake here, if you'd rather."

Peter groaned.

"Not when you're in a fucking blouse and heels. The crowd thinking we're fruits is bad enough." Before Paul could even stammer out a protest, something about it being rock and roll, or about needing more practice in the heels-God, c'mon-Peter continued. "No. I thought we could make our own dinner while we're here. Really make it, not just sandwiches and shit. Real food. We got the kitchen for it. And it'd save Bill some money. You know how to cook, right?" He knew Gene didn't. Ace just wouldn't.

"I'd hope so. My mom started leaving us home alone when I was eight."

"Poor, poor little Paulie." Peter rolled his eyes. "We could-we could make it themed, even. Make out like it's a restaurant. Menus and shit. Invite the guys down for dinner."

Paul brightened, which surprised him. Usually he'd be sore for hours over the slightest crack at his expense, like some spoiled, anxious kid. But for once, he actually seemed excited.

"Like Italian one night, maybe? We could make pizza."

"Yeah, sure, lemme get a shopping list going."

After three beers apiece, they'd named their restaurant the Gay Kitchen, decided they'd act the part of its bent proprietors, and written up a menu full of double-entendres. An hour later, still drunk, they'd pooled their money and ventured out to town in jeans and the lowest of their heels. They'd bought twenty bucks' worth of groceries, which should have been plenty. Then they'd started in on meal prep.

Strange how fun it was. Especially that first night, working on a poor man's casserole, with the radio on and Paul standing next to him chopping up onions, his hands encased in Ziploc sandwich bags because he didn't want the smell on his skin, while Peter cut half-frozen chicken breasts into ragged little cubes. They'd tossed the whole thing into the pan with some salt and pepper, dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup on top, stuck it in the oven and hoped for the best. He knew they should've gone with canned stuff entirely, especially for the meat, if they'd really wanted to save money, but the Gay Kitchen experience demanded the expenditure. At least, that was their excuse.

Besides, Ace and Gene had loved it. Not for the food so much. Peter figured their dinners were decent, maybe even good, sometimes, but he couldn't kid himself. There was nothing impressive about a dessert course that included Hostess cupcakes "with fresh Cool Whip." But the makeshift restaurant had done the job. Cheered them all up. No one said a word during any of the dinners about the tour ending or going back home. Not a single word. And he and Paul had screwed around, too, acting faggy, hitting on each other and the guys indiscriminately throughout the meals. Last night, Paul had even groped his ass while he was mincing around plating everyone's food.

"I had to take him off the menu." Peter could've sworn Paul was deliberately making that annoying lisp of his even worse during each dinner. Pitching his voice into a whine, too. Some commitment. Peter had glanced up, questioningly, but Paul had just ignored him and continued. "You see why, right? He's got such a nice ass-all the boys were looking, I couldn't help but get jealous-"

"Course you're jealous. You dieted yours off, Paulie," Ace had retorted with a laugh. Peter had been vaguely surprised Paul didn't break character at that, just clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his hand still on Peter's ass. Not squeezing anymore, thank God, but Peter had still felt the ghost of Paul's fingers there hours later when they'd both turned in for bed.

Looking back, maybe that was where it had really started. Glancing over at Paul on the double bed next to his, watching him, knees up, with the pad of hotel stationery in his lap and a pencil in his hand, Peter had cleared his throat. Paul lifted his head from where he'd been scribbling.

"Yeah?"

"What're you drawing?"

Paul held up the stationery without a hint of embarrassment. The usual weirdly accurate assortment of veiny, disembodied dicks covered the page.

"What do you always draw those for, anyway?"

Paul shrugged.

"I dunno. Why does Gene refuse to shower?"

"Because his mom told him even his B.O. was sacred." Peter rolled his eyes. "You got a fixation."

"<i>You've</i> got a fixation. You're the one always getting your dick out."

"Getting it out's not the same as drawing it. . That's not even your dick. Whose do you keep on-"

"I went to art school, asshole." There wasn't much of an edge to Paul's words, Peter noticed. "Life drawing comes with the territory."

"In high school? Jesus." Peter cocked his head, trying to decide if Paul was bullshitting him, but Paul was already back to doodling, his eyes averted. "You ever gonna attach them to anybody, or are they just gonna keep floating around?"

"Well, I thought I'd attach them to you, but then I realized that'd mean I'd have to draw your face."

"Oh, fuck you, Paul." He didn't know why, but he got up then, moved to sit on Paul's bed. Paul stopped scribbling just long enough to shift over for him. Peter leaned in, vying for a better look at the sketches. Six, no, seven dicks, from a couple different angles, all varying levels of erect. The balls were so accurate it was almost disturbing. "Ain't even mine. They're too small."

"These are scaled down."

"The shape's wrong, too. Was that one supposed to be bent like that?" Peter pointed at the offending cock, right in the center of the paper. He kind of thought it was intentional. There was something uncanny about Paul's artwork-well, the dick drawings, anyway. His other offerings, at least the ones Peter had seen-splattery acrylic abstracts from his high school portfolio, and the occasional insulting cartoon of his bandmates on the back of a paper napkin-lacked that attention to detail. And that enthusiasm. It was weird. Forget the rockstar shit; Peter almost wondered if Paul's true calling was illustrating gay porno mags.

Paul shifted the paper, blinking at him slowly.

"Are you really critiquing my doodles here?"

"Well, yeah. If you're gonna draw dicks, at least don't draw them bent."

"What's wrong with drawing them bent? Some guys have fucked-up dicks."

"Who do you know with a fucked-up dick? Gene?" Paul's was fine. Smaller than his, sure, but there wasn't anything the matter with it. Peter got a good look at it in the showers after concerts, and during occasional threesomes with college girls that didn't qualify as groupies. Paul didn't care about nudity any more than he or Ace did, which was a relief. Especially since Gene was so weird about it. Months on the road and he still wouldn't strip down in front of the band. Peter had asked Paul why. Paul had said something about Gene going to some Jewish school and that giving him hang-ups, which sounded ridiculous to Peter. If Jewish school was anything like Catholic school, then it was a flimsy excuse for changing in closets and behind closed doors like some chick. Gene probably just had something terribly, shamefully wrong with his dick. Smallness or herpes or both.

"What? No."

Pete scooted over some more. Paul's posture was slightly stiffer than it had been before, but he still moved to give Peter room. Not that the double bed had much space to begin with.

"Does that mean you've seen it?" Peter wasn't sure why he was pressing the issue. Probably because Paul didn't seem all that uncomfortable. In fact, ever since the start of the Gay Kitchen, he'd been more relaxed, more talkative. It'd been nice. Peter watched Paul's lips purse for a second before he replied.

"Come off it. I don't have the right equipment for the privilege."

"Just eat some more and you'll get the tits down."

"Oh, fuck you, Pete." Paul jabbed his elbow into Peter's ribs, just hard enough for Peter to jerk back, but after a second he was scooting in closer again, just to prove he couldn't be nudged off that easily.

Maybe it had been a lower blow than Peter had meant to take. God knew the poor guy worried more about his weight than a chick. Lydia once said Paul was shaped like a rectangle. Just thick, straight lines from his shoulders all the way to his ass, and no definition anywhere. And he had been, but that wasn't the case these days. Paul had ended up with a bad bout of stomach flu about a month and a half into the tour. He would pull himself together enough to do the night's show, but afterwards, Peter'd had to listen to him get up, agonized and grunting, at two in the morning, and hear him retching into the hotel toilet. Paul had probably dropped fifteen pounds since then. Maybe more.

He looked better now. His abdomen still wasn't flat and he still cinched in his waist with a corset onstage, but Peter figured Paul did look a little closer to-well, whatever the hell a frontman was supposed to look like-and a little farther from the shy kid from Queens who drove the band's milk truck to and from gigs. Shouldn't be something Peter was already nostalgic about, especially since they were probably right about to head back to the milk trucks and ballrooms, but he was.

He could hear the scratch of Paul's pencil against the stationery. Paul wasn't going to retort. He'd just sulk and doodle more dicks until he got tired enough to turn off the lamp and tell Peter to get off the bed so he could sleep. Peter licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry, and he spoke.

"You know what? Maybe you should draw mine."

He hadn't thought the comment through. It just splattered from the corner of his brain to his mouth. Maybe he was just trying to get a response out of Paul, see if he could come up with an insulting way to put him off, or if he'd just stammer out a refusal. Instead, all Peter got in return was a raised eyebrow.

"Your dick?"

"Yeah, my dick."

"You're volunteering?"

Shit. Shit, now he had to commit to it. Peter shrugged, somehow managed a tilted sort of grin, and leaned back on his hands.

"Why not? Least that'd keep you from doing all those crooked, veiny ones."

"Yeah, 'cause yours is fucking Adonis,' right-"

Adonis must've been some underground rocker only college kids had ever heard of. Peter wasn't about to admit to his own ignorance.

"Nobody's complained yet. C'mon, Paulie, how about it?"

Paul hesitated visibly. Peter almost didn't think he was going to agree to it. Too nerved-out by the suggestion. But then Paul nodded, his black curls-somewhat limper without the Aquanet and teasing brush forcing them into bushy, puffy proportions-bouncing slightly as he did.

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead."

Peter yanked off the ratty pajama pants that were all he ever went to bed in, tossing them to the floor. Turned around so he was facing Paul head-on, legs stretched in front of him. He could feel Paul staring at his face, and then at his cock, as he tore out the doodle-covered paper and started on the fresh one beneath. He hadn't gotten more than a few scribbles in when Peter realized-

"Hey, wait a minute. You're not drawing it soft."

"I'm just gonna draw what I see."

"No, you aren't. Hang on."

"Hang on?"

Paul blinked, the beginnings of a mild smirk edging across his face. The expression didn't really sit right on him, somehow. Paul's mouth seemed to Peter to only really look okay when it was either pursed in a pout or spread in a hopeless kind of smile.

Luckily, that smirk of his dissolved as soon as Peter closed his hand around his dick, starting to pump. He didn't look at Paul while he was doing it, not at first, his gaze veering more towards the pad of paper and the burnt orange florals of the covers. His breath wasn't hitching yet, but the pleasure was starting to seep through on practiced automatic. A little harder. A little faster, and Peter's brow was furrowing, eyes glazed, focus on anything but his own dick starting to fade.

Except it couldn't fade completely. Not with Paul barely a foot away from him, his big brown eyes furtively darting between Peter's cock and the pencil, his mouth tight. Looking over at him, Peter could almost swear he saw the faint start of a blush cropping up on Paul's cheeks. "Jesus, relax, would you? I'm not gonna come here."

"Wow, isn't that a relief," Paul mumbled, rolling the pencil back and forth between his finger and thumb.

"'S not like you haven't seen this before." A solid five or six times by now, minus the fact that it was usually a girl's mouth or hand on Peter's cock instead of his own. They weren't great at sharing the not-quite-groupies yet. It had taken awhile before they figured out positioning that'd get all three of them off, and that always hinged on whether the girl was down for it. Once they'd ended up with a chick who'd gotten too intimidated by two guys at once, and after a round of debate over who'd go first, Paul had ended up slinking off to the shower while Peter made it with her. Unsurprisingly, she'd been so satiated she'd fallen asleep by the time Paul returned, and they'd both had to lug her out of the hotel room and into the hallway. Paul had been pissed off. Peter just found it funny.

Paul looked as if he were about to say something, but then he shut his mouth. Peter exhaled, letting his eyes shut for a second while he kept pumping, no fantasy in mind, just the simple mechanics of pleasure. Jacking off was mindless, with or without an audience. Nothing meaningful. Nothing to consider. And Paul, for whatever reason, was still just watching him do it. That pencil lead hadn't even touched the paper. Peter took a sharp breath before he spoke again.

"Good enough?"

He'd stopped himself once he was fully hard, but before any precome could dribble out from the reddened tip. He could feel his face getting flushed, a little sweat starting to trickle on his forehead, but he was all right. If things got too bad, he could always head over to the shower to finish rubbing it out, after Paul was done drawing. But he didn't think it would come to that, though his cock twitched in protest. Paul gave a distracted nod.

"Yeah. It's fine."

Then he finally started to draw again. Peter leaned over, trying to get a glance in, but Paul kept covering up the pad with his other hand, swatting at him when he got too close. Peter snorted.

"C'mon, you're not drawing the Mona Lisa here."

"You throw me off watching."

"What'm I supposed to do, just sit here?"

"That's exactly what you're supposed to do." Paul was erasing now, but carefully. One of those cheap pink erasers. He brushed the residue off the paper, and it landed on the covers, tiny black streaks of rubber against the orange comforter. Deprived of watching Paul at work, Peter tried to focus his attention on the eraser remnants, flicking them.

It didn't really help. Despite himself, Peter was starting to squirm. He didn't think Paul was drawing anything past his dick, but he'd been trying to stay still anyway. His thighs kept twitching involuntarily. The ache in his balls was getting irritating enough that he gave in to a few more strokes, shoving his hand in the covers as soon as he heard Paul laugh.

"You having trouble keeping it up?"

"Fuck you, you know that's not it-"

"Gimme a couple more minutes, all right, Pete?" A pause. "And get a little closer, there." He reached his hand out, fingers curving lightly around Peter's bare knee, just for a second. Immaculately manicured nails, bizarre for a guitarist, even one who hadn't played a gig in almost a week. The black nail polish hadn't even chipped. But Peter only really noticed how the warmth against his skin seemed to linger on after Paul had withdrawn his hand. "There."

Peter got closer. His legs were flat on the bed and spread slightly, toes touching the wall by the time he got closer; he'd ended up more to Paul's side. His painfully hard, flushed dick stood out sharp against the rest of his body, craving attention he couldn't-wouldn't-give yet. He'd get that touch in later. He'd get off on his own. A couple more minutes, like Paul said. Yeah.

The amused expression on Paul's face had shifted, gotten focused and intent. The way it did when he was trying to pull a riff together, or a set of lyrics. Peter didn't much care for that look-usually it meant Paul would try to banish whoever was in the same room, whether it was him or Ace or even Gene, so he could be alone with whatever brilliant thoughts he had. But now that look was locked on him instead. Partially. Flattering, maybe, to be mulled over like a rhyme that didn't flow, or a chord that wasn't right yet, but Peter knew that if he thought too hard about it, he'd get disgusted. So he just let his mind wander to the sound of Paul's pencil scraping across the page.

Peter didn't really notice at first when that sound stopped. Or when Paul put the pencil down. The pad of paper was still resting on his lap. Peter inhaled, waiting, figuring Paul would hand it over-with a joking autograph, probably-any second-but then a mass of dark curls ended up right in Peter's face. Paul was leaning in, heavily, breaths hot and heavy against Peter's neck. He pushed away the pad of paper, his bare chest pressed up flush against Peter's. Peter opened his mouth, started to say something, and then swallowed it down when Paul's hand wrapped around his dick.

Peter couldn't believe it. Didn't protest or argue-didn't want to. He was surprised, that was all. Surprised Paul would go for it. Have that kind of nerve. Paul didn't pull back enough to look him in the eye. Didn't say a word.

His palm was sweaty against Peter's cock, fingers only a little callused. The first few strokes were too slow, unintentional teasing, but then Paul got steadier, built up a rhythm. Like doing it to yourself, Ace had told him once, lazily, in the worst and best advice Peter had ever gotten on handjobs, but different. Different. Peter could feel Paul's heartbeat against him, like a pinball smashing against the bumpers. Each breath was getting more tattered, soft curses forcing their way from Peter's throat; each inhale pushed more of Paul's Aramis cologne into his lungs. Peter's hands, curled up into the covers, flew up desperately as he got closer, warmth and need pulsating inside him, threatening to burst-clenching Paul's shoulder, his back-holding him there, right there, as he spilled into Paul's hand.

Paul let go as abruptly as he'd started. His whole body froze up, and he shifted backwards, brushing away Peter's hands, dark eyes wide, almost scared. He scrambled off the bed and onto Peter's, yanking the covers around him like a little kid caught up too late.

"Paul?"

"I'm sorry," he said, and shut off the lamp.

