#Battle Club Pro

[bullet-clubs-bitch]

Eddie Kingston is so real for that

[elitehanitje]

Zack Sabre Jr and Nigel McGuinness are secretly best friends and bond over their mutual dislike of Bryan Danielson.

[kayfabe-is-king]

Gabe is the Guy Ritchie version of a villainous Rocky Balboa opponent.

photo source: @jjwilliamsWON

[lightningarmour]

Pictured above: On the left, the first poster that was used to promote ROH Final Battle back in late october. On the right, the current version of that poster about a month later. We're just under 20 days until the event and I can't help but wonder how many more faces are going to change on this graphic between now and then.

I must say that I have been more or less enjoying Ring of Honor since it was purchased by Tony Khan and folded into the AEW tent. It's pretty light on promos or storylines, which is not terrible, and results in a far higher quantity of just pretty dang good wrestling, not to mention, probably the best women's division that is being utilized by Mr. Khan & co.

The fact that ROH is actually pretty good is why I've been getting really pissed off with how they seem to treat it as the embarrassing step sibling to AEW. Over the past year, more and more frequently AEW has made incredibly liberal use of ROH belts for their own promotion, to the point of making them seem fairly worthless.

I loved the MJF/Adam Cole bromance as much as the next guy, and them winning the tag belts (at an AEW ppv) was a fine decision, and could have been a way to kind of elevate the status of the titles... if Adam Cole hadn't busted his ankle. Now they've been treating the ROH tag team championship like it's their property and have just refused to let them lose it because what, it would be unfair if Adam couldn't defend his title? So what's the answer? They just get to have their reign artificially extended indefinitely, meanwhile every tag team in ROH can just kind of fuck themselves?

Then it seemed almost as a follow-up to Better than you Bay Bay winning those titles, the Hung Bucks got to dethrone the Embassy for the trios belts (on an episode of AEW), which they held on to for just long enough to be included in the promotional art for Final Battle before just dropping the belts directly back to the Embassy again. What an utter waste of a reign.

Then, after MONTHS of building up Dalton Castle as the heir in waiting to the ROH TV Championship, with the promise of a Castle vs Samoa Joe rematch, they instead just have Joe, the KING OF TELEVISION unceremoniously forfeit his title (on an episode of AEW) and now our promised clash of Dalton and Joe just isn't going to happen, and allegedly there's supposed to be a tournament or something to see who gets to claim the vacated title, but it's been like 3 weeks and zero mention of who gets the shot at that belt or when.

Then, Eddie Kingston(who defeated Claudio to become ROH world Champion on an episode of AEW) just gets to go ahead and put the ROH World Championship up as a prize for the fucking Continental Classic tournament, which is exclusively happening during AEW tv shows, featuring amost exclusively AEW roster. Which ends at the next AEW ppv, World's End on December 30th.

And the latest utter bullshit example of the ROH titles being thrown around like a prize from a gumball machine, with less than a week's worth of build up to the match, Wheeler Yuta, the charisma vacuum, defeats Katsuyori Shibata for the ROH Pure championship (on an episode of AEW) And before anyone um actually's me, I know that Shibata had to go back to Japan for personal reasons, but the handling of this title change was lazy and serves as another example of how little of a shit they seem to give about ROH as a promotion.

Every single ROH title win since like, May has happened on a televised AEW program. Neither Better Than You Bay Bay or The Hung Bucks ever once defended their Ring of Honor titles on Ring of Honor. No member of Ring Of Honor's roster has ever gotten to win an AEW belt and represent it on ROH. It's a completely one-way street where all the biggest stars in AEW, main eventers like MJF, The Young Bucks, Eddie Kingston, get to win ROH titles as a way to make them seem important, but nobody from ROH ever gets to be put over by defeating them.

Of the SIX championships ROH has, Three are currently unavailable to any ROH competitors. The World Championship is now a door prize for an AEW tournament, which means Eddie presumably will not be defending it at Final Battle. And even if he does, he's guaranteed to retain so that it can then be given to the winner of the Continental Classic. Or, some shmuck wins it from him only to have to forfeit it to the winner of said tournament. The ROH TV Championship is in limbo. no one possesses it and can't until they announce some kind of gimmick match to see who gets it. And the ROH Tag Team championship is a big shrug emoji. MJF tore his shoulder at Full Gear, so in all likelihood, he's losing his AEW World Championship to Samoa Joe at World's end. But are they going to bother having him and a mystery partner defend the ROH belts at Final Battle? Given that entirely zero top guys from AEW ever dirty themselves by appearing on ROH, I would be shocked if MJF set foot in an ROH ring. More than likely, he's going to have to do a solo defence again on an episode of Dynamite and lose, or maybe he and Adam Cole will just forfeit the titles and we'll have another stupid tournament or royal rumble to fill more empty belts.

Of the remaining three belts, only the Women's World Championship title is ever regularly defended on ROH. The Embassy are currently on leave because Gates of Agony are in some NJPW tag team event. And Wheeler Yuta only appears on ROH to do Pure Rules squash matches and even then only if he's being used for a replacement pure champ.

Quite frankly Athena is carrying the entire promotion on her god damn shoulders and frankly she does not get nearly the respect she deserves for doing so. She has single handedly made the ROH Women's championship feel like a more important title than either the AEW Women's Championship or the TBS Championship.

They've updated this poster for the event every time one of these titles has changed hands since they first announced it and I really can't help but wonder if it was all just to try and drum up hype and try and trick some people into early ticket sales because frankly I'd ask for my money back at this point between what this event was originally advertised as vs what it's looking like now, vs how it's going to look in 2 weeks.

In short, Tony Khan, please stop treating Ring of Honor like the red headed step child to AEW. It just makes the entire promotion and all the talented wrestlers who work there seem like fucking chumps who just weren't good enough to move up to the big leagues. You're squandering so many good names by stealing belts from ROH to use as fucking accessories to guys who are already in incredibly safe positions.

Like, incredibly unfair to like, Top Flight, The Workhorsemen, Iron Savages, even the fucking Outrunners that none of them have been able to get a shot at those titles because TK or MJF or whoever are unwilling to make their big names lose to the fucking nobodies in ROH?

Incredibly unfair to set up Dalton Castle as the next in line for the TV Belt but then have him go and job to fucking Nick Wayne on AEW.

Why the fuck would anyone want to spend 15 dollars a month subscribing to Honor Club to watch a show that is treated like shit by it's own promotion? Like, ROH used to mean something? Some of the biggest names in the industry got their start there, but it's hardly a place for new, young talent to be able to make a name for themselves when it's just being treated like the kids table for AEW.

[droptoeholdyourhorses]

[kywithavoice]

DA HOUSEEEEEEE 💨

[fxstpace]

the budget

summary: mingyu, president of the photography club, and you, leader of the art club, are forced to collaborate when your organisations are granted a shared—and pitifully small—budget for the semester. every meeting turns into a battle: over ideas, over funding, over who cares more about their craft. until you start noticing the way mingyu’s eyes light up when he captures the perfect picture, and his presence in your life leaves you feeling more inspired than irritated.

⇢ pairing: photography student!kim mingyu x art student!fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, enemies/rivals to lovers au, college au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of both art & photography since i am good at neither, raccoons ⇢ word count: 4.8k ⇢ playlist: stardust by zayn; blue by yung kai ⇢ note: for the person who requested this; i hope you enjoy!

There’s a miserable amount of zeroes next to the number printed on the budget distribution sheet that Mingyu hands you. You stare at it, incredulous, then back at him, the paper crumpling slightly under your grip.

“This can’t be right,” you say, voice tight with disbelief and mounting anger. “This is… This is a joke. It has to be.”

Mingyu shifts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Yeah, well, it’s not. This is all we’ve got for the semester.”

