#Four Names of Professional Creativity
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kovilm · 1 year ago
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Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is a famous fashion designer and stylist whose signature style of classic, elegant yet luxurious ready-to-wear helped introduce ease and streamlined modernity to 21th-century dressing.
Early life
Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is originally from Kotor, Montenegro. Her parents are father Djuro Krivokapic and mother Vidosava Kaludjerovic. She also has an older brother named Radoslav Rajo Krivokapic. Her brother is a sailor, her mother a health care worker/nurse at Kotor General Hospital, and her father a factory worker.
Education
Talking about her educational background, she passed her Master's level in 2018. The program was funded by the German Government and was also designed according to the German education system. She had enrolled in Law, Professional, and Occupational Pedagogy, Trade, and Economy. She joined the School of Fashion and Specialization for Fashion Designer and Stylist. She graduated from this school of fashion from Belgrade in 1996, which was under the Paris system in collaboration with the Academy of Fine Arts. For her fashion school, she did an internship under Giorgio Armani Milan in 1997. Working for one of the world's most famous fashion creators, she got the opportunity to meet the best fashion creators to advance her knowledge base. Likewise, she completed her Ph.D. in Fashion Design in Belgrade in 1998.
Rada Krivokapic Radonjic, a visionary in the world of fashion, hails from the picturesque town of Kotor, Montenegro. Her creative journey has been nothing short of exceptional, combining classic designs with a deep commitment to sustainability. Born into a humble family, Rada’s passion for fashion stemmed from her early exposure to the industry through her work with esteemed designers like Giorgio Armani, Gianni Versace, Valentino Garavani, Karl Lagerfeld, and Roberto Cavalli.
Professional Life and Career
Talking about her professional life, she is famous as a designer and a stylist. She is the founder of Rada Krivokapic Radonjic, Kovilm and Rada Radonjic luxury clothing brands. They were established in the city of Kotor, Montenegro. In 2006, she designed the collection "Ostvarene Rijeci". The collection was inspired by her deceased father. Moreover, she collaborated with model Filip Kapisoda in 2010 and had a number of fashion shows in 2018. Furthermore, she also organized several fashion shows in the city of Yugoslavia. She also work as Costume Designer in Kotor. Moreover, Rada also designed a new fashion accessory called "Kovilm". She designed it for the 2019 fashion show called "Svijet Bez Sukoba". Kovilm is a garment worn around the neck, which symbolizes the transformation from tie and bow-tie. Additionally, Rada has also written the books 'Odijevanje' that translates to "Dressing" and 'Krojenje i sivenje' that translates to "Tailoring and sewing". Her books are related to the issues in the fashion and clothing world, which is influential for aspiring models, designers, and stylists. She is mostly based in her hometown Kotor. However, she also has her professional links in Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro. She designed common folk costume called Zentivns 2022.
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Awards, Net Worth
Rada Krivokapic Radonjic has won several awards for her humanitarian contributions and assistance. She has also received Humanitarian Contribution Awards. In 2023, Rada Krivokapic Radonjic is The World's Best Fashion Designer of The Year 2023 London, United Kingdom by Corporate LiveWire.
Personal Life
Reflecting on her personal life, Rada Krivokapic Radonjic gave birth to four children Nedjeljka Nadja Radonjic (1999), Valentina Radonjic (2001), Nebojsa Radonjic (2007) and Teodora Radonjic (2013). Furthermore, she maintains a good professional and personal life, free of scandals and controversies.
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sims-himbo · 11 months ago
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THE SIMS 4: BARBIE LEGACY CHALLENGE (BASE GAME EDITION!)
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ever since i posted the original challenge, i have been getting asked to come up with a base game version, and it is finally here! i'm really sorry that it took this long but i have no concept of time lol, anyways, i hope even more of you can enjoy it now!
challenge rules below the cut
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All heirs must be female and named Barbie. (non-heir children may have any name)
You may use the freerealestate cheat for your first house, but try not to use money cheats after that!
You are allowed and encouraged to use lot traits and rewards to boost skill gain, anything that’s in-game is fair game.
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You’ve been raised with traditional values: find a good man, start a family, be a homemaker... But you want your children to aim higher, so you’ll make sure to set them up for success.