Peter got up early the next morning, before the alarm clock, but it didn't matter. Paul was already gone-got a cab, evidently, leaving everyone else with the crappy tour bus. Peter could hear Ace and Gene grumbling about it through the wall before he got out of bed, stopping short of the pad of paper and pencil on the floor. He picked both up and took a look.

The drawing was immaculate. Paul had gotten the balls just right. Everything. Taken the time to shade it, even, like it was a serious study. He'd signed it, too-initialed it, rather, P.S. nestled in a forlorn corner. No date. Peter tore the sheet carefully from the pad of paper, looking at it, unsure of what to do with it. Whether to keep it or not. He ended up setting it on the nightstand, face down, before crossing over to what had been his bed up until last night. He didn't have to pull back the sheets to see the semen stain from where Paul had wiped off his hand.

He could've used some washing off himself after last night. No Paul hogging the shower was an empty comfort right now, as Peter turned on the water, letting it get blisteringly hot before stepping inside. It didn't really help.

Paul was back before lunch, anyway, quiet and withdrawn. Bill was talking about booking them a couple more shows further down South-a terrifying prospect, but better than heading home-and Gene was chatting about it with all his usual enthusiasm, while Ace added vodka and ice to his coffee. Paul just looked sunk. Gene kept throwing questioning looks Paul's way, and glancing at Peter, but if he ever asked outright, Peter never heard it.

The band meeting drifted off into nothing after awhile. Paul got up abruptly, saying something about a headache, and excused himself with about as much subtlety as a dying animal. It was a few minutes before Peter got up the nerve to follow him back to their room-and, as expected, Paul had locked the door.

"Paul, c'mon-"

The sound of the knob turning was almost gratifying. Paul was standing there, looking awkward, mouth pursed. Peter noticed, belatedly, that for all Paul had gotten up early that morning, he hadn't shaved, stubble poking hopelessly all around his jaw. His t-shirt and jeans-one of maybe ten street outfits he'd rotated over the tour, same as Peter, same as everyone else-were rumpled past what Paul usually would allow for.

"You didn't have to come check on me."

"I did, we share a room."

Paul swallowed.

"Look, if you wanna change rooms, go ahead, just don't tell Gene about-"

"I ain't telling Gene nothing. And I don't wanna change rooms." Pete exhaled. The look on Paul's face twitched just a bit, but Peter didn't give him a chance to respond before plowing back in. "Are we gonna do Gay Kitchen tonight?"

Paul flinched. Almost like he thought Peter meant it badly, or was making fun of him, or something. Like one of those Japanese trees, the ones with flat leaves that folded up after the briefest brush of a hand. One word and he'd curl back up. One touch, leaving Peter all out of sorts, trying to undo the trick, get those leaves to unfurl again.

"Do you want to?"

"Ace was asking earlier."

"Oh." Paul turned away, walking over to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. He pulled open the fridge, getting out the last can of Coke, popping the top before he really answered. "I guess."

"C'mon, it's our last night here. It'll be fun."

"We're almost out of food."

"We've got enough. Still have those hot dogs." Peter felt awkward, still standing there, barely past the doorframe, as if he was a visitor to his own hotel room. He stepped over to sit on one of the beds. The drawing wasn't on the nightstand anymore. "Hey-"

"What?"

Peter's throat was suddenly a little dry. The words were out before he could hold them back.

"You didn't have to get rid of it."

"It was stupid."

"No, it wasn't. It-it was good, Paulie."

Paul was still all tensed up. Like a battery coil on the verge of springing. Peter almost thought he was going to walk out, more prepared to face Gene and Ace or another lousy cab ride than spend the rest of the day with him, but instead, Paul sat down on the other bed.

"You really don't wanna change rooms." He said it flatly, borderline disbelieving, clasping the Coke can in both hands. He looked strangely young, sitting like that. The six years between them never felt like much except when Peter really let himself give it some thought. At twenty-two, he sure as hell hadn't been on the road with a record, however indifferently-received. Hadn't made it-with threesomes, even-with a whole bunch of girls. He resented it when he considered it, but right now, all Peter was considering was the tightness of Paul's lips and the way he was staring at the floor.

He was just a kid, really. Scared of getting rejected as any other kid, hell, as any other adult. Putting on onstage, putting on during their dinners, only ever peeling back how he really was during all the time in between. The worries and frets, the painful, painful shyness behind every sharp retort. The panicked heartbeat against Peter's chest last night as he'd pushed past his nerves for something he wanted.

Something Peter wanted, too.

"Fuck, no. You and me are the only ones around here that know how to pick up our own shit."

"Pete, that's not it-"

"No. No, it's not it. C'mere. C'mere," he said, quietly, scooting forward on the bed, hands resting awkwardly on either side of him, those orange covers clashing badly with his chipped black nail polish and cheap silver rings. He watched as Paul set down the Coke can and stood up, crossing the tiny threshold between their beds. He still looked like he was about to flee. One wrong word, one sudden movement and it'd be over.

So Peter was slow, agonizingly slow to take his arm and tug him forward. Paul let him do it, didn't go rigid at all, though the fear in those wide eyes was still there. Peter wanted it to fade; suddenly, he wanted it to fade more than anything, as he got to his feet, palm hot against Paul's arm. As he leaned in, pushing Paul's dark curls behind his shoulder, and pressed his lips to Paul's neck.

Paul didn't respond at first. Then, just as Peter was about to pull away, he felt Paul's other hand close around his. Too shy to even lock their fingers together. But that was all right. That was all right. Peter did it for him, shifting his hand in Paul's until their fingers were laced. He raised his head, and Paul's mouth met his, cautious and careful. None of that too-eager fooling around like with the girls. None of that silent desperation from last night. Peter liked this better, every second feeling warmer and fuller than the last. As if he was just on the brink of discovering something grand as his tongue slid across Paul's lips and he let go of Paul's arm to trace the stubble on his jaw, cup his chin in his hand. Paul parted his lips for him, Peter tasting cereal and toothpaste when his tongue slipped inside, but he didn't care. Paul was opening up for him. Finally opening up.

It wasn't too long before Paul started pressing up against him, hips rocking meaningfully against his. Somewhere along the line, he'd ended up with Paul's hair in his fist, and he tugged, lightly, urging him forward as he sat back down on the bed. Tugged his hand, too, as if he needed to. Paul got the picture, following him down, timidity shifting to urgency, until Peter's back was pressed against the mattress. Peter thought about yanking his hair hard for that one, and he might have, except Paul kept kissing him all the way down, except Paul's knee was rubbing against his crotch, his thin blue jeans barely a barrier at all.

Peter's breath hitched as Paul shifted lower, moving off of him enough that Peter could shuck off his own shirt and toss it to the floor. Paul was unzipping him, those long, thin fingers hooking around his belt loops and pulling down his jeans. Freeing his cock, already far too hard, worse than last night, easily. Peter took a sharp inhale when Paul sank down, pushing his thighs apart with his knee, and started to lick at his cock. All the way down, pouring on the attention, fingers pressing hard against his hips, keeping them steady. Peter watched, dazed, breaths hitching, until Paul's warm mouth was around just the tip of his cock.

"Paul, hold on."

Paul pulled back, lifting his head like he'd done something wrong.

"What?"

"You don't know how to do it, don't worry about it." It was just a guess, but Peter figured it was a good enough one. And that wasn't all of it. He didn't think Paul would give himself enough leeway for a screw-up. Perfection or nothing.

Paul hesitated.

"But-"

"It's okay, man." It was hard to think past the blood pumping straight to his dick, going untouched for now, but Peter was managing, barely. The brief image of Paul with his lips around his dick was promising enough, the lead-in for a dozen jerk-off fantasies already. Maybe more than that. "Just-c'mon, let me-"

He tugged Paul back up, helping him peel off his t-shirt, then his jeans and underwear. Taking him in like this, with no girl between them, didn't feel strange or wrong or any of that bullshit; it felt good, every shed layer lending Peter more skin to touch, making him more certain of everything. Despite the concert performances, despite the threesomes and the locker room showers, he'd never really gotten a sense of Paul's physicality before. Now that Paul was straddling him, hair hanging in his face, mouth pressed to his neck, his ear, Peter could really see it all, the wide, powerful build of his chest before it bore down against Peter's, his arms, taut and muscular, tensing as Peter's hands tightened around them. Paul's cock brushed against his, sending a jolt of electricity through Peter, and then he was grinding up against him, their hips flush, flesh against flesh. Peter was cursing before long, the stimulation maddening, almost agonizing because it wasn't quite enough. Paul seemed like he sensed it, reaching over, taking both their cocks together in one hand-but Peter shook his head.

"I've got a better idea."

"Yeah?" Paul's fingers rolled up against his cock just so, the pressure of his hand and his dick incredible enough that Peter almost changed his mind. Looking up at him, that slightly-sweaty brow, those dark eyes, dilated and needy, Peter nodded, fingers closing on Paul's wrist.

"Yeah. I already know you can jack me off." An exhale. "Get on your back and I'll show you what I can do."

Paul let go of him. There was a little consternation somewhere in his expression, a hesitancy Peter tried to erase, hand running down Paul's hairy chest, fingers tweaking a nipple, but Paul did as he'd asked, grasping Peter by the shoulders and rolling them both over. Peter shifted, repositioning himself on top of Paul, putting his hands beneath his thighs. Almost immediately, Paul stiffened up, started to try and lift up his legs. Peter pushed them back down before he could.

"Nah, we're not doing that. Don't worry." Peter watched some of the tension fade from Paul's face, curiosity replacing it. "Spread your legs out a little. there, now." He slid his dick between Paul's thighs, tip right up against Paul's taint. He didn't need to instruct further. Paul's mouth tilted in a distracted grin, his thighs closing tight around Peter's dick-and from there, Peter started to thrust, the soft warmth surrounding his cock nearly overpowering.

Paul was finally making a few sharp sounds as Peter's thrusts sped up, thighs squeezing hard against his cock. The sounds got louder, turned into curses, turned into strangled attempts at Peter's name. Between Paul's moans and his own urgency, Peter couldn't think, his pace speeding up, every brush against Paul's cock, every tensing of Paul's thighs pushing him closer to the brink. He came with a cry, spurting hot between Paul's legs, Paul still urging him to keep going, just a few more, a few more. He managed, grunting, shuddering with exertion as he kept thrusting. Beneath him, Paul looked out of it and focused all at once, dick throbbing against his. So close. Too close. It was seconds before Paul came, quieter, spilling all over them both, head lolling back in the aftermath. Peter was still panting as he slid his cock out from between Paul's slick thighs, as Paul put an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, before finally meeting his lips again.

The Gay Kitchen's final evening went well. Ace and Gene had brought dessert-a box of oatmeal creme pies and a gallon of cheap Neapolitan ice cream-and they'd served it along with the hot dogs and stale chips. A beer apiece, except for Gene, who got a Sprite from the machine downstairs in a rare spendthrift moment. Paul's come-ons and gropes weren't any heavier than the night before, but there was a warmth and a relaxation in him that was new to Peter. A softer look to his expression he'd only been privy to late, late at night in the hotels, just before he drifted off.

Peter liked that. He liked that a lot. Feeling that, maybe, something of Paul's might be reserved for him. That maybe he'd be let in for more than an afternoon. He thought he might be. He figured he would be.

They didn't fool around that night. They didn't really have the time to. Once dinner was over and Ace and Gene had gone back to their room, Peter took a shower, and then he started packing, too-aware of how quick check-out came. Particularly when they were headed straight down to the bottom edge of Florida tomorrow, a solid ten or eleven hours on the road, to play at some college or auditorium or-something. Peter was just glad Bill had secured them another handful of tour dates, no matter the location.

He tossed his makeup kit and street clothes and shoes back into his suitcase, fiddling with the wobbly latches, tracing the crack down one side. Ten to one the damn thing would break before they got out of Atlanta, but maybe he could tie a scarf around it or something to hold the luggage together. He turned to Paul, who was sitting on the floor next to him with his own ratty suitcase half on his lap, about to ask him, but Paul spoke first.

"You forgot your heels."

"I didn't. They're in the laundry bag with everyone else's."

"Not the ones that go with your costume. The other pair." Paul pointed under the bed. There they were, three-inch platforms he'd barely worn all tour, neatly placed. He didn't remember putting them there.

He pulled them out, a piece of paper under one heel catching his eye. Setting the heels aside, he picked up the paper.

"Paul?"

It was the drawing of his dick. Paul hadn't thrown it away after all. He glanced over at him, and Paul smiled, a little bashful. That hopeless smile he hadn't been able to plaster on a single promo picture, more endearing and elusive than any sketch.

"It's for you. I don't know if I'd frame it, but."

Peter felt himself grin back.

"Are you kidding? It's the best drawing of my dick anyone's ever gonna give me. I'll keep it forever." Peter held it up, examining it anew. "There's only one problem."

"I thought you were done critiquing my art."

"Hell, no." And Peter handed it back. "You gotta sign it for me."

"I initialed it-"

"Sign it. Make it worth a million bucks someday." Peter didn't think he'd stop smiling as he leaned over, tousling Paul's hair. "You can even add the star."

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #paul stanley x peter criss #peter criss #paul stanley

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apex-academy · 4 years

Text

Chapter 4: Six Chambers, One Loaded (#22)

Nothing of consequence happens until 4:30 the next day. Can’t believe I almost forgot to tell Aki we were doing this.

Some generic kitchen implements have been set out, but it doesn’t give me much of a hint. Yuki gestures to a drawer with aprons, so I take one. And...

I can barely even figure out how to put on a stupid apron. Not a good sign.

“It’s just the two of you, right...?”

“Yeah. I'm fine with someone else joining if they want, but...”

“...just the two of us might be enough work for you.”

“Yeah, I really have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay...! As long as we have fun, hummm...”

“...and don’t waste a lot of food...”

“...and have something ready to eat for supper.”

The pressure is mounting.

“Did you have any requests...? I thought Italian might sound good...”

“That’s fine.”

“Uh, Kakumi? Is that fine?”

“Yeah.” Noodles have to be the safest place to start, I’d think. I have only set those on fire once.

“Okay...”

She just stands there for a minute. Guess she’s not used to splitting up the work. Hopefully we don’t throw her off too much.

“Um...! Aki, if you could find some pasta flour...” She glances between me and a high cupboard. “I’ll get the... mixing bowl and things. So Kakumi, you bring the eggs over, hummm...”

“Got it.”

Eggs. Awesome. I make no promises for any further steps in the recipe, but I can handle transporting things.

She didn’t say how many, but it’s safest to bring the whole carton over, anyway. There are only four left in here, so hopefully it’ll do. Aki goes through several varieties of flour I’ve literally never heard of before finding the right kind.

Yuki doesn’t seem frustrated by our struggling, but she hardly ever seems anything but tired. Either way, she sends us to grab some other stuff as she picks out some spices and some blackish liquid umami something. Not sure if I trust that, but I’m not one to backtalk my teachers. Especially teachers with national and/or international recognition for their craft.

“For anything like this, you’ll start with the noodles, or... noodle-y... things...?”

“Since if you’re making them yourself... you’ll have to let them cool a while.”

“So you might as well use that time to make whatever you’re putting on it.”

“Umm-hummm...”

“So...”

“...”

...She’s really not used to teaching, is she. Oh well. I don’t have anything better to do, and maybe it’ll be fun. Eventually.

“Um, okay... It probably won’t take long, but... Aki, you can go ahead and start measuring out and mixing the dry part... Kakumi, I’ll let you beat the eggs... Three should be good, I think... Hummmm...”

She slides me a clear bowl and goes over to help Aki with the measuring cups.

Beat...? “What does that even mean.” Is it just chef-speak for mixing. Is it supposed to be extra violent. Help.

I don’t think I’m getting hold of her anytime soon, but whatever I’m doing, I’ll at least need to crack the eggs first. Let’s do that, then. Yeah. Great.

I grab egg number one and sidestep to the bowl.

“...Okay.”

I whap it against the bowl’s edge. A faint clink. No cracking.