“You’re saying that like it’s okay!” Your eyes snap up to his face. “Like this is something we can work with.”

“I’m not saying it’s okay! But I don’t see what yelling at me is going to solve.”

You scoff, holding up the paper between you both like it’s the evidence of a crime. “This amount isn’t even enough for one club to function, let alone two. And yet you expect us to split it? How is that fair?”

Mingyu clenches his jaw and crosses his arms. He looks bigger, now—more intimidating, sort of. You cross your arms as well, eyebrows knit into a frown. “It’s not fair,” he says. “None of this is. But unless you’re ready to, I don’t know, rob a bank or something, this is what we’ve got to work with.”

“And what?” you snap. “Your solution is just to divide it down the middle and call it a day? You can’t honestly believe that’s fair. Your expenses aren’t nearly as high as ours—”

“Excuse me?” Mingyu cuts in, his voice rising, sharp enough to make you pause. “Do you even know what we need? Do you have any idea how much equipment costs? Or printing? Or—”

“You don’t have an entire exhibition to put together,” you interrupt, your frustration boiling over. “We’ve got installations, workshops, materials—”

“And you think we’re just screwing around, taking selfies? You think what we’re doing doesn’t matter?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!”

“It sure as Hell sounds like it is,” he bites out, glaring at you.

The hallway is silent except for the sound of your breathing. You’re standing close to him, you realise belatedly—too close. Mingyu’s face is flushed, dark brown eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, you notice just how tired he looks. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, and the line of his shoulders is stiff with what you suddenly recognise as exhaustion, not just irritation. It’s easy enough to spot these signs because you mirror them, too.

It’s always been like this between the art club and the photography club. The rivalry was created during the clubs’ inception, long before you joined your university. You remember the former head—and your senior—telling you about how the former photography club head charmed Dean Park, the head of the art department, into giving them a higher budget, resulting in the art club being unable to hold their annual art exhibition. The year before that, the art club managed to win him over by listing out all the pros and cons of “art in the cultivation of a cultural mindset in students” using a PowerPoint presentation complete with sparkly animations. 

It’s always, always about money. 

This semester, however, the budget is infinitely worse—chiefly because you have to share it with the photography club. As the current presidents, you and Mingyu must shoulder the burden together, and that’s a lot easier said than done, really. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent all your college years feuding on opposing sides of the art scene, but you and Kim Mingyu haven’t been able to get along.

The fact that the amount Dean Park allotted for you both is abysmally small doesn’t make this entire situation any easier.

You look away, gaze dropping to the crumpled paper in your hands. “I’m not saying your work doesn’t matter,” you say quietly, the fight dissipating from your tone. “I’m just… This whole thing sucks, okay? I’m frustrated, too.”

Mingyu lets out a slow breath, scratching his cheek tiredly. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

It catches you off-guard, the way his voice lowers—not softening, exactly, but losing some of its earlier bite. When you glance back at him, his shoulders are still tense, his forehead pinched, though not with resignation. It’s more like simmering irritation, held at bay simply because he can’t get angry in the middle of the administrative building’s hallway.

“Look,” he continues when you don’t say anything, “this is what we’ve got. Yelling at each other about it isn’t going to magically double the budget, no matter how much we want it to.”

“I’m not yelling—I’m trying to get you to see reason. If you’d just acknowledge that the art club actually needs—”

“Maybe if you’d stop acting like your club is the only one that matters—”

You hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can get going again. “We’re going in circles,” you say, sighing. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Right,” Mingyu mutters, stepping back to lean against the wall. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest again, and for a moment, the two of you stand in tense silence, glaring at each other like it’ll somehow fix the problem.

The corridor feels oppressively small, the fluorescent lights casting shadows over his face. You take a slow breath, trying to tamp down the irritation clawing at your chest and push it down to your stomach instead where you can, at least, work around it. “Fine,” you grit out. “We’ll figure something out, but don’t think for a second that I’m going to let the art club get shortchanged because of your supposed equipment costs.”

Mingyu’s lips twitch into something that’s almost a smile but too bitter to qualify. “Of course. Don’t expect me to give up the gallery showcase just so you can buy more paint.”

You press your lips together and bite back your retort. You’re too tired to keep this up, and it’s clear that he’s just as stubborn as you are.

Instead, you turn on your heel, the budget sheet still clutched tightly in your hand. “Next meeting,” you call over your shoulder, “come with actual numbers. Maybe then we’ll actually get somewhere.”

“Sure,” Mingyu says flatly, though when you glance back, he’s still watching you, expression unreadable.

“Just combine both your events,” Jiyeon—Dean Park’s student representative—says curtly, like she’s trying to wrap up a tedious chore. She taps her manicured nails on the desk impatiently. “That was the reason why we announced the budget earlier this semester compared to last time.”

You blink at her. Combine? As in merge the art club’s carefully curated exhibition with Mingyu’s glossy photography showcase?

“That’s not happening,” you say, sharper than you intended. “These are completely different events. We’d lose the point of both if we mashed them together.”

Mingyu, seated across from you, leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “For once, we agree on something.”

Jiyeon exhales, clearly unimpressed with your united front. “Neither of you have the budget to do these separately. You’re either combining or presenting Dean Park with a shared cancellation notice. Your choice.”

Her words sink into your brain, leaving no room for argument. The table between you and Mingyu feels like a battlefield, and you’re not sure if you want to continue glaring daggers at him or redirect your frustration towards Jiyeon.

“This is ridiculous,” Mingyu says, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just lump two completely different creative visions together. A photography showcase is about cohesion. You don’t just slap a bunch of things together and call it cohesive.”

You bristle. “And what, you think an art exhibition is just some chaotic mess of colour and whimsy? There’s intention behind every piece. We’re not staging this in a dorm hallway; it’s a professional-level gallery. My members have been working on this for months.”

“And so have mine,” he snaps back. “This showcase isn’t just about displaying photos. It’s about showing people what photography is capable of. Combining that with whatever you’re doing? It’s going to dilute both.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have spent your entire summer hyping up an event you clearly couldn’t afford,” you say, unable to help yourself.

His eyes narrow. “It’s not like I knew—”

“Enough,” Jiyeon cuts in, her voice slicing clean through your argument. She stands, gathering her papers and closing her laptop briskly. It’s clear she’s done with the conversation. “You two have until next week to draft a combined proposal. If I don’t have something workable on my desk by then, I’ll assume you’re forfeiting your budget entirely. Good luck.”

With that, she walks out, the door shutting behind her with a firm click that echoes in the suddenly quiet room.

“This is such bullshit,” Mingyu mutters after a pause.

You glance at him, agreement on the tip of your tongue, but the irritation on his face sparks something petty in you instead. “You seem confident for someone whose entire event hinges on this bullshit.”

He glares at you and for a moment, you think he’s going to bite back. But he sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Since we’re stuck with this,” he says grudgingly, “we might as well figure something out.”

“You mean like a theme? Something broad enough to tie everything together?”

“Sure,” Mingyu says. “What do you suggest? Rainbows and friendship?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” you snap.

“I’m serious. If you’ve got a brilliant idea, then let’s hear it.”

You take a deep breath, your mind running through various possible ideas. Something broad, something versatile. But every idea either feels too generic, or too forced, and Mingyu’s expectant stare doesn’t help.

“What about… perspectives?” you finally say, hesitant.

He frowns. “Perspectives?”

“Yeah,” you say, gaining a little confidence. “Different ways of seeing the same thing. Photography is about capturing moments from unique angles, and art is about interpreting the world in your own way. It’s broad, but it connects.”

Mingyu leans back in his chair, brows furrowed in thought. He admits, slowly, “It’s… not bad.”

The faint approval in his voice surprises you, but you don’t let it show. “I know,” you say instead, crossing your ankles. “It’s a good starting point.”