Complete Successful Lineage aspiration
Max Cooking and Charisma skill
Have at least 4 kids, each child must complete at least one child aspiration and they must all max out their grades in school
Must have Family-Oriented trait
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Your mother was happy staying at home, but not you. You’re ready to fight your way to the top and make enough money to support your family for generations to come.
Complete Fabulously Wealthy aspiration
Max Charisma and Logic skills
Max Business career (Investor branch)
Must have Ambitious trait
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Your family is wealthy and you were pretty popular growing up. You’ve always been a trendsetter, pushing the limits and breaking the mold, so now it’s time to take the fashion industry by storm!
Complete Friend Of The World aspiration
Must have Materialistic and Creative traits
Max Style Influencer career (Trendsetter branch)
Max Photography and Charisma skills
Have a gallery wall with all of your friends and family
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Your mom has made a name for herself on social media, and she's used her platform to promote your cooking talents! Empowered by this positive attention, you decide to follow your dreams of becoming a world-renowned chef!
Complete Master Chef aspiration (Chef branch)
Must have Foodie trait
Max Cooking and Gourmet Cooking skills
Die by fire, then make Ambrosia to bring yourself back from the dead! (You may cheat for the ingredients, but not for the skills; you may also cheat to add your ghost to your household, here's how)
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When you were a lass, your mom made you four dozen eggs every morning to help you get large! Now, you’re determined to reach your full potential in physical performance and become a world class champion!
Complete Bodybuilder aspiration
Max Fitness and Charisma skills
Max Athlete career (Athlete branch)
Must have Active trait
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Your mother was physically gifted, but you’re more brainy than brawny. You spend hours at your computer everyday, there’s so much information to absorb!
Complete Computer Whiz aspiration
Max Video Gaming and Programming skills
Win a Professional Tournament in ALL the games
Must have Geek trait
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Your family has achieved many, many accolades, and you’ve set out to capture all of it in an epic Tell-All novel that you spend your entire life writing!
Complete Bestselling Author aspiration
Max Writing skill
Write Book Of Life and bind it to your parent, use it to successfully bring them back from a premature death
Must have Creative trait
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Being from a successful lineage, people may roll their eyes and immediately write you off as yet another nepo-baby trying to start a music career… So you must prove them all wrong by becoming a proper rockstar!
Complete Party Animal aspiration
Max Entertainer Career (Musician Branch)
Must have Music Lover and Outgoing traits
Max Guitar, Violin and Piano skills
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The success of your ancestors has set you up to comfortably follow your dreams. You love the arts, and you want to become an accomplished painter living in a beautiful palace, surrounded by the beauty you’ve created!
Complete Mansion Baron aspiration
Max Painter career (Either branch)
Max Painting skill
Have an Art Gallery and display all of your masterpieces
Must have Art Lover trait
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Now that you’ve conquered the world, it’s time to venture out into Space! There’s so much to explore out there, and Barbie must leave her mark all across the galaxy.
Complete Nerd Brain aspiration
Max Astronaut career (Any branch)
Max Logic and Rocket Science skills
Build and fully upgrade a Rocket Ship
Explore Space and bring a souvenir
Try for a baby on the ship!
Must have Genius trait
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diamonddaze01 · 5 months ago
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business 101
pairing: csc x f!reader | wc: 1.3k genre/au: rival ceos, fluff, humor | warnings: none | rating: pg a/n: prequel to the contractual obligations universe // based on an ask for my 101 drabble prompt game!
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The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class chatter. The faint hum of laptops, the rustle of notebooks, and the occasional murmur of stress about looming midterms filled the air. You sank into your chair, flipping open your laptop to the blank document titled Business 101 Project.
“Group assignments will be randomized,” the professor announced from the podium, his voice loud enough to silence most of the murmuring. “Your task: create a comprehensive business plan for a hypothetical company. It’s due at the end of the semester. Creativity is welcome, but analysis and execution will determine your grade. Teams will be four people each, and I expect professionalism.”
When the names appeared on the screen, your heart sank.