“Okay.”

Second try. I at least get a vague little indent on the shell. Oooo-kay. You would think a star pool player would know how hard she has to hit things, but apparently my skills are not so easily translated.

“Okay...”

Attempt three. No discernible change. Four—finally a split halfway around the thing. A few flakes drift into the bowl. I hastily blow them out before prying the egg open and dumping the contents. Okay, that’s... one-third of this step done. Hoo boy.

Aki’s already measuring out the flour, so it’s probably too late to switch. It’s fine. I can figure this out. Maybe.

The second egg cracks with much less fanfare, but a few bits of eggshell fall in when the yolk glorps into the bowl.

“...”

Am I allowed to dig that out with my fingers or is there a special eggshell tool. Uh. Well, my hands are clean, so...

I chase the fragments around until my hands are no longer clean, but I think I get them all. I rinse off my fingers and double back. Yuki’s explaining the seasonings to Aki. Not sure if I’m supposed to be listening, too, but I should probably stay focused on this for all our safety.

Okay. Egg number three. Last one.

I swipe an egg from the carton and rap it on the bowl’s edge.

The shattered pieces and slime narrowly miss my shirtsleeve as they smear the outside of the bowl and plop onto the counter.

“...”

“.....”

“..........”

The others haven’t noticed, so, uh, time to destroy the evidence. I grab the closest dish towel and scoop up all the mess I can, scrubbing the side of the bowl with some clean corner of the thing that I have to maneuver a lot to actually use. Then—what do I do with the towel? Burn it? That’d get rid of it. Probably still a bad idea. I chuck the thing in a reasonably empty drawer and resolve to deal with that once we’re done.

“...go ahead and get some plastic wrap... Okay?”

“Okay...”

I’m still clear. Moving on, then.

There’s still an egg in the carton, so I take that and rotate it slowly in my hand. Last one. Any chance Monochap will restock them while we’re all standing here? Wouldn’t count on it. I’m sure I’d wreck the whole recipe if I only used two eggs and change, so... Okay. No pressure. Just have to not make any mistakes doing something I’m terrible at. Yeah.

I resume the gentlest possible rapping.

“Kakumi, have you...”

“...Oh.”

“I’m... slow, okay?”

“Do you want to do this?”

“Humm... I can go ahead, I guess...”

“You should pay attention, though...”

“I will! Thanks.”

I hand off the egg as Aki steps over.

“Having fun?”

“I guess? So far I’ve only stirred flour and seasoning together...”

“It at least feels productive, maybe...?”

“Yeah.”

Really hope I don’t ruin that by screwing up my share of things. I’m sure Yuki could salvage any number of kitchen disasters, though. Just... gotta hang in there. And pay attention. Yeah.

Apparently forks are how you beat eggs. Was not expecting that for some reason. Well, at least I’m learning.

We finally mix everything up with the liquid seasoning, and Aki gets the flour out again to keep everything from sticking to the counter. Yuki demonstrates kneading, and we all take turns. I don’t think I’m doing very well. It’s hard to gauge Yuki’s expression.

Maybe I’ll just let Aki do most of this. Those arm warmers covering half of her hands seem to give her a little trouble, but she's still a better bet than me.

The pasta gets spread out and sealed off and tossed in the fridge. Next I get to chop up some mushrooms, which I still do a sloppy job of, but it’s better than asking me to fry them. Hopefully Aki is less skilled than me at setting pans on fire. I’ll still stand back. Yuki may be soft-spoken, but I can hear her explanations fine from over here, thanks.

Aki tentatively nudges the pan around on the stove.

“Ack!”

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Oh, sometimes you get hit with a little oil... It’s not a big deal...”

“Hummmmmm... It didn’t get you in the face, did it?”

“Um, no... I think I’m good.”

“Okay... Kakumi, you have the cheese, right...?”

“Yup.”

And off we go. Aki doesn’t seem particularly flinchy, so I guess it’s all good. The mushrooms get set aside to cool, then we get to cut up the pasta, then we get to fill it. By “fill it,” I mean repeatedly put too much in and rip the pasta open whenever I close it up. Awesome.

Thankfully I don’t have any strange deficiencies in the ability to boil water, and we manage not to burn ourselves again getting these things cooked. Stirring up the sauce doesn’t hurt, either, though we let Yuki drizzle it in a more artistic fashion than I’m sure either of us could manage.

And finally...

Ta-da.

“Nothing too fancy... But it was an easy one, I think.”

“Fancier than anything else I’ve made.”

“Yeah.” I wouldn’t feel right saying I made this, though.

“Whoever wants to start eating can go ahead... I’m going to clean up.”

...Oh yeah, cleaning. I still have to deal with that washrag. Hopefully she won’t find it first.

Aki nods at me.

“Um, you can go ahead... Unless you don’t want to. Sorry.”

“No, I’m hungry enough. I just, uh, hate to break up the nice picture...”

“I get that a lot, hummmm...”

“But it’s okay! Food is meant to be eaten...”

“Right.”

I eye that one cabinet as she resumes cleaning. I could always volunteer to help, and maybe then I can get rid of the towel... No, I need to start eating. Aki could easily be hungrier than I am.

“All right, here goes.”

I snatch a dumpling—or ravioli, whatever—and chomp down. I’m met with the electrifying visceral pain of biting into eggshell. I almost reflexively spit the thing out.

“...”

“I-it’s good! Just... ‘s still hot.” Technically not a lie. I just hope this is the only ravioli I screwed up.

Remind me not to try murdering anybody. I can’t even cover my tracks when the crime is “general kitchen disaster.”

Aki and I settle to eat in a corner of the kitchen. I probably need to pay more attention to Yuki’s next lecture on flavorings. This taste seems weird, but that’s probably just my personal preference. If I ever make this again, I’d have to switch something with... something else.

...And get someone else to crack the eggs.

[BACK] [NEXT]

#apex4 #apexplot #fangan

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vapormaison · 4 years

Text

Best of 2019 Vaporwave Release 3/4: Sensual Loops SPECIAL EDITION by Cyber Club

As vaporwave matures and enters the mainstream, I often find myself having discussions with vapor heads on reddit about the iconography of the genre. I realize that this is a bad idea, but cannot help myself. More often than not, they are pointlessly terse, and tend to be tediously teleological — the type of argumentation featuring enough loops of logic to cause a medieval Byzantine monk’s head to spin.

A recurring topic that baits me every single time is when a poster attempts to criticize the album art of a record, dismissing the entire work on the based on “anime” aesthetics. While this might seem like an argument so off-center and reductive that it’s parody— I’d encourage you to go on r/VaporVinyl and take a look at some of the posts replying to threads about Cyber Club’s Sensual Loops LP series. It’s not pretty, and representative where some of the fanbase is at the moment. Adding to my shock was when one of the self-appointed critics outed themselves as twenty three years old. At that moment, I was forced to confront my own bias. I had mistakenly assumed that the puritan was an out-of-touch Gen Xer or a Baby Boomer. Aesthetic intolerance is not exclusive — and plenty of Zoomers are members of this trash clique as well.

What really boggled my mind, however, was that the user had picked vaporwave out of all the other possible genres to go on their Nipponophobic soapbox against. A quick look at the aesthetic movement as a whole (sonically, artistically, etc.) establishes it as what I would assert as a primarily millennial genre — less of a statement about its creators and consumers, and more about the broader, overarching cultural milieu in which in developed. It was birthed in the decade that heralded the mass-consumption of Japanese media in the Western marketplace. Many of its early practitioners got their start chopping and screwing anime OSTs and hip hop. Future Funk effectively appeared on the sonic map by the sampling of Japanese city pop. What is even worth arguing here?

But that which bothered me even more was the user’s stubborn refusal to even listen to the album. You can not buy a vinyl because you just have a particular aversion to cover art — that’s fine! Better yet, you can not buy a vinyl just because you’re not a fan of the sound. Those are two perfectly fine reasons not to partake in a release. But then to go on reddit and complain about an album aesthetic for something you haven’t even listened to? Come on, fam. Level up your praxis. It is the whitewashing and the boorishness that is most infuriating. I’ve legitimately never heard of anyone who dismissed an entire album’s music purely on the basis of its vinyl cover art before.

And shame on them, because they are sleeping on one of the best works of 2019.

The limited edition of Sensual Loops 1 & 2 is another LP that I had the luxury of listening to while on my East Asia tour. I brought the album (among others) with me to visit a very good pal of mine, Han, who’s retired to Hong Kong. Much to my relief, he’s in a comparatively spacious apartment over in the Tai Wo area — by no means the stereotypical postage stamp — and has set up a little audiophile pad that I’m most envious of. His setup is devoted to all things B&W, and I got a beautiful listen of the album on a pair of impressive and almost imposing 700-series floor standers. Powered by the Cambridge Audio Edge series Amp/Pre combo, this was far above even my paygrade. But after working as a salaryman for two decades, he was finally able to invest in his endgame system. And what an endgame it is!

Getting the chance to listen Sensual Loops on this system cemented my opinion when I had first heard it’s release digitally: I was listening to an instant contender for the best vaporwave release of 2019.

Sensual Loops 1

Introduction immediately fills your speakers with a wide, warm guitar and horn loops that feature just enough static noise to distinguish itself as a vaporwave track. I always like it when a little minute-thirty track gives the amp a little exercise. It also proves to be a perfect sonic setup for the next track, which is ostensibly what every “intro” track should do, right?

Night carries that guitar riff from Introduction but adds a playful variance with a synth loop, and vocals that I believe are sampled from that Philly Soul classic “Children of the Night” done by the Stylistics and the Jones Girls’, among others. All of the moving parts here do wonders, syncing together in a perfect arrangement. Both Han and I commented on just how bright this played on his JBLs, which is a testament to the mix and mastering work here.

Love & Affection definitely feels the most retro-vapor of all the tracks on Sensual Loops 1, beginning with a series of loops, riffs, and synth chimes that feel as if they were picked from a certain collection of sitcoms of an early nineties vintage. The heavily distorted vocals and hypnotic drum kits pop in after about a minute to give the track an almost deep house feel as it progresses. The “all mine” hook then crescendos into a symphony of drum hits that conclude the track with a real sonic flutter in the air when played with high-end speakers.

Pain accelerates the rather slow pace of the album up to this point. I’m a big fan of the synth arrangement that opens the track, and I schmood even more with the powerfully funky vocal set that carries the track throughout. But with its short length, it does feel more like an interlude or setup for what I consider to be the highlight of the LP.

Memories is our certified slapper. It starts off immediately with an incredibly catchy synth chord arrangement supplemented by a fantastically tweaked vocal sample from the fantastically, alliteratively-named Melba Moore, another funky soul queen who needs a revival in the contemporary lexicography.

Sensual definitely swings the record a bit further away from the future funk and back towards the vapor-funk side of things. Back are cyber club’s usual array of jumpy, tinny synth chords and manipulated vocal micro-samples that still provide a really robust sonic experience on the hi-fi system of your choice. When the vocals make their appearance about ninety seconds in, I was expecting them to sound much less rich in the middle than they did, which was definitely a present surprise on the mastering side!

Alone is a beautiful cacophony of micro-samples with a vocal track manipulated to sound like an 80s ideal of a future robot gf. I’m not sure how else to describe this track except as pure atmosphere. The fluttering synths, muted percussion, electric highs that send tweeters bouncing — it’s difficult to precisely describe how a track like this comes over a hi-fi system like the Edge. It just pulls out every detail from an immensely dense track like this and does it every bit the justice it deserves.

Paradise ends up taking a traditional funk and re-engineering it into a sort of quasi-tropical sound similar to some of the early Aloe Island Posse bangers. It’s got a much more lo-fi edge to the track then most future funk takes on a track like this, and creates a really unique and playful experience.

Bliss is almost raw synth pop with a hardened vapor edge to it. Although the original sample is from a very soulful electro R&B outfit — the Loose Ends — we get aggressive drums and synth loops that bring this closer to Paula Abdul than anything that could be traditionally considered rhythm and blues. Just enough manipulation of the vocal sample and some well-timed percussion hits make this more fit for a night out than a baby-making session in, which is both remarkable and a testament to cyber club’s skill.

Sensual Loops 2

Intro captures a little more of than urban-turned-Island soundscape that we caught a glimpse of in Paradise. I’m eternally impressed by this, as it seems like Cyber Club never gets too caught up in the production to bring this too far from its vapor essence while still making this a great lede in its own right.

Sensual was a track I was initially expecting to be a remix or redux of the first Sensual from Sensual Loops 1, but I’m glad to see this piece of bass-heavy vapor exists as its own full-bodied track in its own right. It grabs you immediately with its “I’ll never give up on you” vocal loop spliced in among its synth array, and carries you through with an intriguing arrangement of instrumental loops and micro-samples throughout. The low end can really shine here with the right system.

Hold Her Now is a piece of nostalgic, vintage vaporwave straight out of the Saint Pepsi era. Ostensibly a creative cut-up some New Jack Swing that absolutely slaps with the right electric guitar riff and synthetic percussion hit, it harkens back to when vaporwave was in its “peak aesthetics” phase of production and plunder-phonic glory. Perhaps this reminder of what vaporwave used to be unfairly biases me, but it’s definitely a listen for the nostalgia driven old-heads.

Affair is the type of track that sounds completely different on certain types of stereos. While Han’s stereo brought out the crisp, wide vocal mix — perhaps a testament to Cambridge’s design history, my Harman Kardon/KEF pairing brought the synth flares here to the fore. The testament to this track is that I really enjoyed both profiles, and Affair sounded robust and detailed throughout.

Kiss is one of the tracks that I felt coolest on upon an initial listen, which is perhaps a statement to just how much I enjoyed this album. When presented with the innovative arrangements of tracks like Hold Her Now or Memories, I was left feeling that Kiss doesn’t do enough in its minute thirty second runtime. That being said, it’s fun. And that’s what music can and should be at the end of the day, isn’t it?

Touch heaps on that vapor memory with some creative vocal layering, tinny and distorted high-end flutters, and an electric horn that came out swinging in the Cambridge system, much to my surprise. It’s clear at this point that Cyber Club has created a very particular listening experience here, and I’m oh so fond of it.

Special makes a funky classic fresh and electric again, which is what I’m really starting to vibe with in terms of the Cyber Club oeuvre. It serves as a sort of confirmation, a celebration and an altogether fantastic close to the LP.

Vinyl Physicality & Listening Experience

I like black vinyl. This milquetoast statement has earned for me the ire of some enthusiasts on r/VaporVinyl when I post on my alt-account there. Because vaporwave attracts curators with “experience” in the music industry, I’ve been told by “serious LP collectors [who know] label managers” — the type of folks who spin on $100 Crosley turntables bought at a Kohl’s Black Friday sale — that new black vinyls just doesn’t sell anymore. Not for vaporwave, at least. A release should have a colored vinyl or not release at all!

This was a take from the same twenty-three year old who wouldn’t purchase Sensual Loops because of the hentai on the cover — so take that for what you will.

I’ve always liked the supplier that Sic Records uses — whoever they are. The vinyls always have a bit of mass and heft to them, leading me to guess that they’re probably in the 180g range. But that’s just my finger test. My Jungle2000 vinyl feels just as weighty. I’ve always believed there’s a definite spectrum with black vinyls — from the frail Qrate cheap options to the high end audiophile oriented waxes like the beautifully crafted Victor Japan and Columbia waxes from the late 80s and early 90s that you see most city pop and anime OSTs pressed on.

The masters on these records are definitely intriguing for the format. My biggest critique of vaporwave vinyl at this point is that some labels don’t take the requisite care to put out a good vinyl master, and often just end up going all-in with poorly optimized digital release ones. The folks at Sic definitely know what they’re doing — because this ended up playing great on a number of systems and speakers, from my KEFs and H/K setup, to a friends Technics mid-fi rig, to Han’s Cambridge endgame. Each time, we got a wide-but-not-too-wide play without the sound edging towards the bright end of the spectrum too intensely. I think this is important because it respects a lot of the samples used. The mixing work done on a lot of the Philly soul here definitely had a certain muted approach that really brought out the most from the vocals and left instrumental arrangements to a moderately more ambient role. I get that impression of continuity here and love it for that.