“But it’s still vague,” he muses. “If we’re going to pitch this, we need to make it concrete. How are we actually going to combine everything? Are we splitting the space? Alternating pieces? Blending them somehow?”

Your stomach twists at the thought of compromising the layout, but you push the discomfort down. “We could structure it around the theme. Pair photos and artworks that complement each other—contrast them, even. It could be a dialogue between the two mediums.”

Mingyu’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s contemplating. He nods, once, reluctantly. “It could work.”

“Okay,” you say. “Then we’ll need to draft a detailed proposal—layout, schedule, costs. Dean Park isn’t going to approve of something half-baked.”

“Obviously.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “We’ll have to inform our members as soon as possible.”

“Done. I’ll text you, ‘kay?”

You hum in response, watching him gather his things. It’s not exactly a truce, and it’s definitely not teamwork—not yet, at least. But for the first time, you feel like both of you are pushing against the same problem, rather than each other.

“See you around, I guess,” you say tentatively, reaching for your bag.

Mingyu slings his camera bag over his shoulder and lets his lips curve upwards by the slightest. “See you.”

When Kim Mingyu said he would text you, you expected him to send you a message some time during the day, like a normal person would. Of course, the mistake you made was assuming that anything Kim Mingyu does is normal, so, really, why are you even surprised?

You don’t know for sure, but you’re certain it has everything to do with the fact that you were startled out of sleep minutes ago because of the incessant ringing of your phone, a week after your proposal was approved by Dean Park. The caller ID says Kim Mingyu (Photography President) and the time on your phone screen reads 1:01 A.M.

Someday, you will find a way to strangle him and get away with it. 

You squint at your phone, half-tempted to let it ring out, but you know he’s stubborn enough to keep calling until your phone dies. You swipe to answer with more force than necessary.

“What?” you snap, voice rough with sleep.

“Get dressed,” he says, sounding way more chipper than anyone in their right mind would at one in the morning. “I’m outside.”

You sit up in bed, your blankets falling into a heap around you. “Outside where?”

“Your building.”

There’s a pause while you blink, trying to process his words. “My what?”

“Look, there’s no time to argue,” he says, as if he’s not the one calling you at an ungodly hour. “I need to show you something. It’s about the exhibition. Plus, I have hot chocolate.”

“Couldn’t this have waited until daylight?” you ask—but curiosity, and the mention of free hot chocolate, gets the better of you. You rub the sleep out of your eyes and slide out of bed. 

“Nope, it’s time-sensitive,” says Mingyu, while you’re busy shoving your head through the nearest hoodie you could find. 

When you step outside, the cool night air pricks at your skin, and you spot him almost instantly. Mingyu is leaning against the lamppost by the entrance to your building, a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand and his camera slung around his neck. His tall frame and disheveled hair, illuminated by the soft glow of the light, would almost make him look charming—were you not keen on murdering him for disrupting your sleep.

“What took you so long?” he says, holding out one of the cups as you approach.

“You’re insane,” you reply, snatching the cup from him. The warmth seeps into your fingers, and despite your irritation, you take a grateful sip. It’s sweet, just the way you like it. “This better be worth it.”

“It will be,” he promises, already turning towards the path the winds through your campus.

The night air is cool and crisp, laced with the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. You clutch the cup of hot chocolate like it’s a lifeline, savouring its warmth, though it does little to thaw your irritation. Mingyu walks ahead of you, long strides confident; you trail behind him, muttering under your breath about insufferable photography club presidents and their questionable priorities.

The campus feels different at night—quieter, softer—as if the world has taken a deep breath and is holding it. Shadows stretch long and wide under the sporadic lampposts, and the buildings loom taller, their windows dark. The only sounds are the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. You don’t want to admit it, but there’s something peaceful about this moment, despite your company.

“Here,” Mingyu says suddenly, veering off the path toward a patch of bushes near the edge of the quad. 

You hesitate, watching as he crouches low. His movements are surprisingly careful for someone normally so clumsy. He motions for you to follow, his fingers pressed to his lips in a gesture for silence.

“What are you—”

“Shh,” he whispers, pointing ahead.

At first, you don’t see anything. But as you squint, you catch a movement—a small shape darting across the grass. And then another.

A family of raccoons. 

There are four of them, their sleek bodies silver in the moonlight. The largest one—presumably the mother—nudges a smaller one forward, while the other two rummage through a pile of leaves nearby. 

You crouch next to Mingyu, your knees pressing into the damp grass, and watch the raccoon family scurry about under the pale silver glow of the moon. The mother raccoon joins her two kits and noses through the leaves, while the smallest one tumbles clumsily after her, clearly still learning the ways of the world.

“They’re cute,” you whisper.

“Hm,” Mingyu hums, lifting his camera to his eye. The soft click of the shutter sounds through the quiet. “I’ve been tracking them for weeks. This seems to be their favourite hideout for the night.”

You glance at him sideways, watching the way his brows furrow in concentration, the way he adjusts the angle ever-so slightly before clicking another picture. He’s good at this, you think—finding something ordinary and turning it into something else.

“You dragged me out of bed for raccoons?” you ask, without any real malice in your voice.

“They’re more interesting than you give them credit for,” he says, not looking up from his viewfinder. “Most people don’t even notice them. And if they do, it’s just to call them pests.”

The soft, almost wistful tone of his voice surprises you. You shift your gaze back to the raccoons, watching as one of the smaller ones climbs onto a low branch, wobbling slightly before regaining its balance.

“They’re just trying to survive,” Mingyu continues, lowering his camera. “Finding food, looking after their family. They’re not pests. They’re— Resourceful. Resilient.”

You blink, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness in his words. “And this connects to the exhibition how?”

He smiles slightly, finally turning to look at you. “Think about it. How many things go unnoticed every day? How many stories don’t get told ‘cause people are too busy looking at what’s shiny and obvious?”

You frown, considering his words. The raccoon mother pulls out a discarded chocolate wrapper from the leaves, sniffing it before passing it to one of her kits. It’s nothing extraordinary, but there is something undeniably tender about the way she moves, the quiet care in her actions.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about our exhibition theme,” says Mingyu, “and—”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” you finish softly, the words slipping out before you can contain them.

Mingyu nods. “Exactly. Everyone’s always so focused on the big picture that they forget the small details. The stuff that seems insignificant but isn’t.” He gestures towards the raccoons. “This is the kind of thing I want to highlight—the unnoticed, the overlooked. The beauty in things people usually ignore.”

He has a point. The raccoons, with their clever little hands and determined movements, have a strange sort of grace to them. You wonder how many times you’ve walked past this very spot without noticing them, without realising there was a whole world quietly unfolding in the shadows.

“You think we can tie this to the exhibition?” you ask, your skepticism only half-hearted now.

“Why not?” he replies, enthusiasm bleeding into his tone. “Your art pieces are all about interpretation, right? How people see the world in their own way. And photography is about showing people something they didn't notice before. It fits.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, annoyed by how much sense he’s making. Grudgingly, you mutter, “You’re not as stupid as you look.”

Mingyu laughs softly, the sound low and warm in the night air. “Thanks, I think.”

You both fall silent again, watching as the raccoons scurry off to another tree nearby. Mingyu raises his camera one last time, snapping a shot of their retreating forms before lowering his camera with a small, satisfied sigh.

“They’ll be gone by morning,” he says, almost to himself, “and no one will know they were here.”

There’s something oddly poetic about the thought, and you’re struck by the realisation that, for all his infuriating habits, Kim Mingyu has an eye for seeing things differently. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at what he does—and, maybe, that’s why you think he’s not so different from you, after all.

The walk back to your building is quiet. Mingyu keeps his camera slung over his shoulder. You sip the last of your hot chocolate. Lukewarm as it is, it’s sweet and nice and provides a shred of warmth against the cool air nipping at your cheeks. 