Group 8: Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan Yoon, Joshua Hong, Y/N L/N
You glanced around, spotting Jeonghan waving lazily at you with an amused smirk, while Joshua offered a polite nod. Then your eyes landed on Seungcheol. His lips quirked into a lopsided grin, the kind that spoke volumes—mostly about how annoying he planned to be.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath, earning a chuckle from Jeonghan, who had slid into the seat next to you. Jeonghan and Joshua—reliable, at least. But Choi Seungcheol? He caught your gaze and offered a cocky smirk.
Fantastic.
By the end of the first meeting, it was clear how things were going to go.
“We need a solid foundation,” Joshua said, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the table. “Let’s start with a service idea and build from there.”
“Something scalable,” you agreed. “Like a subscription model—low entry cost, high potential for growth.”
“That’s boring,” Seungcheol cut in, his voice casual but gratingly dismissive. “Why not focus on a bold product launch? Something with impact.”
“Impact doesn’t pay the bills,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “We need a strategy that’s actually sustainable.”
“Sustainable,” he repeated, leaning back and folding his arms. “Sure. Let’s just settle for mediocre so we don’t have to take any risks.”
“And crash and burn if it flops?” you shot back, unable to hide your irritation. “That’s reckless.”
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a smirk. “No risk, no reward.”
“No risk, no grade either,” you retorted, your voice sharper than intended.
Jeonghan cleared his throat, breaking the tension. “I see this is going to be... fun.” He exchanged a glance with Joshua, who already looked like he regretted his life choices.
By the third meeting, the rivalry had reached critical mass. 
“Who made you the CEO of this group?” Seungcheol snapped after you vetoed one of his flashier ideas.
“I’m not the CEO,” you retorted, jabbing a finger at the project outline. “I’m just the one who doesn’t want us to fail.”
“Fail?” he repeated with a mock laugh. “Right, because your ideas are so revolutionary. Let’s hear it for our subscription box for socks or whatever you’re pitching.”
You glared. “Socks sell.”
“Not as much as actual creativity,” he shot back.
Jeonghan sighed dramatically. “I’m this close to quitting college,” he muttered to Joshua, who nodded solemnly.
 This was now less a project, and more a battlefield. You and Seungcheol clashed over every detail—budget projections, marketing angles, even the font choices for the presentation slides. Jeonghan coined the term “Wednesday Night War” after one particularly heated Zoom meeting, where the two of you had yelled over each other for a full ten minutes before Joshua muted you both.
Despite the arguments—or maybe because of them—the project came together. By some miracle, your calculated planning and Seungcheol’s riskier ideas balanced each other out. When the group received an A, Joshua and Jeonghan looked ready to celebrate.
You and Seungcheol, however, couldn’t even agree on that.
“I carried this project,” he said, smirking at you as the grades were handed back.
“Excuse me?” you said, turning to him. “If you carried it, then I was the one steering so you didn’t walk us off a cliff.”
“You’re welcome for my bold ideas,” he replied.
“And you’re welcome for my common sense,” you shot back, storming out of the classroom before you could strangle him.
A celebration was inevitable. After weeks of late nights and endless bickering, Jeonghan declared a house party to blow off steam. You weren’t in the mood for it, but Joshua’s pleading eyes and the promise of free drinks eventually won you over. The house was packed, the bass from the speakers thrumming through your chest. You spotted Jeonghan and Joshua near the makeshift bar, both nursing drinks and chatting with friends. 
Jeonghan greeted you with a sly grin. “And here I thought you were too good for us,” he teased, handing you a drink.
“I’m here for Joshua,” you replied, taking a sip. “Not you or him.”
“You mean Seungcheol?” Jeonghan asked innocently, his grin widening when you glared at him.
Across the room, Seungcheol leaned against the counter, laughing at something someone had said. His dark shirt clung to his shoulders in a way that annoyed you—it was unfair how effortlessly attractive he looked, especially when you could practically feel him waiting to pick another fight.
When his eyes met yours, he smirked.
You should’ve walked away, but instead, you marched straight up to him.
“Are you stalking me now?” you asked, crossing your arms.
“Stalking?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re in my space.”
“Your space?” you scoffed. “Pretty sure this is Jeonghan’s house.”