In short, you should snap up this release while you can. It’s a great release, and fuck the vaporwave nannies who’d shut down Cyber Club’s best two albums without even a listen. May that /u/ go down with u/hoesmad_ on r/Vaporwave’s wall of shame.

#bestof2019 #vaporwave

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artistic-writer · 5 years

Text

Forged in Ireland

Title: Forged in Ireland by @artistic-writer Rating: P for penis innuendo and T for its real rating. Summary: Humourous Forged in Fire AU. Four novice bladesmiths, three of them Irish, compete in one of the toughest competitions of its type, Forged in Fire. Killian Jones, his brother Liam Jones, Graham Humbert and David Nolan. Who will win? Who has the skills to best the other men? A/N: Thank you to my kickass beta, @hollyethecurious - I’m posting this for @kmomof4 who i promised a fic to yesterday, but them posted a whump fic instead. No one dies in this one ;)

Taglist: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr @blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @doodlelolly0910 @darkcolinodonorgasm

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"Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame."- John Hurt

They had never met until now, apart from Killian and Liam, who were brothers. Graham, a tall, curly haired, blue-eyed bulk of a man, was also from Ireland. The three of them had made it through to round two of one of the toughest competitions currently aired on American television. Forged in Fire. Four bladesmiths competing against the clock for the grand prize, which, as they had all learned when the fourth competitor, David, had been eliminated, was much tougher than they had anticipated.

“We’re sorry, David, but your blade did not make the cut.”

Red-faced and in slight shock, David had gathered his tools and left the studio, or the forge as it was known. He hung his head as he walked out of the room, metal tools rattling in his tool bag, lifting it again as he had been instructed by the production team. They were going to put a slow motion shot of him leaving and they wanted him looking tall and proud, his own opinion on getting eliminated voicing over the sequence.

“It’s tougher than you think, and I respect the judges. It was the right choice. I just didn’t make the best knife today and that’s okay because I’ve learned a lot.”

“David’s knife was good,” Graham whispered to Liam, their forges right next to each other back in the studio. “I thought I was going for sure.”

“Aye,” Liam muttered under his breath with a nod, setting his footing into a wider stance behind his anvil.

“This is tough,” Killian whispered to both of them, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his words.

“Bladesmiths!” Wil Willis bellowed out over the forge, making all three men turn to face him. “Round two,” he grinned devilishly. Killian gulped. “You have three hours in which to attach handles to your weapons using the items offered to you,” he motioned to the well-dirtied metal racking in the corner of the room, stacked with offcuts of all kinds of materials, “turning them into fully functioning weapons for our judges tests, which include a rope slice and sleeper chop.” Liam, Killian, and Graham all followed the motion of his arm, eyes scanning the pieces of odd materials. “But,” he added dramatically, and they all returned their gaze to him. “They must include a guard and an element from this.”

They all held their breath as the host reached for the silky red sheet covering an oddly shaped object. With a flick of his wrist, the material fell away to reveal a huge, brass ship propeller sitting neatly on the table in front of them.

“Oh, Jesus,” Graham uttered, his words lost on a chuckle.

Killian looked over to his brother, both ex-naval men, and smirked. It was ironic, in a strange way, that the thing that had carried them across oceans would now, potentially, sink them.

“Bladesmiths, your three hours begins...now!” Willis yelled and all three men scurried to the pantry.

“I have no idea what I am going to do,” Graham mumbled to himself. His blade had received the most attention from the judges because of a slight warp in his tang. He could fix this easily by hiding his tang in a cylinder of material as a through tang, but which to choose? His eye scanned the shelves, flitting back and forth before he fixed his gaze on some deer antler. It was big enough to drill and shape into a comfortable handle, so he grabbed it before either Jones brother had a chance to.

Killian went to the top shelf immediately, spying some Micarta. It was one of the strongest materials and would stand up to the tests set out by the judges, but as he reached for it, so did Liam. They both looked at each other with a smirk, fingers holding the grey material tight.

“Age before beauty, brother,” Killian quipped with a wry grin, releasing his hold on the scale.

“No, no, I insist,” Liam said with a nod, offering Killian the piece. “Shit before the shovel, little brother.” He’d uttered the words under his breath, and they would probably be edited out of the final cut of the show, but it was mostly lost in Killian’s laugh. “Here, take it. For your little knife,” he smiled.

“I assure you, brother,” Killian began, pushing the Micarta back into Liam’s hand. “My knife, much like other things, will be much bigger than yours.”

Liam took the Micarta with a smirk, heading back to his workbench, whilst Killian grabbed some African Blackwood. It was strong and would fit his blade well, the rustic, camp knife style with a Celtic twist. Traditionally, Celtic knives were shorter, more like a small dagger, with a single loop handle and leather wrapped handle, but the shows specifications meant he had to go bigger. Killian had made a Viking Seax, a single edged blade with, traditionally, a handle made of natural materials, a knife style that had a reputation as a great chopper.

“I’ve made a Seax. It’s strong, and it’s a great chopping blade that will knock my brother right out of the competition. I’m going to cut off a piece of the prop, flatten it out and slide it between the scales and my tang, giving my handle a third layer.”

Killian ran to the tool bench, eyes searching over the dusty surface until he found what he was looking for. The grinder, fitted with a diamond cutting disc, was in his grasp before he could blink, and he then ran to the propeller in the front of the forge.

“Looks like Killian is taking a huge chunk of that flat edge side of the prop,” said David Baker, historic weapons expert and advisor to Hollywood.

“He is most likely going to flatten it out and use it somewhere in his handle,” J. Nielsen, another of the judges, pointed out, watching Killian whizz across the room with the section of propeller he had ground off.

Killian was at his anvil in a second, gripping the brass in his tongs and whacking it flat with his blacksmith’s hammer. The sound of metal on metal rang out, a bead of sweat on Killian’s brow falling to his anvil. The forge was hot, heat from the four propane forges still lingering in the air, and with each collision to his anvil, Killian felt the ricochet in his wrist and his forearm.

“Hitting that brass a little hard there, brother?” Liam teased, brushing past Killian with his own part of the propeller. He had popped off the boss cap, unscrewing the bolt that held the shaft in place, testing the weight in his hands. “When are you going to learn that hitting something harder doesn’t always yield the best results.”

“And when are you going to learn, brother,” Killian began, grinning from ear to ear with a filthy smirk. “The force from a hammer is proportional to the size of the tool. I cannot be held accountable if my tool is bigger than yours.”

“So you say,” Liam sniggered, shaking his head at his brother’s cockiness.

“Have you ever heard a complaint?” Killian raised an eyebrow at his brother who met his comment with silence. “I didn’t think so.”

“Layers will add integrity as well as a sleekness to my blade. I’m going to slip the brass under the scales to give my knife a really sexy look, kind of like a brass vest under a wooden jacket.”

Once he had the brass as flat as he could get it, Killian got back to his table and set about tracing the holes of his tang so he could drill out the brass and African Blackwood. Killian knew Liam’s plan. He had already watched him put a thread on the end of his tang so he could just screw the brass bolt in place and shape it on the belt sander. It was ingenious, really, but Killian liked the challenge of creating the perfect handle for his blade.

Glancing to his right, Killian spotted a frown on Graham’s face.

“Uh oh,” Willis thought out loud, spying Graham’s mistake instantly. All three of the judges followed his nod of direction, sucking in mouthfuls of air through their teeth in a triple wince. “Looks like Graham has messed up his material.”

Graham, in his haste to repair his warped tang, had misjudged the size and angle of the hole needed in his deer antler and had managed to drill right through the side of it. He sighed audibly, shaking his head from side to side before swiping his hand over his brow. Antler dust stuck to his sweaty forehead and the muscles in his jaw ticked.

“You can fix it,” Killian encouraged, his voice shaking Graham from his self directed rage. “Get some dust and epoxy,” he instructed selflessly.

It was like a lightbulb went off in Graham’s brain and he rushed to the saw, gathering what dust he could so he could mix it with some epoxy resin and steel dust. His handle would be off colour, but it would be functional, and that was the most important part of the competition.

“Thanks, mate,” he called to Killian who simply gave him a nod of assurance.

“Did you see that?” Willis asked the judges, directing his question at Doug Marcaida, an edged weapons specialist. “Killian just helped his fellow competitor.”

“He’s a source of inspiration,” Doug nodded humbly. “Great men are forged in fire,” he began, pointing out Killian who continued to work on his blade handle with a stern focus. “It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.”

“Did you just quote Doctor Who?” David Baker asked his colleague, aghast the man had delivered such a poetic quote from a TV show character.

“John Hurt,” Doug laughed. “As Doctor Who.”

All three men were at the same stage. The materials they had collected had been sized and cut into a rough shape using the huge bandsaw, and they are all currently hunched over their workbenches mixing epoxy. Two syringes full of the two resins were squeezed into each other on a flat surface, mixed with a flat spatula made of wood, the chemical reaction happening almost instantly. Graham added his dust to the epoxy, turning it into a lump consistency that wasn’t as easily spread over his tang as the glue Liam and Killian were using. They all rushed to get their handle scales in place, tapping them gently with a hammer.

“No, no, no!” Liam cursed, turning from his bench dramatically and running his steel greyed hands through his curled hair.

“Tap, tap, tap, crack. I’m done. Now my blasted brother is going to win.”

“Oh no,” one of the judges said. “Looks like Liam has broken one of his scales.”

Liam ground his jaw in frustration. He had hit the handle material too hard at just the wrong angle and it had snapped the top corner of his scale. He stared at his knife, shoulders tensed, fists balled in anger. In his anticipation to get his handle fixed he had lost his patience with tapping the delicate material with the hammer, chipping of a corner. It was a little too much to cover with some strategic sanding, so he had no choice but to start again.

“It’s going to be tricky getting those scales off now,” judge J. Nielsen told host Wil Willis. “His epoxy is already set.”

“Fuck!” Liam grunted, sure his outburst would most certainly not make a final cut.

Killian looked up from his own project, his brother’s cheeks pink with a mixture of heat and fury. He looked at Liam’s faux pas, sitting in front of his brother like a mockery of his skills, and his lips turned up into a smug grin.

“Problem, brother?” Killian taunted, looking back to his own work. His epoxy had set, fusing two brass plates between his tang and his outer wooden scales. It was perfect. All he had to do was sand it to shape.

Liam didn’t answer, punting his toe into the edge of his table.

“Shorten it,” Killian barked over the sound of Graham grinding his handle behind him. Liam looked over to him, raising an eyebrow in Jones brother fashion. “It’s only a tad, Liam,” Killian added, leaving his bench to pick up his brother’s knife. He pointed at the end, rubbing his grease covered thumbnail over the butt of Liam’s handle. “You can cut a smidge off, add an extra layer of new material and then thread your bolt on the end.”

Liam looked up at his brother, astounded by his commanding nature. He barely had time to respond before Killian thrust his knife back into his hands and Willis was announcing a time frame.

“Bladesmiths! You have thirty minutes remaining!”

Graham began humming a tune to himself as he pushed his knife handle against the sanding belt. Dust flew towards the floor and into his face, the mask he was wearing shielding his most from most of the splinters of antler. He was rushing, grinding in the wrong direction when all of a sudden the knife slipped from his grasp and his fingers were pushed against the coarse sanding belt, his knife point stabbing into his palm.

“Jesus, fuck!” He screeched, his Irish accent much thicker than it had been all day.

“Maybe, my reaction was bit drastic, but at least now I can say that literally my blood, sweat and tears are in that blade.”

“Oh, we got blood!” David Baker announced, tapping J.Nielsen’s arm in excitement.

“Is Graham going to need a medic?” Willis frowned, arching his neck to see more clearly.

“Are you alright, mate?” Killian asked Graham, his voice muffled behind his own face mask. He lifted his head, shutting off his machine to silence the screech of the belt, placing his knife on the bench beside it. “Is it bad?”

Graham hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. Killian motioned him closer and encouraged him to show him his hand, dark crimson flowing from his palm as soon as Graham opened it. Killian shook his head, looking up to catch the eye of Wil Willis, motioning with his arm.

“Can we get a medic in there?” Willis said, concern etched on his face.

Paramedics rushed to Graham’s aid. Liam downed his tools and for the first time ever, in the history of the entire show, the clock was stopped. Graham had sat on the floor under a medic’s instruction, and his leg was shaking, knee tapping the floor to distract from the pain throbbing through his hand.

“Is he going to be able to continue?” Baker thought out loud.

Graham was lost in a huddle of men, Killian pushed out by the circle by the medics. He looked over to Liam, his face pale, absolutely no colour in his cheeks, a solemn look on his face.

“When I reached Graham, I saw that his palm was sliced nearly to the back of his hand. His little pinkie finger was almost cut clean off, and the first thing I think is, he can’t possibly continue. The second thing is, that means it’s down to me and Liam. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad disappointed to be entering the final round because of an injury, but that won’t make besting my brother during the final any less satisfying.”

After the drama had cleared and Graham was on his way to the hospital, the forge fell silent once more. Liam and Killian stood before the judges table, part finished blades wrapped in protective blue cloth in their hands. Killian shuffled his feet, scuffing the dust with the toe of his boot, and Liam was nervously gripping his blade.

“Due to Graham’s medical elimination, there will be no need for further testing of your blades,” Wil Willis began, addressing both of the men in front of him. “For the first time in this competition’s history, we have brothers competing for the title and the check for ten grand.” He had his fingers tented, pointing to each brother in turn. “Congratulations on making the finale round. How do you guys feel about that?”

“No finer opponent,” Liam shrugged, looking sideways at his brother who had his trademark smirk and raised eyebrow plastered on his face.

“May the best man win,” Killian added, bobbing excitedly on the balls of his feet.

“Liam, Killian, we asked you here to forge a blade in your signature style, and we have not overlooked the fact that most of our competitors in this competition were Irish, so now we are sending you back to your home forges to recreate an iconic weapon from Celtic history.”

“The instant Wil Willis mentions Celtic, my heart flutters. Our family has strong Celtic roots, so beating Liam is going to be all that much sweeter.”

Liam looked to his brother, the same gleeful expression lighting up both their faces at the host's words. He hadn’t even revealed the weapon yet and they were both poised to explode with excitement as he reached for the red, silk cloth covering it next to him.

“And that weapon is...the Irish Ring-Hilted Sword.”

The covering fell away from the sword in slow motion, the glint of the silvered pommel catching their eyes. It was beautiful. A long, hefty sword with a distinctive design that simultaneously caused joy and terror to course through them both. What looked like a simple design was actually a long list of complex crafting techniques the show's host was about to divulge.

“You’ll have five days at your home forges in which to complete this challenge,” Willis said enthusiastically, a wicked grin on his face. “Your blades must meet the following parameters. The length of your blade must be between twenty nine and thirty one inches in length, it must be double edged, and include a fuller on both sides of the blade, that runs at least three quarters the length of the blade. You must have an ‘s’ shaped guard, with forked terminals, with at least three prongs on each terminal. Additionally, you must include a ringed pommel, through which you can see the tang. Bladesmiths, after five days you will return to present your swords to our panel of judges, and after they have thoroughly tested them, and inspected the quality of your work, they’ll declare one of you the Forged in Fire champion, who’ll walk out of here with a check for ten thousand dollars. Good luck, Bladesmiths. We’ll see you in five days.”

“Unfortunately, for Killian, he is not used to wielding such an impressive weapon, so it’s going to be easy to, once and for all, instill in him that he will always be the little brother.”

“My older brother seems too preoccupied with the size of the weapon when it’s really about how the sword will perform. I assure you, I’m up for this challenge, and when I forge the better weapon, and I will, whoever is jabbed with it, will most certainly feel it.”

After five days in their home forges, and after extensive rounds of judge testing - including both brother’s hearing Doug Marcaida declare that their blades ‘would cut’ - it was settled once and for all.

Killian Jones did indeed have the bigger knife.