“Don’t get used to this,” you say, as the two of you near your building.

Mingyu blinks innocently. “Used to what?”

“Me being nice to you.”

He grins, a boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart rabbit about, just a little. “Noted. I’ll savour it while it lasts.”

You pull out your sketchbook and your charcoal pencils the next day, after classes, and settle down on a bench that offers a clear view of the quad. The winter sun is a gentle wash of gold, spilling over the campus like honey, pooling in the dips of the cobblestones, and casting long, soft-edged shadows. It’s a contrast to the silvery quiet of last night, but somehow, the same tranquility lingers, a memory etched into the air.

The spot where the raccoons had been feels empty now, but not barren. Students drift through the quad in loose clusters. A girl sprawls on the grass with a textbook splayed open beside her. Two boys toss a frisbee near the far end, their laughter bright and contagious. Someone sits cross-legged under a tree, earbuds in, bobbing their head to music only they can hear.

Your pencil touches the paper, instinctive. Lines emerge, at first hesitant and light, but quickly growing in confidence. You sketch the arch of the bushes, the curve of their leaves. The grass flows beneath your hand, strokes that whisper of its softness, of its endless spread.

The students begin to take form next, their figures caught mid-motion—an outstretched hand here, a tilted head there. You don’t draw their faces; they’re not meant to be individuals, but simply a part of the quad in daylight. 

You don’t think about composition or technique; your hand moves as though it has a will of its own, tracing shapes and shadows. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no pressure, no self-imposed critique weighing you down. The sunlight dapples the page, shifting as the leaves above you sway in the breeze. Your strokes grow bolder, the charcoal smudging against your fingertips as you shade in the deeper shadows, the play of the light on the cobblestones. 

You pause, leaning back slightly, your eyes flicking between the quad and your sketch. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is—but it feels right.

Then, out of nowhere, you think of Mingyu.

It’s a small thought at first, barely noticeable—a stray memory of him crouched low in the grass last night, his camera poised. But it grows, and before you realise what’s happening, you’re imagining what he’d think of the sketch. Would he point out the uneven shading, the hasty lines where you’d been too impatient to linger? Or would he see what you see?

You close the sketchbook. The thought of showing it to him surprises you, an idea you’re not sure you understand. You’re not friends—not really—and the very idea of seeking his approval feels strange. 

But you’ll trust your instincts, you suppose. They haven’t led you astray so far. You tuck your sketchbook under your arm and set out to find Kim Mingyu.

You find Kim Mingyu in the photography clubroom, hunched over a cluttered table, sorting through a stack of pictures. The room smells faintly of ink and chemicals, the soft hum of a printer filling the silence. The light streaming through the windows bathes everything in warm, golden hues, catching on the strands of his hair every time he shifts.

For some inexplicable reason, you feel shy.

You linger by the doorway for a moment, fingers tightening around the edges of your sketchbook. It’s ridiculous, really—he’s the same infuriating person who called you at one in the morning and dragged you across campus to look at raccoons. But now, with the sketchbook in your hands and a strange weight in your chest, the thought of stepping into the room feels monumental.

You clear your throat, and he glances up. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration, and the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows. For a split second, he looks surprised to see you. Then his expression shifts into something closer to curiosity.

“Hi,” he says, holding out a photograph like it’s a peace offering. “Are you lost? Or are you here to chew me out over something about the exhibition?”

You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “Neither. I wanted to—” You hesitate, the words tangling on your tongue. His gaze flickers to the sketchbook under your arm. Thankfully, he doesn’t push.

“Come in,” he says instead. “Since you’re here anyway—” he gestures toward the stack of pictures— “help me decide. I’m narrowing down shots for the exhibition.”

You step closer, drawn despite yourself. The photographs are stunning—a leaf caught mid-fall, a cluster of streetlights glowing through the fog, the silhouette of a child through a bus window.

“They’re good,” you say, and you mean it.

“Just good?” he teases, leaning against the table. But there’s something gentler in his expression now, a quiet kind of pride that softens the edges of his grin. “Coming from you, that’s basically a standing ovation.”

You glance away, suddenly self-conscious. Your fingers tighten around the sketchbook again, and before you can overthink it, you thrust it at him. “Here.”

Mingyu blinks. “What’s this?”

“Just—look at it,” you mumble, heat rising to your cheeks.

He takes the sketchbook carefully and flips it open to the page you’d drawn earlier. His eyes trace the lines etched into the paper with charcoal, widening slightly.

“It’s the quad,” he murmurs, quieter than you expected.

“Obviously.”

“No, I mean—” Mingyu looks up at you, and there’s something thoughtful in his gaze. “It’s the quad, but it—it feels… alive, you know?”

You suck in a breath sharply, eyes darting to him. “Alive?”

“Yeah.” He gestures at the sketch, fingers hovering just above the page. “Like here,” he says, pointing to a student mid-step, laughing at something the person next to them says. “And this.” He moves his finger and circles the pair of boys tossing a frisbee about. “I can actually imagine it happening. In real time. Does that make sense?”

The way Mingyu looks at your hastily-drawn sketch—as though it’s something extraordinary—makes your chest feel tight, like you’re holding your breath without even realising.

“I don’t know how you did this,” he continues, almost to himself, eyes roving over the page like he’s trying to decode a secret. “It’s not just the quad—it’s everything about it. It’s like you froze something no one else would notice.” The corners of his mouth lift in a small, disarming smile. “It’s kind of amazing.”

Your mind scrambles for something to say. “It’s… not that big of a deal,” you say lamely. “Just a sketch.”

“Not to me.”

Your eyes settle on the stack of photographs on the table, anything to distract yourself from the heat crawling up your neck. “So, um, what does this mean for the exhibition?”

“Everything,” he says simply—knowingly, almost. Mingyu flips the sketchbook shut and hands it back to you.

You hug the sketchbook to your chest. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” says Mingyu. “You’re really talented, you know that? Not just technically. You see things—details most people miss. That’s really rare.”

You see them, too, you want to say. Because he does. You’ve witnessed it firsthand, and your sketch feels like a paltry attempt at recreating the same thing. Mingyu’s compliment sends a strange ripple through you—half pride, half unease. It’s not that you haven’t been praised for your work before, but coming from him, it feels… different.

“I just drew what I saw.”

“Yeah, but you saw it,” Mingyu presses. “Not everyone would.”

The sincerity in his tone makes your heart stutter. You glance at him, unsure of what to say, and find him watching you with an expression that’s entirely too open. You’re not sure when the shift happened, but you feel it—a softening, an ease you hadn’t expected to find with him.

The confusion in your chest settles into something quieter, something that almost makes sense.

Maybe you don’t dislike Kim Mingyu. Maybe you never disliked him at all.

There is something to be said about having a crush on the person you thought you would never get along with. 

It creeps in during moments you don’t realise are important until later. You find yourself seeking him out more often, not because the exhibition needs it—it’s practically done—but because you enjoy being in his presence. The barbs you once threw at each other have become something like banter; his toothy grin makes your heart flutter in your chest. You don’t know when it started, but it’s there now, a quiet and persistent little thing that is difficult to ignore.

The day of the exhibition dawns quicker than you expect, and ends just as quickly. 

Kim Mingyu kisses you at the end of it, when the lights are dim and the skies are tinged with twilight. His lips are featherlight at first, and his hands cradle your face. He is soft, warm, and your fingers find their way to the collar of his shirt, gripping tightly.

There is much to be said about having a crush on the person you thought you would never get along with. The most important is this: it’s simply a matter of perspective.

⇢ a/n: thank you thank you thank you to @etherealyoungk for helping me out with all the design/art aspects of this fic & essentially brainstorming this entire thing with me; skye lifesaver fr (the theme behind combining the art and photography club events was all her idea). thanks for reading & i hope you have a wonderful day!