“Semantics.”
The two of you fell into your usual rhythm of bickering, the tension between you thick enough to draw the attention of Jeonghan and Joshua.
“They’re at it again,” Joshua remarked, taking a sip of his drink.
Jeonghan sighed dramatically. “Why don’t they just kiss already?”
Joshua smirked, nodding toward where you and Seungcheol stood toe-to-toe. “Wait for it.”
Back near the bar, the argument had reached new heights.
“You think you’re so much better because you play it safe?” Seungcheol taunted, his voice low but heated.
“And you think being reckless makes you a visionary?” you fired back, stepping closer. 
“You wouldn’t know a bold move if it slapped you in the face,” he shot back, his tone biting.
“Do you ever shut up?” you snapped, stepping closer.
“Do you?” he fired back, his smirk daring you to do something about it.
The crowd around you began to thin as people sensed the escalating tension. Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you crackling.
Then he grabbed your wrist.
“We’re settling this,” he growled, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear.
“Excuse me?” you sputtered, but he was already pulling you through the crowd, his grip firm but not rough.
From across the room, Jeonghan raised his glass to Joshua with a knowing smile. “Told you.”
“Bet you a round they don’t come back for hours,” Joshua added, and Jeonghan laughed, clinking his glass.
Seungcheol dragged you into an empty room, the noise of the party muffled by the closed door. He let go of your wrist, turning to face you with a look you couldn’t quite decipher.
“You can’t just—” you began, but the words died in your throat as he stepped closer.
“Can’t just what?” he challenged, his voice quieter now but no less intense.
Your breath hitched as the tension that had simmered for weeks finally reached its boiling point. “What do you want from me, Seungcheol?”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you. It wasn’t gentle or tentative—it was hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long.
You froze for half a second before kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands tangling in his hair as the weeks of frustration and tension melted away into something electric.
The rest of the world disappeared. All that existed was the way his hands gripped your waist, the press of his body against yours, the taste of beer on his lips.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other.
“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but defiant.
Seungcheol smirked, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Yeah? Keep telling yourself that.”
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snek-panini · 14 days ago
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March and April are always quiet bookbinding months for me, because I'm recovering from Binderary and this year I'm also in the market for a new printer. But I did take the time to make these very handsome fellows, and they're a new kind of project for me in a couple of ways. They're anthologies! With themes! Spaces Between is a collection of Good Omens ghost stories, and Roaming the Night is similar but with vampire and werewolf stories. They're both multi-author works and the stories within aren't affiliated beyond the fact that they're my favorites and mostly too short for case binds, but I think they came together really cohesively and I love them to bits.
More pics under the cut, including links to the stories at the end.
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First, some individual photos. These are legal quartos, very nice to hold. That's marbled paper on the cover, though it is the lineco brand and I'm not sure if it's actually marbled or just printed. The text is silver foil htv. The spines and fore edges are book cloth. I had originally planned to do a more traditional 3/4 bind, with corner caps, but my marbled paper was a little too skinny to do the fore edge turn-in, and I've wanted to do a bind like this for a bit so this was an excellent opportunity. And it won't be the last time; I really like how they look and feel.
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Spine view and top view. More silver foil, matching handmade endbands in red and black, and the same gray ribbon for the bookmark. I love making books in this pattern, where they're not a matched set but enough details are the same to make them feel like they go together.
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Case in point, Roaming has the red cover with the gray paper for its endpapers, and Spaces has the gray cover with the red one for its endpapers. They're inverses of each other and I could not be more delighted with them.
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Interiors for Roaming the Night. Vampires on the title page and werewolves in the table of contents. I couldn't decide between them so I incorporated them both. I'm trying to jazz up my ToC designs and this one turned out very well. Don't strain your eyes trying to read the titles; I've got links at the end to all but one of them.
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Title page and Toc for Spaces Between. I wasn't originally going to have an image on the ToC for this one, but after I added one for Roaming I thought Spaces should have one too. And at least four of the stories in it involve a haunted building or structure, so a spooky key was definitely the way to go.