#fanfic #ff #ouat fanfic #forged in fire #forged in fire au #killian jones #liam jones #graham humbert #david nolan #bladesmithing #swordsmithing #tw: near amputation of a finger #its Graham #and one sentence #you'll be fine #Krystal.

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xxxthe-grammar-nazixxx · 5 years

Text

Shoot

This is a Robert Sheehan fanfic. All liberties taken are mine alone. Medium level sex scene. Based on a photo shoot that was very inspiring!

‘OMG it’s him!’

‘Who him?’ I was too busy going through the last batch of prints at my desk to pay much attention to what my two off-siders were whispering about. They’d been giggling by the water cooler like Beavis and Butthead for the last five minutes, staring at someone in the foyer, no doubt. It never failed to amuse me how, no matter how many celebrities we met and photographed for our online entertainment magazine, my makeup artist and hairstylist could still turn into a couple of total fangirls at the sight of a pretty, famous man.

They either didn’t hear me or weren’t brave enough to say the name out loud for fear of him – whoever he was – overhearing, so I let it go and walked the prints over to reception. ‘Stella these have the name and contact details on them, can you mail them off for me?’

Stella nodded. ‘Of course. Standard post or express?’

‘It’s pretty urgent.’

‘Express post then.’

‘So, who’s my next lamb to the slaughter?’ I asked her.

‘Robert Sheehan.’

‘Who?’

Stella’s brown, perfectly made-up eyes widened. ‘Are you actually kidding me? The guy’s show is one of the biggest things on Netflix at the moment! The Umbrella Academy?’

‘Haven’t had time. Seriously, how do you people manage to binge-watch TV all day with full-time jobs?’

‘Because we’re not workaholics like you.’ Stella replied, with a laugh. ‘Seriously, you should watch it.’

I screwed up my nose. ‘Superheroes, right? Doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing.’

‘How do you know it’s not your kind of thing unless you watch it?’ Stella said, reproachfully.

‘She’s got a point, you know.’

I sighed. ‘He’s right behind me, isn’t he?’

Stella exploded into giggles. I shook my head at her and turned to find my next subject indeed right behind me.

He smiled. ‘Not a fan, I take it?’

Hm. Roughly six foot or over, lean but not too skinny, nice green eyes, dimple – okay, I had to admit, I could sort of see what all the fuss was about. His curly dark hair could do with a comb and some product though. I knew I was thinking like a photographer but that was my default setting.

‘It’s not that,’ I told him. ‘I just … haven’t seen your show. I could be a fan.’ I winced. ‘Don’t go over to the competition, please. My boss will kill me.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t even know who the competition is, so I think you’re safe there.’

I liked his accent too. ‘What part of Ireland are you from?’

‘Port-Laoise,’ (He pronounced it Port Leesh). ‘I know… practically nobody’s heard of it. It’s not well-known like County Cork or Dublin. It’s a little country town.’

‘Nice. Well, Stu gave me a bit of a heads-up on where to go with this, so are you ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Great.’ I turned to Britt and Ella. ‘You two want to stop standing over there like props and get organized?’

Britt’s jaw dropped. ‘Can we watch?’

‘That would be up to Mr. Sheehan.’

‘Just Robert’s fine. I’m no Mister,’ he joked. ‘I … okay … sure, I guess.’

‘Girls, he’s probably sick to death of being ogled at from all angles,’ I told them. ‘Ten minutes, and then you’re out.’

****

To their credit, Britt and Ella did an amazing job. Not that this guy needed much of anything in the way of makeup or what Britt liked to call “floofing”. But they’d taken one look and decided on the theme. His hair had been straightened and worked into a kind of punk rock bouffant. Like Elvis, but more extreme. Black kohl liner exaggerated the olive green of his eyes. Ella had decided on a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the buttons unfastened to mid-torso. The black and white striped stretch pants looked like something Freddie Mercury would wear in the 70’s – or Michael Hutchence might have worn now, if he’d been alive. Had to admit, for all their fangirling, my employees knew how to dress a man so that you’d want to undress him!

‘Is this okay?’ He walked out of the dressing room patting down the back of his hair, self-consciously. ‘Leave it alone,’ Britt laughed, ‘You’ll wreck all my good work.’

‘It looks great. Suits you.’

‘Thanks. So um … what’s the plan?’

We worked steadily for the next ten minutes while Britt and Ella stood watching from the doorway of the dressing room. After that I gave them permission to buzz off for the day, but I hardly believed they’d take me at my word. Either way it didn’t matter – the door stayed closed. Even Stella left as she had to catch an early train. I was on my own with a client – not something I regularly planned for as it bent the rules a little bit – but you had to see this guy to understand. I’d photographed male models before, guys whose natural beauty gave me goosebumps in all the right places. But the trouble with them was they knew it and played on it. I’m not saying Robert didn’t fully realize the effect he had on women. He knew. He just wasn’t arrogant about it. In fact, if anything it was the opposite. He was hilarious. He had me in stitches in minutes. It was a good thing the camera was on a tripod because I would have dropped it for sure!

It was when I asked him to improvise a bit that things took a turn for the … well, strange. No, that’s not the word. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the narrow, horizontal windows near the ceiling of my basement studio were a little bit steamed up …

He walked toward the camera, slowly, like a tiger biding his time, waiting to pounce. I zoomed in on that face and was glad I did. His grin was like a slow burn, working its way from the pit of your stomach to your thighs. That was when I realized I was holding my breath. He narrowed those hypnotic green eyes slightly and lifted a finger to his mouth, biting down on it seductively. My camera kept taking pictures, but I barely noticed my role in their creation. Later I’d go back over the shots and struggle to remember taking some of them. But I never forget the video. I always film a photo shoot, especially if it’s just me in the room with a male client, which doesn’t happen all that often. I always ask permission but it’s more for my protection than theirs. Anyhow, when I returned to the video to make sure I wasn’t running out of battery or flash drive space, I watched Robert in the monitor. He was staring down at his feet, and I wondered what he was thinking about. He lifted his head slowly and glanced at something slightly to the right of the camera, letting out a shaky breath. There was a vulnerability in that one little movement where I kind of felt sorry for the guy, even though there was nothing to pity him for. He was rich, he was incredibly talented, and drop-dead gorgeous. What’s to feel bad about?

‘Are you okay?’ I asked him. ‘Do you need a break?’

He smiled as if the previous moment hadn’t even occurred. ‘No, I’m fine! Honestly, let’s keep going, I’ve got my second wind.’

‘Robert … you would tell me if you felt … objectified, right?’

He blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m just saying … you must have people taking your picture all the damn time. Does it ever get old?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But that’s the job, you know. Why?’

‘I just … how can I explain this. so it makes sense …’ I bit my lip. ‘You’re a good-looking guy.’

He grinned. ‘Thank you.’

‘And you don’t even fish for compliments. That’s rare. Even when you’re telling some celebrities how great they are, they want to hear more.’

‘Yeah, I’ve met some like that. Quite a few actually.’ He motioned to the sofa under the window. ‘Come to think of it, I might take you up on that quick break, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’

I went back to reviewing some of the photos until he cleared his throat. I glanced up.

‘You’re not taking a break?’

‘Um … I wasn’t going to …’

‘Come on. Sit down for a bit. Put your feet up. I heard your receptionist say you’re a workaholic. You can relax for five minutes, you know.’

I laughed. ‘I know … All right.’ It wasn’t taking a break, in itself, that made me nervous. I might have been driven but as far as I knew, I didn’t suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It was having to sit so close to one of the most attractive men I’d ever met, and not allowing myself to get flustered or unprofessional. All I could think about was whether I had lipstick on my teeth or bad breath. I ran a hand through my short blonde hair, which had recently been chopped to resemble Gwyneth Paltrow’s ‘do in Sliding Doors (thank you, Britt, you’re a doll) and wondered if he thought I looked too butch.

‘I like your hair,’ he said. ‘Is that a new cut?’

‘Yeah … I mean, thanks. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t. You just have that look of someone who had their hair cut recently but isn’t sure of it yet.’

I chuckled. ‘That’s awfully specific.’

He shrugged. ‘I like to read people. I think I’m pretty good at it.’

‘Really? What am I thinking now?’

Robert settled into the vintage chesterfield sofa and crossed one long, lean leg over the other, in my direction. He tilted his head, speculatively. ‘You’re on edge. Nervous. I have no idea why. I’m a fun guy. Not intimidating at all.’

You’re half right, I wanted to say, but that would beg the question – what was he wrong about?

‘Okay, I’ll try to remember that,’ I told him. Relaxing back against the sofa I added, ‘Better?’

‘Marginally, but you still have that tense little line between your eyes.’ He reached over and before I knew what was happening, stroked the skin between my eyebrows with his thumb. It had the odd effect of making me feel sleepy. ‘There, that’s better.’

I managed a smile despite the tension that still sat in my neck and shoulders. ‘Is that Reiki or something?’

‘No. Just something I picked up somewhere. I forget where. I think they do it to newborn babies who are stressed. It puts them to sleep.’

‘Nearly put me to sleep,’ I admitted, feeling a blush creep into my cheeks.

‘Ah well, then, it worked.’ God, that smirk. That dimple. The confidence, along with the complete lack of arrogance, was undeniably hot. I suddenly wanted to remove my blazer, even though it was roughly 10 degrees outside and not much warmer in my studio.

‘Okay well, we’ve … we’ve had a long enough break. Let’s get back to it …’

Robert laughed. ‘It’s your shoot. What do you want me to do now?’

My face grew warmer. I could think of a few things, but they weren’t appropriate at the time and certainly aren’t printable! ‘Well first off, a wardrobe change. Why don’t you go and have a look at what’s there?’ While he did that, I took off to the bathroom in the hallway, just outside the studio. Splashing some water on my face, I managed to dial down the red. Breath, check, I thought, going through the drill. Pits, check. Heart rate … going a mile a minute. Need to get that down! Think of something totally not hot. Rupert Murdoch. Dead … anything. Warts. Yeah, that’ll do it. Rotten big carbunkles!

No matter what I did, though, when I walked back into the studio and saw him in a pair of black leather pants and a patterned black and silver shirt open all the way down, with nothing underneath but bare skin, my heart-rate spiked! I’m going to have a bloody stroke, I realized. He’s gonna make me stroke out, the gorgeous bastard!

Shucking off my blazer because it was now far too hot in that claustrophobic little studio, I complimented him on his choice. ‘You look like Michael Hutchence,’ I admitted. ‘If he was into wearing guyliner.’

Robert laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered cos he was one hot piece … am I allowed to say that?’

‘Of course! I’m not about to stop you.’ Damn, I thought. He’s gay. Just my luck!

‘I’m not gay, though, not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ he added, quickly. ‘Not that you care, either, I just …’ he shot me a sideways glance. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

‘Okay.’ I think my heart stopped beating altogether somewhere amongst his garbled confession. If in fact it was a confession. I felt a bit like Forrest Gump – too slow to figure out something that should have been obvious. Wait, I thought. Does he want me to know he’s straight because he’s into me? Or because he’s worried I’ll go to the ‘zine and spill my guts? Inside I knew the answer to that but my self-esteem, little destroyer that it was, wouldn’t allow me to gloat.

I’m not sure how it happened. I don’t remember how I got from A to B; I just knew that I had to be kissing him right now, before I lost my nerve. He tasted like coffee and pistachios. His cologne was something altogether fantastic: citrusy and woody and musky all at the same time. Or maybe the musk part was all him, I don’t know.

He was a freakishly good kisser. Once the shock of my making the first move wore off, he took charge without overstating it. Which was easy for him because I’m less than five feet two in heels and he towered over me. In less than a minute he had managed to trigger every cliché in the romance writer’s arsenal: my knees were weak, my skin was covered in goosebumps and my heart was pounding like a jackhammer. I had to wind my arms around his neck to keep from dissolving into a puddle of lust on the floor, because his lips and hands were doing things to me that are illegal in some countries! We kind of shuffle-walked back over to the sofa without breaking contact, and suddenly I was lying beside him, reaching into his shirt to hold my hand over his heart, to see if it was racing as fast as mine. Not quite but close enough. He responded by slipping his hand beneath the hem of my shirt and running it up along my flank until it reached my bra. His lips left mine and started kissing their way down my throat. My breath caught as his cool fingers grazed my nipple through the silk. He reached around and unfastened my bra with one hand. Hm, clever, I thought. Dexterous at the very least. How many times have you done that, I wonder? It should have been enough to put me off; to change my mind about this. But he started kissing me again and I lost all notion of caring how many women he’d been with or even what day it was. His hand cupped my breast, this time free of the bra. He moved from my mouth to my collarbone, and pushing up my top, kissed the skin over my heart. I removed the shirt and bra in one, anxious to get as close to him as possible. I wanted his shirt off as well. As good as it looked on him, this guy was born to not wear clothes!

He let me push it off his shoulders as his mouth made my nipples so hard they ached. My fingers delved into his thick dark hair, messing up the ‘do Britt had so carefully made look careless. His lips traced a path down the center of my torso, the short whiskers on his chin and upper lip alternating between scratching and tickling my skin. When he reached the waistband of my jeans, I had to stop him. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Not that. I’m not … I’m not comfortable with it.’

He glanced up at me. ‘You mean, you don’t want me to go down on you?’

I nodded. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ He shuffled back up beside me. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘I don’t know … just … not today. Okay?’

‘Okay. That’s cool.’ He leaned in and kissed me. ‘I have other ways of making you squirm.’

I quivered at the thought. He unzipped my jeans and tugged them down a little, his hand disappeared between my thighs, cupping me and making its way beneath my underwear. ‘Actually,’ he said, in a husky voice, ‘this is almost better.’ I gasped as he started to stroke, and he grinned, and winked at me. ‘Better vantage point.’

When he had me as wet as I could possibly be, he finally let me move enough to unfasten his leather pants. Before that he’d been determined to make me ‘squirm’, as he put it, and squirm I most certainly did. I was still catching my breath when he produced a condom from a pocket I didn’t even know those pants had. ‘Should never leave me alone in the wardrobe room,’ he joked. ‘I get up to all kinds of hijinks.’

‘You brought that with you?’

‘I always have at least one with me,’ he explained. ‘In my position, I sort of have to. You have no idea how many girls throw themselves at me just because I’m famous. I do have a policy where I don’t shag my fans but … when it comes to women in general, sometimes I’m not as disciplined as I’d like to be. Like now, for instance.’

‘Oh good,’ I murmured, ‘Because I don’t have any.’ I looked up at him. He looked so beautiful lying there on his side, practically naked except for a pair of black jockey shorts and the leather pants around those knees. He kicked both off and hurriedly rolled on the rubber.

‘No rush,’ I said, with a giggle. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ I reached up and stroked his cheek. I could feel the bristle of new stubble growing through, even as Britt or Ella must have given him a shave in order to apply the makeup for the photo shoot. Those beautiful big green eyes were luminous even in the shadow from the photo-lighting. His skin was golden and his lips … suddenly I regretted my earlier reticence about oral sex. I’d experienced it before of course but it was always awkward, messy and felt almost like an obligation, on both sides. And it almost never, ever made me feel like he’d made me feel a moment ago, with his hand. I wanted to be able to explain that to him but felt stupid and almost prudish. Instead I took him in hand and fondled him until he closed his eyes and bit down hard on his lower lip. Taking that as a signal he was ready to go, I shucked my own pants off and pulled him close, sliding my leg over his hip. He was cautious at first, probably worried about blowing his load too early, but the feel of him inside me was almost too much, anyway. It reignited what had been simmering away for the last few minutes, with a pleasure so sharp it was almost pain.

‘Are you okay?’

I nodded. ‘Keep going.’

He did, but slowly, and we kissed as if we had all the time in the world. He raised himself up on his elbows over me, and I responded by wrapping my legs around his slim hips, holding him inside. His new position gave him leverage, and strength to go harder and faster. Pretty soon it was only a kiss every other thrust, and I don’t know about him, but I felt like I was about to burst out of my skin.

Suddenly, just as I arched my back with release, and he did the same seconds later, I heard a shrill beep, and remembered.