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Simply Not There - Patrick Bateman X Female Reader

Title: Simply Not There

Patrick Bateman X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Paul (Mentioned) and Reader's friend (Mentioned)

WC: 3,088

Warnings: Suggestive themes (it's mentioned briefly), gore mentioned, murder mentioned, cursing, blood mentioned, American Psycho canon violence mentioned, The Shining storyline mentioned, slight angst, and fluff

You stood, leaned against the wall of Patrick's apartment, looking through the many movies he had above his TV. Raking your fingers against the thick cases of the VHS tapes, the tip of your finger paused on one movie, 'Body Double'. It was Patrick's favorite movie, one he spoke of a lot with you, or anyone who'd listen for that matter. It was an alright movie, you've watched it a couple of times whenever Patrick was watching it after a long day at work, or on the weekends. It was about a man who got fired and dumped by his girlfriend, and while house-sitting, he witnesses a murder from the house across from him; which then leads him to try and solve the case. You were pretty bored, Patrick being at work and all, so you wanted to do something. You could go out, maybe see a movie in theaters, but you didn't really feel like going out and being among people. Deciding not to watch the movie, you continued looking through Patrick's movies until you gave up on finding anything to watch in his collection; filled with suggestive thrillers, gory horror, and crime. 

Pushing off the wall, you walked to Patrick's bedroom, your socked feet slightly slipping on the floor as you practically dragged yourself into the room. Going over to the large bed, covered in crisp white sheets, you went to your side; where you usually stayed the night, and got down on your knees. Reaching under the bed, you pulled out a small bin. Since you lived in your own apartment, you didn't really need to keep much of anything at Patrick's apartment. Just a few spare clothes, your mug for your morning coffee, and other necessities, but not a lot. The one thing you made sure to bring after hanging out and spending time with Patrick, were your own movies. Not that you weren't alright with watching some of his movies from time to time, you enjoyed some of them, if not most; 'Scarface,' 'Blue City'... But you liked to watch your movies too. Flipping through the VHS boxes in the bin, you passed through such movies as 'The Dark Crystal,' 'Batman,' 'The Breakfast Club,' and 'The Princess Bride,' until you came across a movie that piqued your interest. 'The Shining.'

You didn't understand why Patrick didn't have this movie in his collection. It was dark, gory at times, a bit suggestive, with large dashes of psychological horror. You thought it'd be right up his alley, but it didn't really seem to be the case. After all, he didn't have it in his collection and always kept everything pristine and in order. Pushing the bin back under the bed, you stood up with the VHS case in your hand. Walking across the floor, you paused at the door. Looking back at the bed, you worried on your bottom lip, staring at Patrick's pillow. Your mind battled itself as you thought about the pros and cons of just stealing his pillow. You knew Patrick hated when you moved or really touched his things without asking him or letting him know. You understood that, you felt the same with some of your things. You knew he had some sort of OCD, aside from that he was a perfectionist; needed everything to be perfect all the time. So, stealing his pillow, from its rightful spot on his neatly made bed... Would probably irritate the hell out of him when he got home. But, the pros of this, stealing his pillow... Would be that you could cuddle with it, hold it while you sat on the couch watching your movie, and pretend he was with you as the smell of his expensive cologne engulfed you.

You were going to take that risk, whatever the risk was. Speeding over, you grabbed the pillow before heading back into the living room. Clutching the pillow under one arm, you could already smell Patrick's cologne as you took your movie out of the case and slid the VHS tape into the VHS player. Grabbing the remote, you fell onto the couch, wiggling around to get comfortable as you tucked your legs under yourself. You fast-forwarded the trailers for other movies and commercials before you began your movie; snuggling your back against the plush of the couch, pressed flush against it. Wrapping both arms around Patrick's pillow, you dug your face into it briefly, inhaling deeply. Letting out a content sigh, you closed your eyes, relaxing further into the couch, savoring the feeling before paying attention to your movie as the opening credits began. 

You didn't hear the sound of rattling keys or the door knob turning as Patrick entered his apartment. Immediately he paused, hearing the sound of his TV playing in the living room. Shutting the door, he slowly made his way into said room, quickly spotting you huddled on his couch, eyes glued to the TV in front of you. Patrick turned to the television, observing it briefly before turning his cold gaze back to you. You didn't hear him come in, he speculated, before making himself known.

"I didn't know you were coming over." He spoke up, monotonously, making you jolt from surprise. 

You turned to see Patrick, eyes wide with your hand over your heart; beating heavily against your ribcage as you let out a deep exhale. "Patty, you scared me." Patrick didn't say a thing, instead walking over to the side of the couch and peering over at you, his eyes quickly finding you clutching tightly onto his pillow. You noticed his gaze, looking down at the pillow and back up at the man. "I missed you." You gave him an explanation, your voice soft, as you watched him nervously. Not that you were scared of what he might do, but because you didn't want him to push you away. He tried once, but that didn't really work out for him. 

Wordlessly, Patrick walked over, staring down at you with his dark, almost soulless eyes, snatching the pillow out of your arms. You watched, your own self silent, as he walked off to supposedly his bedroom, before returning. You watched him as he then sat down beside you, his left arm wrapping onto the back of the couch behind you. You glanced up at him once more as he simply ignored you, his eyes finding themselves on the TV just as the elevator began to open and spill out gallons upon gallons of blood. You turned back to your movie, becoming more and more at ease as the movie continued, realizing that Patrick wasn't going to scold you and let you know that if you were anyone else, he would've killed you.

He did that sometimes. You knew he couldn't help it, the thoughts and the feelings he got after talking to someone. How he craved blood and hated when people made him feel inferior. Well, he didn't tell you that, but your extensive knowledge of psychology helped you figure that one out. He told you about the time at that bar with the bartender and that Paul guy from his work at Pierce & Pierce. He stopped talking about Paul a couple of months ago, and you had an eerie feeling that Patrick had done something. Something that, thankfully, hadn't been happening as frequently as it used to anymore. To your knowledge.

But you loved Patrick. Deeply. Under that mask he wore, yes, he was a bit shallow and maybe a bit greedy, but he could be charming when he wanted to be. You admired how calm he could be, how collected he could become. Aside from how attractive he was, and how stylish he was, you found him incredibly intelligent and determined. The more you spent time with him, the more you fell for him. The more your attraction turned into one of love. And there was nothing he could say or do could change that. Nothing others could say or do could change that either. 

Yes, many people in your life had tried to warn you about Patrick, before and even when you began dating. It started with your best friend, who said that they had a terrible feeling about the guy after you introduced them to Patrick. They said his eyes were dull, his polite inflection in his voice was dry, and his laugh was humorless, almost unnerving. They called him a sociopath. Unable to feel anything, or understand the feelings of others. From just one lunch date, you had no idea where they came up with that so fast, but you had figured that out about Patrick after the first week of dating. 

In the beginning, Patrick was pretty cold-hearted, not really caring much about you, and only himself. During dates at fancy restaurants, he'd talk about himself, and complain about the waitress or the wine. He even ordered for you a couple of times. And when the waitress asked if you and Patrick would like to hear about the specials, he replied, 'Not if you want to keep your spleen.' Though, when you thought that the date with Patrick was fruitless, minus his good looks and intelligence that had pulled you to him in the first place, he made a joke. 

He leaned back against the back of his seat, glancing around the room with a wide grin. He was talking about something, but you weren't fully paying attention, thinking about how vain and selfish he was before his next words gained your attention, "Even people who are good for nothing have the capacity to bring a smile to your face, like when you push them down the stairs." He said so simply, so easily as if he was saying something completely normal. As if that joke of his wasn't dark, grim. But that didn't stop you from cracking a smile, even letting out a small laugh. Patrick stared at you. His fake smile slipped into a confused frown as he wondered why you were laughing. Were you laughing at him? 