I hadn’t turned the camcorder off.

THE END.

#robert sheehan #the umbrella academy

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thetorreediary · 5 years

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The June 27th Post | A homage to Houston rap culture One Time For The Homie DJ Screw | A brief history of Chopped & Screwed music A pioneer of Houston rap music but also the creator and godfather of Chopped and Screwed music. Robert Earl Davis, Jr. aka DJ Screw started slowing down records in the early 90s. He began the Screwed Up Click (SUC) on the Southside of Houston, TX in 1990. The group consist of but is not limited to Big Moe, Lil Keke, Lil Flip, Big Pokey, Mike D, H.A.W.K., Lil-O, Clay Doe, 3-2 and Trae. The notable rap duo UGK (Underground Kings), formed in 1987 and consisting of Chris “Pimp C” Butler & Bernard “Bun B” Freeman, were SUC Affiliated. The click put out over 100 tapes, all produced by Screw, in 1998 alone. Purple Drank is a popular substance cocktail, popularized by Houston rappers in the 90s. The drink consists of Promethazine and/or Codeine cough syrup mixed with alcohol and/or soda and/or juice. DJ Screw and SUC were avid users of the fusion drink. Unfortunately, the drink comes with lethal side effects such as rapid weight gain, slowed heart rate, loss of balance and addiction. The effects took a toll on Screws life and resulted in an overdose and ultimately his demise. Subsequently, Kenneth “Big Moe” Moore and Pimp C, died within months of each other due to sipping syrup combined with their own individual pre-existing conditions. Since Screwed Up Records, DJ Screw’s recording studio and record shop were on the Southside the Northside felt the need to compete. So in 1997, Michael “5000” Watts and Ronald “OG Ron C” Coleman established Swishahouse, a record label. Watts was already picking up the slack right before Screw died because Screw had semi paused production due to his constant use of syrup. So naturally, Watts was up next for the Chopped and Screwed scene. Later, in 2011 OG Ron C & the ChopStars would go on to create Chop Not Slop where they essentially do what their predecessors did, make remixes of popular songs and albums where the tempo is slowed tremendously. Swishahouse consists of but is not limited to Slim Thug, Lil Mario, JDawg, Big Tiger, Big Pic, Lester Roy, Archie Lee, Mike Jones, and Lil Keke. If you notice, Lil Keke repped SUC but officially signed with Swishahouse after DJ Screw died. A very political yet sensible move. Big Moe | City of Syrup & Z-RO | Mo City Don My mom played City of Syrup the Chopped version so much when I was a child that I was under the impression that Big Moe was the only artist who sung in a low tone and occasionally would restart his songs by accident. Thankfully my family corrected me. Thus beginning my interest in Chopped and Screwed. City of Syrup was Big Moe’s debut album and featured hits like “Barre Baby”, “Maan!” and “Freestyle (June 27)”. It featured many artists from Screwed Up Click such as Big Pokey, H.A.W.K., Lil-O, Tate Eyez, Mike D, DJ Screw and Z-RO. The distance between Alexandria, LA, where my family is from, and Houston, TX is only a little over 200 miles. Most of Alexandria’s music, even to this day, is heavily influenced by Houston artists. So it’s very plausible that my mom’s music taste is influenced a lot by Houston because of where she grew up. For the year of 2017, I lived in Houston and in more ways than one it was eye opening. I gained a whole new appreciation for music. I made a lot of forever connections so much so that my good friend Sarah, whom I met at work, ended up asking me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. I humbly agreed. Fast forward to the wedding day and the entire wedding party is being transported to the reception via party bus. The groom has the AUX cord and he began to play a familiar tune. The whole bus began to sing in unison the lyrics to “Mo City Don” by Z-RO. I awed in wonder, wishing I too knew the lyrics. And then, just as the song is about to end, he shoutouts Lake Charles, Lafayette then my hometown of Alexandria. I had such a sense of pride in Alex at that moment. Houston Up-and-Coming Artists Spotlight | Megan Thee Stallion | Tobe Nwige | Té Allen | The H Town Hottie | Megan Thee Stallion Megan was born and raised in Houston, TX and she is the hottest female rapper out right now. The self-proclaimed “H Town Hottie” is hitting airwaves with her woman empowerment mantras and sexually liberating rhymes. At only 23 years old Megan is already topping charts all while being enrolled at Texas Southern University. My favorites of hers so far are as follows: “Running Up Freestyle”, “Big Poppa Freestyle”, “Big Ole Freak”, “Sex Talk”, “Shake That”, “Best You Ever Had” and “Stalli Freestyle”. ALL STREAMING SERVICES: Megan Thee Stallion ALL SOCIAL MEDIA HANDLES | @theestallion #GetTwistedSundays | Tobe Nwigwe Actually hailing from Alief, TX, a subsection of Houston, Tobe Nwigwe is ahead of his time. With songs like “MURDER.”, where he flips Sister Nancy’s “Bam Bam” into a song all his own, and “RĖÂŁITY” where he flips Mtume’s “Juicy Fruit” into a song about his reality growing up and present day. Tobe has a series on Youtube called Get Twisted Sunday’s. On the series, every week he recorded himself getting his hair either twisted or braided by his wife whilst premiering a new song. EVERY WEEK for months straight. His sound reminds me of the great Andre 3000, with his futuristic sound and originality. ALL STREAMING SERVICES & SOCIAL MEDIA HANDLE | @TobeNwigwe Birthday Cake | Té Allen Té Allen is an all-around star. Being born and raised in the south, his musical influences can be heard throughout his music. His first mixtape, Smooth Vibes (2015), was his breakthrough into the world of music. Since then, he has released a series of songs and an EP, Birthday Cake (2018). Interesting enough, the promo for Birthday Cake went viral. Té decided to put a rather embarrassing picture of himself as a child as the cover art and offered his audience $100 for the best roast of the picture. Needless to say, the cover was not only shared for laughs but was a genius way to promote his project. He is currently prepping for the release of his next project. The first single off his upcoming project, AIM Blue is accompanied with crisp visuals as per usual for Té. ALL STREAMING SERVICES |Té Allen Instagram|Twitter| teallen3 Snapchat| lavonteallen3

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soyforramen · 5 years

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!! I saw you reblogged the winter writing prompts post too! We've been reblogging those to @riverdale-events too for those who want to participate. All the Reindeer Mini Games! How about - 08. i slip on some ice and you’re the stranger who catches me - all of the yes!

Some Jarchie Meet-Cute (Feat. Kiwi Archie and Photographer!Jughead because I can)

xxxx

Jughead Jones was the furthest thing from happy as he’d been all day as he left the bookstore. According to his employee record, he’d been one of the most hardworking, diligent, timely employees they’d had. And yet he’d been the first on the chopping block to make room for an honorary position for the boss’s daughter.

Laid off at Christmas. What a damn cliche.

To say his dark and stormy thoughts were elsewhere was an understatement. His mind lingered among all the things he should have said as he walked out the door, all the things he’d have to rethink without a steady source of income. So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise when he hit a patch of black ice on the pavement and felt the world fall out from under him.

He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable pain and embarrassment that came from falling flat on one’s back, the contents of his bag strewn everywhere while concerned onlookers checked to see if they needed to call someone.

Only the pavement never came up to punch him down even further than his recent firing.

Instead there was someone pulling at his jacket, keeping him from a harsh reality check. He opened his eyes to find a red-haired man holding Jughead by the arm as if he weighed no more than a tissue box. With what seemed to take no effort at all, the man pulled Jughead back to his feet.

“Careful there, hate to see you knock yourself out.”

The man had a slight accent - Australia? New Zealand maybe? - and Jughead wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t hit his head. After all, who went around a snow-covered city in a bright blue and gold varsity jacket, sandals, and a guitar?

“Thanks,” Jughead muttered. He straightened out his jacket, expecting that to be the end of that encounter (and in this city, it usually was), but this man seemed to have missed the memo.

“No worries. Would have hated to see you brain yourself.” He paused and scratched the back of his head, a sheepish look on his face. “Mate, do you reckon you could do me a favor? I’m looking for -” the man squinted at the palm of his right hand. “Pod’s? Yeah-nah, that can’t be right. Pob’s? Pab’s? Pa-”

“Pop’s?”

“That’s the one.”

The redhead stood there, grinning widely with an expectation that Jughead could never decline to help. And in a way, he was right. Jughead couldn’t help but feel a sense of comradery with the man. Something about him was so nice it almost seemed a waste of energy to try and dislike him.

He quickly squashed that feeling though. Afterall, the redhead was just another lost tourist, someone who’d leave the city as quickly as he’d come. And yet…

“I’m headed there now. I can walk with you, if you want,” Jughead said as noncommittally as possible. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and looked purposefully away from the man.

“Choice, bro. Lead the way.”

They began walking, and if Jughead noticed how close they were he didn’t mention it. It wasn’t until they’d reached the light at the end of the road that the man held out his hand.

“I’m Archie, by the way.”

Jughead shook it and noted the callouses on Archie’s fingertips. Likely the guitar wasn’t a prop to draw attention as he’d first suspected.

“Jughead.”

Archie raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask about the nickname. Instead he filled the walk with amicable chatter about his experiences in the city while Jughead offered his own minor commentary. It was, on the whole, like talking with a very friendly, very enthusiastic travel blogger.

Jughead should have been put off by the chatty Kiwi (a fact discerned by Archie’s disappointment not to be able to find a ‘Kiwiburger’ in the states), but instead he found himself responding more the longer the conversation went on. It was as if he’d known the man his entire life rather than just ten minutes.

When they arrived at the diner, Archie held the door open for him. The first thing Jughead noticed was that half the diner had gone silent and was staring at the redhead behind him.

“At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. To new friends and all, yeah?” Archie asked, oblivious to the attention.

Never one to turn down coffee, Jughead pulled his beanie down further over his ears and hiked his collar up. “There’s a booth in the back,” he said with a nod.

He waved at Rosie the waitress as he passed. Archie, though, seemed to greet everyone on their way to the back. It was an odd thing, for someone who hadn’t been to Pops’ before, but Jughead put it down to his overly friendly nature.

Jughead took his regular seat in the booth, and Archie seemed relieved to be able to put his back to the door. It was easy to read Archie, Jughead realized, and that was strange in-of-itself. Or maybe that was just who Archie was. Someone who was confident and self-assured enough to put himself out there.

He seemed normal enough, despite the curiosity of the rest of the diner, and that Jughead put down to the redhead being a novelty. Everyone knew or recognized everyone else within the soft, neon glow. Pops’ was a local diner for local residents, and not many tourists made it this far out of the city unless they knew a local, so Jughead chalked the interest down to that.

“So what do you do?” Archie asked after they’d ordered coffee.

A mocha latte, extra whipped cream for Archie, a black, no cream, no sugar, endless refills for Jughead.

“In general or professionally?”

Archie shrugged and picked up a menu to flip through it. “Both. Either.” He thought about it for a moment and Jughead could almost see his thought process. “What would you want your obituary to read if you carked it?”

Jughead snorted at the unexpectedly morbid statement. There were a lot of things he knew he didn’t want put in his obituary - his inability to hold a steady job, his jadedness about the world and the people in it, his use of sardonic humor to keep from getting close to people. (At least he’d be a self-reflective corpse.)

“I’m a freelance photographer for the local newspaper.”

Archie’s head jerked up in interest. His grin was so wide it was easy to see that he’d been the recipient of braces in his younger years. No one had teeth that straight and white without some dental work.

“Yeah? That’s keen. How’d you get into that?”

It was a long story, one that Jughead was still a bit sore about. His ex had inherited her parents newspaper and, in a pinch, had called him at three in the morning to ask if he could photograph some rally protesting a high school shutting down to make way for a prison. And because it was Betty asking him, he couldn’t say no. They might have broken up after college, but she was still his best friend. And even his jaded, sardonic heart couldn’t say no to the paycheck she’d offered.

Betty had called him a godsend and used him as a photographer on and off since then, his ability to work odd and long hours a benefit to them both. But Jughead couldn’t help but have the sneaking suspicion that this was some sort of hand out, some way that Betty had come up with to help him financially in all the ways he’d refused when they’d been dating.

It was an irritable thought he kept to himself. Working for her had lead to other jobs, but he still couldn’t help feeling strangely indebted to her.

“A friend needed me to photograph a political protest,” he said, condensing the entire story in the sentence blurb the paper would use. (After all, they charge by the letter.) “I’ve been working with her ever since.”

“Do you take other jobs? A friend of mine’s been wanting to do an album cover, but she thinks all the ones she’s used before are rubbish. I can show her some of yours at our next meeting. I’m sure they’re brilliant.”

Archie’s interest seemed genuine, and it was the first time in a long time Jughead wanted to share his personal work with anyone. But it was easy enough to be excited over someone else’s work. It wasn’t so easy to be rejected outright, especially when your work would forever be labeled as ‘rubbish.

Besides, his friend was likely some indie artist with two hundred followers on NoiseCumulus offering to pay in ‘exposure’ and ‘experience.’ Two ‘e’s that didn’t pay the bills.’

“Yeah, sure. Maybe.” It was a noncommittal answer, the same one Jughead used to get out of things without having to make up an excuse for it.

There was a lull filled with the sounds of cutlery and line cooks yelling out orders. It occurred to Jughead a moment too late that it was his turn to move the conversation along.

“What is it you do?”

Archie looked at him strangely a moment. With an amused grin, he said, “I sing a little. Gig around bars and street corners. Crash on some friends’ couches, that sort of thing.”

“Bet you meet a lot of interesting people that way,” Jughead said.

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

There was a jingle at the door and a stranger dressed in clothes that screamed old money walked in. He looked around the diner before taking off his sunglasses. The sight of him set Jughead’s teeth on edge just on principle alone. Or maybe that was just the amount of hair pomade the man obviously used.

Archie’s phone buzzed. He turned to wave at the man.

“That’s my manager,” he said. He hesitated a moment, and when he’d decided something took a pen out of his pocket and wrote something down on a diner napkin.

“If you want to do dinner tonight, and don’t feel like you have to, but here’s my number,” he said as he wrote.

Surprised at Archie’s interest, and sure he was misreading his intention, Jughead took the napkin. “Dinner would be good. So long as you weren’t thinking Italian. The only good Italian place blew up last month.”

“Sushi then? I’ve been craving it since I landed, but haven’t had the time to find a good place.”

“I know a place,” Jughead told him. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Oh chur. See you then. And don’t forget to bring a portfolio of your work if you want. I can pass it on to Josie this weekend,” Archie said. He reached out and squeezed Jughead’s hand before collecting his guitar and walking towards his manager, who gave Jughead a slow, appraising look. Jughead scowled at him and his overly oiled hair.

A few minutes after Archie left the booth, Jughead’s phone buzzed with a stream of texts from his sister.

‘Archie? You’re having breakfast with Archie Andrews?!?!? Number one pop star and love of all under 17 and over 46???? YOU?????’

‘WHAT have I done to deserve this punishment?’

‘It should have been me!!!!’

‘Did you ask him about his tour? Did you get an autograph?? Did he talk about his music???’

It finally clicked why she was so distraught, though, when she sent the picture of him and Archie walking through the door at Pop’s.

It was so obvious, and yet Jughead had entirely missed it. Archie Andrews was J.B.’s inane pop star, known the world over for his sugary pop lyrics, great smile, and overall charm. For as much as she claimed to be edgy and off the beaten path J.B. had the biggest crush on an inane pop star. His posters covered the walls of her bedroom back at his mother’s apartment, and she listened to his songs on constant rotation when it was just the siblings in a car.

He’d even made the nightly news about his announcement to tour the U.S. as the opening act for Josie and The Pussycats, likely the same Josie he’d mentioned showing Jughead’s work to.

And Jughead had just agreed to go to dinner with him.