"That's pretty funny," You had said, now ignoring his vain and selfish nature and falling deep into his dark sense of humor. It intrigued you.

"What is so funny?" He had then asked, his voice a bit deeper as his mind raced with different scenarios in which to kill you. You had to have been laughing at him, right?

You could only shake your head slightly, swirling the wine glass in your hand, "That joke. I've always been a fan of those kinds of jokes. Dark jokes can be offensive to some, but to me, I find them rather... Refreshing." You took a sip of your red wine, your eyes staring right into his.

That's when Patrick knew that you were different. 

And different you were. A psychology major, a senior at Harvard. Your mind was as sharp as your tongue, constantly analyzing anything and everything. You weren't some air-head that he dealt with at his work, or even someone he felt he needed to kill for making him feel inferior, as said before. It was quite the opposite. For the first time in a very long time, Patrick liked someone. Slowly, very slowly, he began to enjoy your presence. You were smart, and Patrick felt as if he could actually have conversations with you. And only two months into your relationship did Patrick confess to you that he had these dark desires for spilling blood and coitus. And that didn't stop you from going on another date, and another, and another... Patrick was over the shock of how calm you were, how nonjudgmental you were. Like him, deep down, you were like him.

Life with Patrick almost became second nature to you. Every so often, you'd come over to his apartment, whether that meant to watch a movie, go out to eat, or spend the night in his bed; you enjoyed your time with him, and you could only hope he felt the same. You hoped he cared about you. Loved you as you loved him. The more you got to know Patrick, pushing through the mask he wore, the more and more you thought that maybe Patrick's interest in you wasn't love and more of an obsession. An obsession with you. The more Patrick grew interested in you, the more he wanted you. Though, you began to suspect the opposite the longer your relationship with the man continued. 

Sometimes you found Patrick staring at you when you were reading, cooking in his kitchen, or even sometimes when you woke up. But as fast as you catch him, he looks away as if he was never even looking at you in the first place; getting ready for the day with his routine or leaving the room. There was even a time when before you knew that he hated when you stole his clothes, that he gifted you a bottle of his cologne. Besides the clothes and the occasional simi-sentimental gifts, that cologne was your favorite thing Patrick had ever given you. You practically sprayed it on everything you owned.

Sometimes, even if you were both on the couch watching TV, his hand would end up in your hair. It would start off slow, his fingers just brushing the tips of your hair before gradually digging deeper into your locks, the tips of his fingers gently scratching your scalp. Though the soothing touch would leave once Patrick caught himself doing it. It was rare for it to happen, only happening when Patrick was too enthralled in whatever movie, so you cherished it whenever it did. You even called him 'Pattycakes' once. If he didn't care, he would've killed you for sure, but instead, he just told you not to call him that. So there were certain events that made you believe that Patrick really did care for you. It became clear that it was an obsession… With love sprinkled here and there.

Just like right now, sitting on his couch in front of the TV, watching 'The Shining.' Deep into the movie, you snapped out of your trance, feeling Patrick's hand land on your shoulder. You didn't even notice that he even scooted closer to you on the couch, his thigh brushing up against yours. You tried to pay attention to the movie once more, but you become hyper aware of his hand, his touch in general. You wanted so badly just to cuddle into his side. You looked up at him again, seeing him still staring at the screen, watching intently as Jack chased his wife around the hotel with an axe. He kept moving his hand, every now and then, rubbing circles on your upper shoulder. He didn't look at you. You couldn't tell if he knew what he was doing or not. 

Taking a chance, much like you did with his pillow, you leaned your head on his shoulder. You couldn't help but smile, feeling as he tensed before slowly relaxing. Nearing the end of the movie, the hand on your shoulder moved up to your neck and began massaging your skin softly, pulling you close to him. You felt yourself leaning into his touch, enjoying how comfortable the couch was, and how nice he smelled, that scent that seemed to linger on you no matter how many times you showered, as you closed your eyes. Within minutes, you were asleep. 

Patrick watched the screen as it panned to Jack frozen to death in the hedge maze, the movie slowly ending afterward. Grabbing the remote from the glass coffee table in front of him, his arm tight around your shoulders as he shut off the TV. Looking down at you, Patrick stared at your sleeping form, the light from the lamp casting shadows across your face. His gaze drifted from your peaceful features, tracing the outline of your face with his eyes. His eyes flicked to the freckles that sprinkled your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered and danced against your zygomatic bone, and then down to your lips. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he maneuvered you in his arms, placing one arm around your back and the other under your legs. Carrying you to his room, he laid you on the bed, untucking the covers from underneath you to properly tuck you in. 

Letting out a deep exhale from his nose, he stared down at you, a tad annoyed. He hadn't planned for you to stay over. As he gazed down at you, his thoughts began, ‘She irritates me to no end and yet I have succumbed to her every move, every glance, every breath. I haven't a clue of how, I am still unsure of this feeling, what it may be. Obsession or some infatuation, but if this is what they call love, then what does it feel like? She drives me insane and yet I don't want to be anywhere else but by her side. And yet she makes me so angry because I cannot stand her presence. It's like my insides are burning, melting, and fusing, making my body melt until I'm nothing but an empty shell. I should hate her. Yet, I do not. And this craving, this hunger for the flesh has dwindled, though not completely gone. This desire for her, her touch, her presence, her, still gnaws at me like an animal. She can see through the facade I've put up for years, and yet, she doesn't seem bothered by it. I cannot understand it. Maybe she, similar to myself, is simply not there.'

Pushing past that, he sat down on the bed beside you. He watched as your chest rose and fell with each deep breath, the way your lips parted slightly, and it made Patrick feel warm inside. It upset him. How could you, how could you do this to him? He hated how vulnerable you made him feel, though he'd deny it vehemently later on. His lips pressed together, and he shook his head before leaning forward. Brushing your hair out of the way with his slender fingers, Patrick pressed his lips against your neck, his nose nudging into your ear lobe. The contact was gentle, almost too gentle for a man like Patrick Bateman as the overwhelming realization that you were irreplaceable fell upon him. In quick, swift movements, Patrick stood from the bed, leaving to begin his night-time routine as he reminded himself to return some videotapes in the morning. 

[crossdreamers]

Trump and the transphobes won in the US. But there are still ways trans people can win.

Our article on Crossdreamers discusses recent U.S. election results and their implications for trans rights, particularly in the face of rising transphobia.

Despite setbacks, we emphasize that there are still pathways for trans people to advance their rights and well-being.

The article encourages community solidarity, legal activism, and leveraging online platforms to counter oppressive policies and promote inclusive narratives.

We presents the following recommendations:

We need to create strong communities for support of trans and queer people both online and offline. It is especially important to help young trans people who do not have the experience and knowledge that may make all of this understandable to them... We need to make sure that the rest of the LGBTQ community is fully committed to defend and support trans people. We need to build alliances with positive cis-people and organizations, and get them to make the argument that anti-trans policies represents attacks on democracy and tolerance and that this is not only about transgender lives. If we are to gain more support for pro-trans policies trans people have to be visible. If not, the transphobes will succeed in dehumanizing trans people. In the blue states of the US, politicians and activists must continue to build walls against transphobia. In other democratic countries pro-democracy politicians and activists must intensify their support of trans people. Our mental health and our quality of life requires safe spaces outside the realm of politics where we can just be who we are. This applies to those who are out in the open and those whose gender variance is still hidden. If everything is reduced to political battles, many will soon lose the ability to fight. This means that LGBTQ bars, clubs, societies, parades and personal networks are essential. And we need to give ourselves time and room to rest and recharge.

Go to: Trump and the transphobes won in the US. But there are still ways trans people can win.

Illustration photo: Valeria Blanc

[olderthannetfic]

When m/m writers say "women DNI / don't read" on a platform like here or AO3 that's majority female, what's the thinking behind this? Are they insecure in their masculinity and trying to preemptively block fujo cooties from getting on their fiction? Are they trying to meet people for RP or dating through engagement with their fics? That I can maybe understand. But if it's the former, there's a culture mismatch. "Women DNI" writers mostly aren't writing stuff that's popular on Space Battles, Sufficient Velocity, Royal Road or even ff.net, which gets more of the "malebrained" (sorry) game nerd stuff with sexless shonen-like characters levelling up or solving problems with "hard magic." Those spaces also have a concrit culture where you can be a little mean and mocking, and the "women DNIs" only want praise and clout. It always makes me think of Married with Children and Al Bundy's NO MA'AM (National Organization of Men Against Amazonian Masterhood) club.

Anyway, it's extra odd when I see this kind of clout goblinry in a market context where most of the sales are to women. I've seen gay dudes (cis and trans) lightly threaten that a big conversation about what gets popular in paying m/m space was coming soon (spoiler: it never came). And it's always someone who doesn't have the kind of career they want despite doing lots of marketing. I think it's OK to vent, but the gay men who are doing numbers in m/m space don't threaten women's careers or disparage their own readership.

--

Are they insecure in their masculinity and trying to preemptively block fujo cooties from getting on their fiction?

Yes.

No, really. That's it.

Ask any trans man who's been on T for a few years and has supportive friends and family what he thinks about this dumb behavior vs. a scared trans boy who just figured it out in his own head and whose entire experience of living openly as a man is being rude to strangers on twitter.

The pro version is just professional jealousy.

If Jordan L. Hawk can come out and stay at the top of the heap (despite, sorry not sorry, a bit of a career slump lately due to Life), so can other trans dudes, and there are plenty of cis dudes who write in a BLy style and sell just fine to BL/slash fandom type readers.

Dudes who are secure don't need to pull this shit, and good marketers know not to insult their paying customers in public because it's bad for business.

TBH, when I find out a m/m author is a guy, I'll usually try one of his books. I don't think fujoshi culture is ~appropriation~, but i guess I do think it's nice to give a guy a shot. I have pretty universally been underwhelmed (in the Sturgeon's Law way, not the men can't write way). But I doubt I'm alone in this behavior. A dude who's not a whiny little bitch about having a chick audience can use this to his marketing advantage. Instead, a lot of losers want to shoot themselves in the foot.

[bullet-clubs-bitch]

Every day I fall harder for El Phantasmo

Just when I thought I couldn’t fall harder this man shows up in a deftones T-Shirt. Deftones is one of my favourite artists of all time!

[ihatetaxes99]

I'll say it: I love the MLA, but they probably shouldn't have existed. Not in their canon state, at least.

Everything about their presence after their introductory arc only really serves to make everything to do with storytelling harder for Horikoshi. Let's remove the League from the equation for the moment. The MLA has Geten and Re-Destro, implied to be two of the more powerful characters in the series (and neither of whom were actually defeated during the MVA arc, with the latter only standing down due to losing his own faith in the battle), and that's without getting into the 100k+ foot soldiers they've got kicking around. Curious and Skeptic are fairly useless in regards to combat proficiency, but Hanabata provides another strong support pillar of the army. Even before you add in Shigaraki, Twice and Dabi, the MLA is overpowered.

And what did this lead to? A massively tangled operation where half of its members had to be unsatisfyingly knocked out off-screen because Horikoshi had accidentally made them too powerful to be conceivably beaten. And to be fair, it's a trap I fell into myself the last time I wrote them. The Liberation Army are very difficult to make threatening, because you have to gimp them in order for the heroes to not get immediately blown to pieces like a small child throwing a rock at the Berlin Wall. As it stands, they're too good.

So, in all this smug retrospect, what would I have done? Well, it's something I'm toying with for something I'm working on, but my main idea would be to cut the MLA down. Make them a real underground faction of extremists. They still have their primary figureheads, but that aside, give them a couple of hundred loyalists spread throughout the country, not a couple of hundred thousand. They're powerful, but they're low in number, with many of their forces consisting of people like Yotsubashi's private security team and Hanabata's party subordinates. Much like the IRB at the turn of the twentieth century prior to the Easter Rising, they're basically an old boys' club, sitting around and reminiscing on when the group had power. Their schemes have to be more subtle, more focused on the - ahem - hearts and minds of the public. Things like Detnerat's products and commercials, Curious' articles, Hanabata's proposed policies, they all subtly push a pro-Liberation message. They warm the general population up to the idea, they take advantage of the Commission's failures, they engineer public crises from behind the scenes to weaken people's belief in the current system. What if, for example, it had been the MLA who had secretly encouraged Overhaul's production of a Quirk-erasing drug, in the hopes that it would cause further unrest and fear that they could manipulate to turn public sentiment against the current government? What if they had provided funding to the League post-All for One's arrest in order to stir up more trouble, instead of getting in a big fight and losing half their men to Shigaraki? What if the UA traitor had been acting on orders from the MLA, who then relayed the information to the League for the purpose of essentially using them as their pawns to attack UA on their behalf? A secret society pulling the strings, and using the League as their unwitting patsies, behind the scenes to sow distrust in the Commission and set them up for their eventual failure. The final arc could have been less about whatever the hell it was about and more about the League finally realising what was going on and having a massive three-way battle between the heroes, the villains and the MLA who finally take to the streets after spending pretty much the whole story scheming and manipulating and building up their forces.

It's all fanfic stuff, and it's so easy to point and gape and go "I would do that so much better!" but I honestly think the secret society working to undermine the government angle would have been more interesting and made for a more threatening faction than a massive revolutionary army which gets immediately crumpled during their first major battle with the heroes.

[empanadaaaaaaa]

i completely forgot to post these since i was really active on facebook. THE INKOPOLIS CLUB (translated)

BILL

>watched a prochara video

>splatana stamper main

>pretends to be spiderman when he uses the zipcaster special

>doesn't paint the base

>always upfront

>he loses battles most of the time

>lies about being in X rank

>actually in B+

>thinks turf wars are for noobs

>squidbagger

>leader of the inkopolis club

JOSH

>big guy

>big weapon

>xddxdxxdxdxdd

>dynamo roller main

>fights w/ bill about who would be attack/defense

>more deaths than kills

>chooses idols instead of splatfest themes

>and harrasses who chosen another option

>sore loser

>hates squidparties but takes advantage of them to paint the map

>doesn't paint the base

PETE

>aggressiveness at its best

>dapple dualies nouveau main

>he ilegally modified his weapons once

>banned from any battle for 4 months

>at least 11 kills per battle

>a girl on the enemy team?

>he'll hunt her down the entire battle

>his father and brothers have a business in creating weapons

>shoes stained in enemy ink as a threat (?)

>doesn't like the fact that there is no red ink to replicate blood.

JERRY

>the first one to say "Booyah" at every game

>bloblobber deco main

>enjoys squidparties

>the only one who paints the base

>afraid of chargers

>tableturf pro

>prefers playing that rather than battles

>has friends that play tableturf outside the club

>but he has to keep it a secret or he'll be expelled from being a "traitor"

>does cool trickshots

>has a crush on marina

[battlestory]

Before Squid Game, There Was Battle Royale

Director Hwang Dong-hyuk openly admits to taking inspiration from Kinji Fukasaku’s cult film.

In less than a week, the second season of Squid Game — a show about desperate people participating in deadly challenges for money — was viewed nearly 70 million times, becoming the most popular Netflix show in 92 countries. Part of Squid Game’s success is doing something new with a tried-and-tested formula. But an equally important part is having that “lethal game” formula there in the first place, which was perfected and popularized by Battle Royale.