#jarchie fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #jughead jones #archie andrews #tis the season #i'm am so happy about this one tbh

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raisingsupergirl · 5 years

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Many Eggs, Many Baskets--The Tale of a Ninja Named Fred

I was told recently that I'm not very good at a certain thing. For a while, it felt like, "You're not very good at anything," and at times, "You're a complete failure." I'm sure you know what I mean. None of us like to be criticized, especially about things we've put a lot of time and effort into. In those moments, it's hard not feeling like all those countless hours and gallons of sweat (ew, sorry) were a big, fat waste of time. Which gets even worse when we start realizing how fast those hours go by, and that there's no getting them back. Yeah, I know. I'm being a Debbie downer. But don't worry. It gets better. Way better.

If you've been with me for long, you've heard me say that I'm a Jack-of-all-trades. Yes, I'm fully aware that the second half of that phrase is, "Master of none." And believe me, there are times when that feels painfully true. But in this instance—the one where I suck at a thing that's very important to me—putting my eggs in a bunch of different baskets has helped ease the pain of an otherwise extremely difficult time. Let me explain with a little story. Gather 'round, children.

There once was a man named Fred. Fred was a Christian, a writer, an editor, a physical therapist, a father, a husband, a Freemason, an aquarist, and plenty of other things that I can't quite remember right now. But those are the things he spent most of his time doing, and he thought he was pretty darn good at them. But Fred was also a ninja. Like, in the evenings after he got home from the physical therapy clinic, after he ate dinner with his family, fed his fish, and finished any editing work he had for the day, he would go to his closet, put on his black ninja suit and throwing stars, and then go out and vanquish his arch-rivals—like, I don't know, samurais and dragons and stuff. BUT, after years of training with the League of Shadows and earning every ninja merit badge on his little ninja vest, at a point when he was feeling really solid about everything from his karate chops to his spin kicks, his sensei came up to him and said, "You know, Fred, this is difficult for me to say, but you're not really cut out for the ninja business. I know you've tried really hard, and you're wicked dedicated, but you're so loud. Like, elephant in a glass house loud. And it's for that reason that I'm going to have to let you go so I can take on a new Padawan." Now, how do you think that made Fred feel?

If you guessed, "Poopie," you'd be correct. You see, at first, Fred doubted everything. His whole life became a lie. If he's not sneaky, maybe he's also slow, and weak, and ridiculous looking in his little ninja costume. But then he started to process the information. He wondered why his sensei—we'll call him Master Splinter—never told him about this problem earlier. Fred could have worked on it. Surely being sneaky is a learned talent, right? But then he started thinking back on his past adventures and conquests. He had killed tons of dragons, and even the strongest and fastest ninja couldn't take down a dragon without the element of surprise. There were definitely times when he had been WAY sneaky. So maybe Splinter was wrong. Maybe Fred should be okay with Splinter splitting. After all, this newfound evidence meant that either Fred was only loud around Splinter, or Splinter was just straight up wrong. But then just as Fred was feeling a little better, he got tired and hangry, and all his doubts returned. His whole life was a lie. He had wasted countless hours trying to be a ninja when he should have hung up his katana years ago—or maybe never picked it up in the first place.

But a few days, weeks, or maybe even months passed by with varying degrees of anger, confusion, depression, and frustration, and eventually Fred began to gain some perspective. First, he understood more about the situation. He got to the bottom of whether he really had failed at being sneaky. He took steps to figure out if he could improve his sneakiness. He forgave Splinter's words and actions. He even stopped seeing those words and actions as malicious, realizing that they were just the opinions of one man—er… rat—even if they did turn out to hold some truth. And in the end, perhaps Fred would be a better ninja than ever. But there's one piece of this puzzle that I've left out—a corner piece that, without it, none of the rest o the puzzle would have been possible.

Have you forgotten? Fred is a Jack-of-all-trades. Within hours of Splinter's hurtful proclamation, Fred went home to his loving wife and children. He tended to his happy, healthy fish. He wrote and edited a ridiculous story about a trapeze artist named Andrew, and it was actually pretty entertaining, and even a little therapeutic. And then he went to work the next day as a physical therapist, treating patient after patient, easing their pain and enriching their lives. And not once, during that entire time, did he worry about not being sneaky enough.

You see, it didn't matter if Fred never went out on another night patrol. There were plenty of noble ninjas out there to keep the dragons and samurais at bay. And Fred found happiness in so many other things he was good at that those happinesses helped him work through all of those other negative emotions related to his lack of sneakiness. So much so that, in the end, he realized that he was a good ninja. Sure, maybe there was a ray of truth to Splinter's claim. Maybe Fred wasn't the sneakiest ninja in the village. But he had snuck up on plenty of dragons and slain the crap out of them. And his swordsmanship was second to none. Not to mention his killer backflip skills (Catwoman and Neo had nothing on him). And in the end, he loved being a ninja. It was a part of who he was. He couldn't imagine just going to bed at night, never disappearing into another shadow or chopping off another samurai's head. No, ninja-ing was in his blood. Just as he was a physical therapist, a writer, a husband, and all of those other things, he was also a ninja. And if he hadn't been all of those other things, which he also screws up plenty at various times, he might have given up. He might have put all of his self-worth in being a ninja, making the way out of that pit of despair much more difficult—maybe even impossible.

So you see, being a Jack-of-all-trades may make it more difficult for Fred to master any one skill, but it also makes him much more resilient to failure. Unlike single-minded ninjas, he can keep working through failure, eventually succeeding where more talented ninjas might give up. And most importantly, he will live happily ever after.

The End.

Oh, and if you haven't guessed. I'm Fred. He's me. I'm very sneaky.

#story time #failure #rejection #depression #self-doubt #jack of all trades #talents #passion #succes #ninjas #momblr #mumblr #dadblr

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auxgod · 6 years

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Meet Mexico Merio, The Self Taught Producer Who Continues Curating His Own Sound

San Diego-based producer Mexico Merio has managed to build himself a well-respected reputation throughout the hip hop scene as one of the hardest working producers in the game. With his incredible work ethic and and keen ear for what sounds good, Merio has been able to produce for the likes of Cali Kev, Poodeezy, RiFF RaFF, Dollabillgates, Q.Hype, Trill Sammy and many more. Today we sat down with the buzzing hit maker for an interview to discuss various topics ranging from his favorite beat he’s worked on, what his production process is like, and how to navigate around the producing for well known rappers and artist on the rise

Name- MexicoMerio Age- 23 How did you start making beats and what gave you the motivation to stay with it?-

Just hopped on FL studio one day and just started playing around with it. Next thing you know I start really cooking some mean shit up. I met DJ (@DJOnTheTrack) in middle school and we would always listen to the same music. Next thing you know I move to Texas me and this nigga start sending melodies to each other all the time. Once I got outta high school I tried that school shit it didn’t work so I said fuck it, ima make beats.

Whats your production process like?

Melody first. Off top. Sets the vibe.

You’re an extremely versatile producer. Who are your top 5 favorite producers?

ZAYTOVEN OFF TOP, Metro Boomin, Lex Luger, Southside, & MexikoDro

Whats your favorite track you’ve produced and whys it your favorite?

Some people may not have heard it but it’s called “How” by DollaBillGates. One of my favorite beats and that song is a real vibe. I liked that song so much I chopped and screwed that hoe. From a producer standpoint how involved should the artist be in the recording and post?

For the most part i think a producer should be there or around when an artist is recording to give his opinion. The producer is the one who made the beat so of course they’re feed in the song is important but no necessary.

You were on Tour recently. How was that experience for you and how did you feel seeing people enjoying your beats? -

That shit was lit best experience of my life and I can’t wait until the next one. Seeing people rock to my beats is the best feeling in the world. Different city every night different venues and different crown all hearing and vibing to my beats. Amazing.

Is there anything new that you’re currently working on that you can share?

1207 project just finished up. Just finished up me and Poodeezy tape. So now I’m focusing on getting out a tape for this new San Diego artist named YHG Pnut and also wanna start working on a new personal project with my boy Cali Kev. I really like making music with that dude his bars crazy and flow even crazier.

I got a couple songs with big names coming very soon too hope the streets ready for those.

You always seem to know which artist is gonna blow up next. Who are 3 artist you’d love to work with ?

Haha I’m just tapped in and watch the streets. But I def think D. Savage is about to make an awesome comeback. Tbh I never even knew about that whole deal with Joey Fatts or all that shit until a week ago. But this other artist Lil Splurge i def think he up next. His flow and bars crazy. Also Gunna, I been watching him since his first mixtape that dude is seriously hard he gonna win a Grammy no cap. Speak it into existence! What are some of your predictions in 2019?

I told myself in 2018 I was gonna build my name and have a solid name in the streets and in the industry. Next year I’m going for platinum. I wanna work with The Weeknd, PartyNextDoor, Gunna, Future, Young Thug, & A couple more artist but that’s just off top of my dome. If someone wants to buy beats, whats the quickest way to reach you?

DM. I’m not hard to contact. Everybody swear like I’m Hollywood or something like nah bro I’m still the same nigga. I just tax now. Any last words to all your fans and supporters whove seen you glo up since the very beginning?

Keep working. Fuck tryna have clout or a name. Just keep working.

Follow here Mexico Merio on Twitter and Instagram

#dope #Aux God #Mexico Merio #San Diego #interview #personal #Questions #Music #News #October #2018 #playlist #Spotify #soundcloud

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theliterateape · 3 years

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Half Pant Final

by Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

He was 7 feet tall, wearing yellow flowered shorts that stopped an inch above his deeply scarred right knee. Muscular calves supported long legs that ended in crooked toes sprouting from lime green sandals. The image of a blues man wailing on his Stratocaster was silk-screened in silver on his black tee shirt. “Buddy Guy” in script identified the artist.

“You play ball?” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Turkey,” he said, straightening his black cowboy hat, “Slim” embroidered along the left side, silver coins embedded in its red satin band. There was nothing slim about him. He wasn’t a seven-foot bean pole. He was a muscular seven-footer with a well-manicured salt-and-pepper goatee.

“Turkey?”

“Yeah, they have a league. They needed a ‘big.’ I dabbled.”

I’d heard of pro basketball in Spain, Italy, Israel, even Australia, but not Turkey. “Well, that’s not what we’re here for. Thanks for coming.”

He kept looking out the window as if someone was out to get him. “Ra said you were okay.”

“Ra?”

“Raheem.”

“Our cook?”

“Yeah, we ball together, over on Madison, 24-hour gym, just down from the stadium. He vouched for you.” He glanced out the window again.

I resisted the urge to follow his stare.

“When do you have time? You’re already at three hospitals, Lourdes, Nicoletta, Pious, and you ball?”

“Sleep’s overrated. You only die once. Like I said, that’s why I came. Ra, he said you were okay. Said you were open,” he chuckled, “to a little different, and I can be different.”

Yeah, I thought, he was different. “Glad I got a good recommendation.”

“So what do you need?”

“I’ll be straight with you. We got a problem. Our orthos think they own the place.”

He looked back at me. “I’ve heard. You got Vince who thinks he’s the Don of the hospital and should get paid juice.” I cringed at his bluntness. “Schweingart, the Nazi, is flat-out scary, and Seamus can’t stay sober, and came close to killing a guy last month in the OR.” He looked out the window again. “Yeah, you got problems.”

How’d he know about all that shit? Were we that infamous? And what the hell was out the window? “How’d you hear about all that?”

He smiled, towering over me like I was a child. My chin, maybe, came up to his waist. “C’mon.” He clapped his hands shut; the slap of his palms, like a bullet, echoed off my office walls. “People talk, and they tell others not to talk, which makes them talk even more.” He studied his hand as if he was examining a wound. Empty. He shook his head with disappointment. “I used to be better.”

He folded himself like a wounded crane into a chair, making it, and my desk look miniature next to his out-sized frame.

I scanned his CV. It smelled like cigarettes, coffee stains obliterated most of his references. “Guadalajara Medical School?”

“I like the sun.”

“What else do you like?”

He shifted, struggling to find his “spot” in a human-sized seat. “Mexicans, they’re so laid back, and their cuisine.”

“And?”

“I quit. I don’t do that stuff anymore.” He tapped his chest. “Bad for the lungs….” He wrenched his neck with a giant hand, Big-foot came to mind, looking around the room trying to figure out a way of answering me without sounding stupid. A bone somewhere inside cracked, exploding like a firecracker, making me jump.

“Jesus,” I said, letting him off the hook for a second.

“C-4. I took a charge from a kid from Kenya. Fractured my spine.”

“You quit…you were saying.”

“Yeah. I mean I got into Michigan, Rush, Hopkins, but I wanted sun, and chill. So ‘Mexico, here I come.’”

“That’s when it started?”

“Naw, in high school, but I stopped when I got to Mexico.”

“Get busted?”

“No way.” He said like he was proud of himself. “I had a vision.”

“Totally done with it?”

“Yep, twelve years. She stays on me.”

“She?”

“My wife.”

“What she do?”

“Sex therapist.”

The conversation was making me feel like I was the only old maid in a popcorn machine.

“You have a colorful life.”

“I get interested in everything really easy, and I get bored even easier. So I bounce around.”

“You think you can handle it here?”

“I can adapt to just about anything, and because of how I am,” he smiled and waved his hand over his Goliath-sized frame, his flowered shorts, his skin-tight Buddy Guy tee, and his silver-studded, red-sash hat, “I’m used to taking a little shit.”

I imagined it wasn’t too much shit, given his imposing stature. “I can’t have you giving it back. These guys are vicious. I need to run a hospital.”

“You like Mexican?”

Back into the popcorn machine. I tried to keep the conversation going. “Good people. A big part of our patient base. A bit shy for me. But terribly discriminated against.”

“I mean food.”

“Food?”

“Yeah, tamales, tacos, empanadas, and horchata, my favorite drink. Saved my ass when I got off the stuff.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeated.

“Why are you interested in my palate?”

“I’m hungry. Let’s eat. If I’m gonna get my ass grilled, it might as well be where the grilling isn’t just my ass.”

“I gotta check my schedule.” I hate Mexican food.

“Screw your schedule. I’ll drive.”

More bones cracked as he uncoiled from the chair, sending shivers up my spine, “Jesus.” He straightened his right leg, massaging it with the longest fingers I’d ever seen.

“IT band. Tighter than a freakin’ bungee cord. It’s all connected.”

“Kenyan kid?”

“Yep, a nice kid. Coulda played in the NBA . But he broke my freakin’ back. He got me into medicine. I owe him. Killed a lion with his bare hands. He could really play ball. His family didn’t want him to leave. He’s in line to be a chief or something.”

“Who coulda played in the NBA?”

He paused, his eyes darting out the window again. “Both of us. Let’s go eat.”

“You’re something. What’s with the window?”

He shrugged. “We keep in touch. I told you I like different. Let’s go.”

We walked to the door. “Sasha. Dr. Vuckovich and I are going to lunch. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Make it two,” he said, removing his hat, revealing a polished skull, wiping beads of sweat from his extremely broad forehead.

Sasha gave me a disgruntled look, then a disapproving grunt, acting as if she was writing something distasteful on a piece of yellow paper to show to all of her friends.

“We’re getting Mexican. Can I bring you back something?”

“You hate Mexican.”

So much for my diplomacy with Dr. V.

He smiled, grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. “Let’s go. You’ll like this, Boss. I parked in front.” I stumbled to keep up. His gait was about 142 feet longer than mine. “Hope I didn’t bend the rules too much.” He turned, giving me a shit-eating smile.

I was now his boss? Were we making progress? Who the hell could figure?

Just to the left of the front entrance, taking up two spots, one a handicap space, sat a vehicle that should have been repossessed by a chop-shop on 63rd Street. He waved his hand at this long black piece of metal, bowing as if he was introducing royalty. “Meet Miss Koko.”

“Koko?” I asked, trying to hide my displeasure at both his cavalier attitude toward our parking regulations and being carted off to a Mexican lunch in this ridiculous piece of shit.

“Yep, Koko Taylor,” he said proudly. “Best blues singer this city’s ever had.”

“You named your car after a blues singer?”

“Better than Impala or Bonneville, or Arthur.” His voice rose, echoing off our one-hundred year-old building. “C’mon, all bullshit names.”

I popped open the door. “It’s a fucking hearse.”

A huge grin spread across his face. “Not anymore. I had a patient trick it out for me. I did his shoulder. Put him back to work. He was broke. No insurance. He got what he wanted and so did I.” He opened the door threw his hat into the back seat. “It’s more like a cargo van.”

“You really drive this?”

“Yep, everywhere, and check this out” Despite his size he slid in effortlessly, and arched his back against the black velvet front seat. His legs stretched under the dash deep into what would normally be the engine compartment. He wiggled his snake-like toes and smiled, and let out a satisfied groan.” Leg room. A shit-load of leg room!”

I looked into his back seat, sliding in, imagining all the dead bodies that had rested there. I noticed what appeared to be a neck of a guitar peeking out from a Navajo blanket. Across the top, embossed in gold on shiny black wood was the word Gibson. “A guitar?” I nodded to the back seat.

“For my band,” he said, popping a mint into his mouth. “Want one?”

“Band?”

“Well, not really mine, we got a gig tonight. Wanna come? I’ll comp you.”

The popcorn kept exploding all around me, and I was still the old maid.

“Gig? Where?”

“Let’s go.” He slammed Koko into gear, kicked it in the ass, and sped out of the parking lot.

“Sure.” Why the hell not?

“Great! Rosa’s. Armitage, near Western.” He leaned over, not slowing one bit, his shoulder jammed into my chest, ripped open the glove compartment and the pulled a ticket from the box.

He handed it to me then slammed on his brakes, and screamed. “Asshole!”

Dr. V. was able to hand me my comped ticket for his gig and avoid crushing a neon blue Prius at the same time.

“That was close,” I said looking down at the ticket.

“Naw, I’m a defensive driver.”

I wanted to tell him he was an offensive driver but I bit my tongue. I looked back at the ticket. It read: Chicago Blues Pussyhounds, Featuring Dr. Slim. Slim? from his hat.

“Provocative name.”

“Gets people’s attention. Layla thought of it.”

“Layla?”

“My wife.”

The sex therapist. Jesus.

It was like I was in a movie. And I was having a helluva time keeping up. Vuckovich’s Most Excellent Adventure.

“Relax,” he ordered, and flipped on the stereo, multiple pulsing speakers rattled my bones. A soulful woman’s voice rose over it all. He pointed in the air, bobbing his head to the beat of the thumping music. “Koko! Let’s go! I got a hip at Pious at 3!”

“Any bodies back there?” I asked, looking at the cavernous area behind us.

“I keep ‘em alive,” he smiled and popped another mint. “I don’t kill ‘em like your boys.”

He’d heard that too? Shit.

***

“He wears half pant.”

Dev Balakrishnan, unlike Igor Vuckovich, was nowhere near seven feet tall. In fact, he barely cleared five feet. I didn’t think he’d fall in love with Dr. V, but I thought he’d at least give him a chance.

“He’s got great experience.” I was grasping.

“And auto is for dead people.”

Shit, he’d seen Koko.

“Dr. Balakrishnan,” I butchered his name every time I tried to say it.

“B,” he said “call me B. I’d rather hear you say B than you pronounce name like a contagious disease.”

I peered into the conference room where B had been interrogating V who now sat alone upright and uncomfortable, in a wooden chair, drumming his hands on the table, head bobbing up and down, probably grooving to Koko or Buddy. I indulged myself for a moment, imagining their interview, popcorn exploding all over the room.

“Why do you wear half pant?”

“Half pant?”

“Yes. And your car is for dead people. And toes should not be seen.”

“Ever listen to Koko Taylor, Doc? I think you’d dig her.”

I would have bought a ticket to that show.

“We’re dying here,” I said to B. “With only three orthos, and they run the department like gangsters.”

“The man would not fit here.” He pointed to Dr. V, now standing, rocking out on his air guitar. “He is too much, how you say, eccentric. Plus, training is bad. Mexico.”

“And Vince and his boys do fit? Schweingart got his training in the Caribbean at a pop-up school that closed right after he graduated.”

“They do not wear half pant or drive car for dead people.”

“I’ll bring it to the Board.” I lowered my voice trying to make him think.

Dr. B winced. “Board is for major issues.”

“This is a major issue. They’re killing us. They’re all trying to squeeze us, and we got nothing left.”

“I do not know this squeeze.”

B was dumb like a fox. He knew what those guys were. He did it once in a while too, but overall he was a good guy. He played fair and was a good surgeon. He took who came in the door and didn’t try to bullshit his way out of treating people who had no dough. Vince and his crew were different. No money or insurance? Then it was… Too big a case. We don’t have a bed. We’re short staffed. No supplies. Too much a risk. So ship ‘em out to someplace else. The County was always their fallback. If they could pay, then Vince and his boys would roll out the red carpet. What they did was plain wrong, a royal pain in the ass, and illegal. If Medicare pays your hospital and doctors, you have to care for those who can’t pay. And while docs were making lame excuses not to treat a banged up guy laid out in the mangled and broken, the entire place would back up like the traffic on the Jane Byrne or worse yet, the Hillside Fucking Strangler. Bullshit, and we were all tired of it.

“Doc, you know what I’m talking about. You accepted the position of President of the Medical Staff” and its stipend, I implied. “It’s time for you to man up.”

Pondering what he should do, he studied me with puffy eyes and labored breath, looked to Dr. V, still grooving to his tunes. He rubbed his disheveled hair. “Temporary,” he said, clearing his phlegmy throat. “We will give him temporary opportunity. Vince going to vacation home in Florida for February month. He can take his call. Ten days.”

“Temporary…” I began…but stopped. B could tell I was ready to fight, so I countered with silence.

“But,” he pointed at me, “no Board. We will work this out man to man.”

So, what direction should I go? Eat the entire enchilada, I hate Mexican, or take it one bite at a time? “I’m not sure Dr. V would go for that. Would you?”

“He will agree.”

“How do you know?”

B looked at me. A wry smile peeked out from under his scruff. “He already told me he would.”

***

“A John Doe.”

“Who’s on call?”

Shaneese, our ER traffic cop, paused. “Vince,” she said, her voice low, filled with disdain. “He won’t take it. You know that.”

We paid the asshole a grand for every call he took. But she was right. He’d hem and haw and make everybody sit on their hands, listening to his excuses.

I could see her standing in the ER, hand on hip, head tilted, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my response, judging the shit out of me.

“John Doe?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard her, trying to buy time.

She did not respond. She let me dangle.

“What’s the damage?”

“He was thrown off a roof.” Her voice flat. “Multiple cervical fractures.”

“Jesus.”

“People are animals.”

“How many?”

“I stopped counting at C-5,” she said, growing more impatient.

“Stable?” Stupid question.

Her voice rising. “Stable? At least three of his seven vertebrae are busted. His spinal cord probably sprung a leak. He’s NOT stable. He’s going to die. He needs surgery now!”

“Call Vince. Tell him what you got and let me know what he says.”

I could feel her scorn as she hung up. And I deserved it. I’d let this shit go on too long.

Fuck. I grabbed my phone and called the front desk.

“Hello.”

“Shanda could you get me Dr. Endrizzi?”

“He don’t like me to call him. He only likes to talk to medical folks.”

“What’s his number?”

“Office or cell?”

“Cell.”

“312-665-3987. Good luck.”

***

“Hello.” His voice thick, filled with the hills of northern Italy.

“Vince, it’s Jim. We got a situation in the ER.”

“The John Doe with the spine?”

He’d heard already. “Yeah.”

“Too complex for us.”

“You’ve done them before.”

“Not too complex for me, but your staff isn’t qualified.” He hung up.

Sonofabitch. That arrogant prick. Isn’t qualified? Our staff was good, real good, and brave as shit. I redialed. “This is Dr. Endrizzi, I cannot take a call. I’m gone in February with important Medical Business. If you have big problem, call 911, or go to Hospital Emergency. They take care of you.”

Important Medical Business, my ass.

I yanked open my office door and headed to the OR.

I swiped my card and the panels slid open. I asked the OR Receptionist Denelle, “is Dr. Balakrishnan in there?” I pointed to suite #1, where we configured the surgical table and the lighting for a man of his small stature.

“He’s got a TURP,” she said, without looking up from her desk.

“How long before he’s done?”

“Depends on the size of the prostate.” She smiled.

I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “I’ll wait.”

“Put this on.” She handed me a package of scrubs.

In the middle of my rage I struggled to yank on the gown, booties, gloves, and mask. She pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. I sat dressed in my surgery get-up like a child waiting to be punished by Mother Superior.

Denelle picked up the phone and tapped numbers with her pencil. “This is Denelle,” she said, “Tell Dr. B the boss is here for him.”

I stared at the thin red second hand on the wall-mounted clock, swooshing around the face in slow motion, my leg jumpy, like a junkie, full of rage. Important Medical Business, my ass. Your staff aren’t qualified. Fuck him.

The surgical suite door slid open. The tiny man waddled toward me, his disheveled hair peeking out from under his blue cap. He unpeeled his bloody gloves, the rubber making a snapping sound. He sighed and shook his head. “Big case.” His voice tired, never looking this old. “What is it?”

I stood. “Vince.”

His face contorted. “What now?”

“We got a John Doe in the ER. Busted neck. Vince won’t do the case.”

“It sounds complex.”

“Doc, don’t go down that path. He can do it. We can do it. He blew me off.”

“These are difficult decisions.”

“My ass. It’s a John Doe. He wants nothing to do with them. That’s why we pay him a fucking grand a call.” I was too loud.

B took me by the arm and led me to an empty suite. “He told me he wasn’t going to take any cases today. He’s leaving tomorrow morning.”

“What the hell are we gonna do with the patient?”

“Half pant.”

“What?”

“Call half pant surgeon.”

Was he shitting me? “No way. It’s Vince’s call. He’s already got his grand. It’s his case.”

“Call half pant.”

John Doe needed help. I’d deal with Vince later.

***

No cell reception in the OR, so I rushed to the waiting area. As soon as I walked in, a flock of petrified family members approached me. For a moment, I was disoriented, like a man just entering a room with the lights out. Then it hit me. My scrubs, mask, and gloves.

“I’m not a doctor,” I said, sounding like a moron. “I’m not,” I pleaded with them to believe me.

I fumbled with the buttons on my phone. Vuckovich, nothing came up. I couldn’t have. I tried again. V-U Still nothing. Then it hit me. I looked around to see if I’d get caught. 7-footer. I punched it in. Bingo. The phone rang once. “Yo.” His voice so loud it hurt. Koko Taylor blasted in the background. I could picture him, head bobbing, fingers fretting his invisible Gibson. “Yo,” he yelled again. “What’s up?”

“We got a John Doe in the ER.”

He didn’t let me finish. “On my way.” Sirens blared over Koko. I pictured him speeding down 63rd Street in that black chop-shopped hearse. “Don’t get pulled over. I hear sirens.”

“Siren’s mine. I told you, my guy pimped this baby out. Ten minutes.” His phone went dead.

***

I called Shaneese in the ER. “Dr. Vuckovich is on his way.”

“Dr. Who?”

“Vuckovich,” I said. “Send the John Doe to the OR with everything you got on him.”

“One second,” She said. “Can I help you?”

“Where’s the OR?” I heard over the commotion.

“Who the hell are you?” Shaneese did not mince words.

“Igor.”

“Igor?” Her voice rose over the craziness.

“Shaneese!” I shouted.

“I can’t talk!” she said. ”I got a crazy monster in here, wearing flowery shorts,” her voice rose, “a black hat, and a pair of nasty feet, telling me he got to go to the OR.”

“That’s Dr. Vuckovich.”

“You playin’ with me.”

“Shaneese, I’m not. He’s got temporary privileges. He’s gonna do the case.”

“A big ass man comin’ in here…”

“I’ll explain later. Just get him to the OR.”

“Who parked a hearse in the doctors’ parking lot?” Al, our ER security guard, yelled over the ruckus.

“It’s not a hearse.” I heard Dr. V retort.

“Shaneese, get him to the OR.”

Five minutes later, the elevator door opened. Removing his hat, then ducking his head to get out, Igor Vuckovich appeared, carrying a red duffle bag with a white crescent and TURKEY emblazoned on its side. He looked around the waiting room, spotted me, and smiled.

I gave him a confused look.

“From my playing days. You doin’ surgery now?” He pointed at my scrubs.

“He’s in there.” I nodded to where they’d taken John Doe, ignoring his joke.

“You are a doctor,” a visitor said.

“He’s not,” Dr. V interrupted, “but I am.”

“I never seen no doctor who look like you.”

“Me either,” V smiled. “Let’s rock and roll.”

I swiped my card and the doors slid open.

He entered, again bowing his head, this time not removing his hat. He dropped his bag on the floor and grabbed a package wrapped in plastic and a CD. He ripped open the plastic removing the largest pair of scrubs I’d ever seen and began dressing in the middle of the OR. The legs traveled past my chin. The arms could have served as a strait jacket for a lineman on the Bears, and his booties looked like canoe paddles. Our staff was in awe, speechless, jaws descending to the floor.

Dr. Balakrishnan approached Dr. V, “Thank you for helping us.”

“Dev, you assisting on this?”

“I…” B paused.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“I…”

I’d never seen Balakrishnan so lost for words.

“Here.” V tossed the CD to one of the techs. “Koko Taylor track 2. Anesthesia?”

“In the suite already.” Danny, our tech, said, looking ready to jive to Koko. “Wait!” Danny shouted.

V swung around. “What?”

Danny jumped removing V’s cowboy hat. “Now you’re good.”

“Thanks,” V said.

Dr. V scrubbed his immense fingers, paws and forearms in the sink. He motioned for Dr. B to join.

They toweled off and donned fresh masks, eyes meeting each other’s. “Let’s go,” V said to B.

The sight of this odd couple entering surgical suite 1, B’s suite, that he shared with absolutely no one, caused me grave consternation. What scared the shit out of me was a squatty little urologist assisting a seven foot orthopod with complex surgery. At the same time I was invigorated like a man who’d just slugged a double espresso.

“We gotta fix this.” I heard Dr. V laugh, raising the OR lights to their highest, then sliding the tiny platform stool we had made for Dr. B, in his direction.

The doors to the suite slid shut.

And that was that. Our new eccentric, Blues-playing, Koko Taylor-loving, orthopod worked side by side with our diminutive, Board-fearing Chief Medical Officer, saving the life of Mr. John Doe.

This is what we did. This is what we should do.

I waited in the family area, still wearing my scrubs, playing chess, losing to a man with no teeth.

The door slid open. B standing next to V. Both tired, sweaty, and smiling. Visitors’ eyes rose to the men in the doorway. “He made it.” V announcing to the crowd. “He made it,” B softly echoing V.

“You were magnificent,” Balakrishnan placed his hand in Vuckovich’s. “Magnificent.”

“We worked well together.” V rubbed B’s shoulder.

“No, what you did was remarkable.”

“Koko.” He smiled.

The toothless man, who’d just beaten me in chess four times in a row, stood. “Thank the Lord Jesus for these two fine men.” His smile warm, his eyes bright. He then began to clap. Another visitor stood, then another. The room now full, with deafening applause bouncing off the walls. Igor and Dev, exhausted, soaking in their well-earned recognition.

“Let’s go.” Dr. V’s voice cut through the acknowledgement.

We stripped off our scrubs and headed toward the parking lot.

“Go? Where?” Balakrishnan asked.

“Celebrate! Mexican! We’ll take Ms. Koko. My treat!”

I paused…fuck me…I hated Mexican.

“You in?” B asked me like an excited little kid.

I’d brought this strange creature here, a mammoth guitar-playing behemoth, but without Dr. Dev Balakrishnan’s help, Mr. John Doe would be dead, and I’d be going after Vince like a hit man.

But Mexican? C’mon.

“You’re wasting time. Let’s go. I sit in front.”Balakrishnan was almost giddy.

John Doe was not dead. He was alive.

“I’m in,” I said, reaching for Koko’s back door.

“Nope,” Dr. V said.

He tossed me the keys. “You’re driving.”

#fiction

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