Originally a 1999 novel by Koushun Takami later turned into a manga and two movies about middle school students forced to kill each other by a fascist government, the Battle Royale franchise might be a quarter-of-a-century old, but it still remains the beloved standard for stories about people trapped in life-or-death games. Squid Game’s creator Hwang Dong-hyuk openly admits to taking inspiration from Battle Royale, the origin of which is actually as fascinating in places as the South Korean drama. 

The Birth of Battle Royale All Started With a Dream

Some of the greatest stories ever started with a dream. Not a “dream” as in “an idea” but the little movie inside our heads we see while sleeping. James Cameron came up with the idea for The Terminator while having a fever-induced nightmare in Rome in 1981. As such, Takami is in a very exclusive club because he also got the idea for Battle Royale from a dream. 

In a 2000 promotional guidebook for the movie, the author wrote that, one intense night when he wasn’t feeling well, he saw a dream-like vision of the fictional teacher Kinpachi Sakamoto smiling menacingly and saying to his students: “You’re all going to kill each other.”

Mr. Kinpachi in Class 3B is a famous TV show that ran from 1979 to 2011. It starred Tetsuya Takeda as the titular Mr. Kinpachi, a dedicated educator who helped his students navigate the many challenges of life, from pregnancy to suicidal tendencies. Today, the character is an archetype of the “caring teacher” in Japan, referenced everywhere from Gintama to Great Teacher Onizuka. 

The idea of such a person forcing his pupils to kill each other is extremely disturbing. To get an idea of how the vision must have affected Takami, American readers should imagine Mister Rogers in place of Kinpachi Sakamoto (older UK readers may picture Tony Hart). 

Takami referenced his experience in the novel and the comic by naming the sadistic overseer of the student kill-a-thon Kinpatsu Sakamochi. He was renamed “Kitano” in the movie version after Takeshi Kitano was cast in the role.

From Pro-Wrestling to Dystopian Horror: Battle Royale’s Unique Inspiration

The heart of Battle Royale is having to watch 42 teens navigate an impossible situation. Many don’t want to kill but are forced to by the rules of the Battle Experiment No. 68 Program. Even those who manage to stave off taking an active part in the slaughter by forming alliances are only delaying the inevitable. 

In the end, there can only be one survivor (a rule enforced by exploding collars around the characters’ necks), which means that no friendship or romance can survive the program. It’s an emotionally haunting and devastating idea, which the author got from pro-wrestling.

In the intro to the 2003 edition of the book, Takami rants briefly about one pro-wrestler who “intentionally went for a count out, letting his partner win, a display of camaraderie which was kind of a letdown.” He added, “Oh, you can also team up with players who used to be your enemies. But the moment you think you’re teaming up to get rid of someone else, this sneaky friend can suddenly betray and beat you.”

The old saying advises creatives to write what they know, and since Takami knew pro-wrestling, he used that as one of his chief inspirations for Battle Royale. This is why the novel, though very entertaining, isn’t very deep. And, when it feels like it is, it’s mostly by accident. The movie is a different story, though.

The Battle Royale Film Is Inspired by a True, Horrifying Story

Battle Royale was brought to the big screen by director Kinji Fukasaku and screenwriter Kenta Fukasaku, with the former infusing the production with a lot of his personal experiences and beliefs. 

In the 2000 companion book Battle Royale Insider, director Fukasaku says: “When I read the original story, I felt I had to make a serious movie about people dying as it reminded me of my own experiences in ninth grade.” 

This was a reference to Fukasaku and his middle school class being drafted to work in a munitions’ factory during World War II, where he survived an air raid that resulted in many casualties that he and his friends had to help clean up. “As I lifted severed arms and legs,” he remembered, “I had a fundamental awakening… Adults could not be trusted.”

The Battle Royale novel is a very fun read, but it feels lacking in places. Among its 42 student characters, most are only given one-sentence descriptions and are rather samey, with the pro-wrestling-inspired violence being the point of the dystopian horror novel. 

The movie plays it differently, going for a more nuanced anti-violence message starring more complex kids who were exploited by a sick, authoritarian system. This is pure Fukasaku, a master of social commentary, especially when it came to themes of the country failing its citizens and shattering their hopes and innocence, like in If You Were Young: Rage, which he produced, directed and co-wrote. 

The reason why the movie version of Battle Royale is regarded as more than a gratuitous bloodbath is mainly thanks to Fukasaku.

So come this January 12, the anniversary of Kinji Fukasaku’s death, spare a thought for the brilliant director who leveraged his traumatic experiences to make a movie that made audiences both think and wince, and without whom, shows like Squid Game might never have existed.

Tokyo Weekender article by Cezary Jan Strusiewicz

[aqlstar]

advice-seeking anon here just wanted to say thank you so much for your thorough and thoughtful responses ❤️

i definitely don’t feel comfortable around the people who excuse or perpetuate antisemitism through their views, but i struggle with how to approach it other than distancing from them because of past experiences. i don’t tend to call out individuals anymore because it feels exhausting and unhelpful when it’s been met with vitriol, willful ignorance, or ridicule. the ignorance is staggering, like i genuinely don’t think that any of them know what they’re talking about or have done any research beyond maybe like instagram infographics/influencers or al jazeera articles and other bs. then they get so deep into this perspective of that being “the truth” or the “right thing” (demonizing Israel and zionists as like “evil colonizers” and “genocide supporters”) that they get pissed off and refute any evidence or disagreement otherwise, and default to the “anti zionism isn’t antisemitism!” excuse whenever being called out for antisemitic rhetoric, tokenizing antizionist Jewish people, etc. as exhausting as it is, i know it would be good to make more of an effort to call people out anyway though, so that i don’t contribute to normalizing or accepting that behavior.

years ago, i totally uncritically bought into a lot of the harmful pro-Palestine beliefs and historic revisionism, because it’s been promoted by a lot of Native American activist groups under the guise of indigenous rights. it wasn’t until truly and openly learning from different perspectives, learning more about history and more about Israel that i could understand how wrong and backwards that is. after the start of the war, i took down and reported antisemitic hate speech on my college campus and also discouraged the formation of an SJP chapter among our student clubs (which thankfully didn’t come to fruition). my yellow ribbon either got snagged or ripped off my bag at some point, so this was also a good reminder for me to get a new one! maybe a yellow ribbon pin will be more durable than an actual ribbon. anyway, sorry for these long messages. i’ll keep looking for ways to be a better ally and hoping for an end to this war soon that sees the hostages returned home and brings lasting peace.

super grateful for everyone like you and all the educators/activists putting the truth out there, with so much courage, grace, and kindness in the face of all the ignorance and hate

Anon you are giving me hope for the future 🥹

Yes- there is a very well organized disinformation campaign working on influencing people our age and especially marginalized groups that Israel should be destroyed. Most people don’t/can’t get passed the knee jerk negative reaction to Israel to look into the history or the reality of the situation.

Instead of engaging directly with the rhetoric of groups like JVP and SJP, I think it can be helpful to affirm some basic facts about the Middle East- namely that the Levant and the Arabian peninsula are two geographically distinct regions divided by a very large desert, and Arabs are only one of many groups of people native to North Africa and West Asia.

The pro-Palestine (“the whole region is meant to be Arab”) disinformation primarily targets Jews, but it also sets up the Kurds, Assyrians, Yazidis, Coptics, Maronites, etc up for an uphill battle being taken seriously in the West.

Idk if you’ve read my one specific post which I have lost track of that explains that my dad’s side of the family is Assyrian and left for the US in 2 waves from Haifa in Ottoman Syria (1st) and British Mandatory Palestine (2nd).

They left because they were scared of the growing Arab nationalist movement (not actually a “Palestinian” nationalist movement- at that point they wanted to establish an Arab Syrian state in control over the whole of the Levant).

Idk what I’m really saying here. Thanks for letting me ramble.