The titles for both books are my own invention; they are not named for any one story in the collections. I struggled with that a bit (I hate naming things, it's the hardest part of any creative project). I've done the whole "(Longest Story Title) and Other Stories" before and it's a fine approach, but given that there are multiple authors and they're not in sequence with each other it just didn't feel appropriate to elevate one writer's story over the others that way. I like what I settled on though, even if it was hard.
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Typeset photos! They're pretty straightforward. I don't like to get too fancy on quarto typesets; I don't usually feel like there's enough space on the page. I've only just realized that the photos are both entanglednow stories, oops.
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Another set of interiors that only fellow typesetters are going to think is neat. I finally figured out how to make Word put different headers in each section, so every story has its own title and author at the top of the page. I think this'll only be useful in anthologies, but I am very proud of myself and I think it looks very professional.
That's it for photos! Beyond this point are links to the stories, my reasons for loving them, and tags for the authors.
The stories included in Spaces Between are:
13 Days of Halloween (series by @entanglednow)--I always love entangled’s way with worldbuilding. Their stories always feel complete and lived-in and that’s a wonderful thing in fandom. Even though not every story in this series is an exact fit for the collection, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave any of them out. Filing Room 57 and A Friend in Need in particular have stuck with me for years.
Soaked (@racketghost)--a bit of a loose interpretation of the theme. There’s no ghost in it, nothing inexplicable and horrifying. The fear is entirely explicable and very sexy, in ways that the other stories here are not. But it absolutely nails the atmosphere. Spooky. Unnerving. It just so happens that it’s also playful. It’s a very interesting balance.
The Wrong Side of the Door (@holycatsandrabbits)--singularly unnerving. I love how the beginning so closely catches the feeling of sensational reality TV ghost hunters and then pulls the perfect shift and makes the horror real. I also love that in spite of our two leads professing how much they hate each other, they’d still run into a burning/haunted/otherwise terrible and dangerous building if the other was trapped inside. That’s devotion.
Last Crossing (also by holycatsandrabbits)--Atmosphere is everything to me in horror and Dannye always nails it. This is such an inventive premise, and it’s like I can see outlines of a bigger story; I want there to be more. Something about maritime disasters in particular resonates really hard for me and God the imagery in this one is so incredibly unnerving. I want to sink my teeth into it.
Haunted (@tawnyontumblr)--the one I went back and forth about including for the longest time. The ghosts in it are not real, are a manifestation of very old regrets, as opposed to the literal real ghosts in the others. But it’s a powerful story about accepting help when you need it, and about all the ways in which things can be haunted. And above all it feels like a horror movie, and even more importantly it’s my anthology and I wanted this in it. I am eating it up. Delicious.
the thirteenth night (@forineffablereasons)--I love how they’ve incorporated so many horror tropes into one story, and that the supernatural terrors retain their sense of menace even when the ones facing them are so strongly magical on their own. It’s still a believable threat even though they aren’t in an AU where everyone’s human. Brilliantly done, I love it.
The stories in Roaming the Night are:
In the Blood (entanglednow)--excellent character work, as always. There are no vampires in the Good Omens canon, but damned if this isn’t what they’d be like if there were. It’s also extremely sexy and has top-notch pining in spite of its relatively short length. I’ve always loved entangled's approach to unconventional sex practices and this is no exception. It was one of the first stories I thought of when I first conceptualized this anthology.
Love in the Wild (entanglednow)--love the trust on display between the characters. Again, they’ve got an unconventional relationship and they’ve had to adapt to that, and that willingness to make it work is the crux around which the whole story turns. The love is always there.
Night Walk (@snae-b)--I want this to be novel-length so badly. It’s got fantastic worldbuilding and I feel like I’m just getting glimpses of it from the other side of a curtain. Snae’s fic always has really unique settings, though usually their stories are much longer and often more overtly horror-focused. And I love how this one in particular preserves the forbidden relationship dynamic that’s so compelling in the Good Omens fandom. Delicious.
Food For Thought--tragically I can't link this one as it was a WorseOmens story and they removed all their fics at the end of last year. I had an offline backup saved or I wouldn't have been able to include it at all. You'll never see this, friend, and I know you must have had your reasons, but I know I'm not the only one who misses you and wishes you well.
Every Wolf Needs to Howl (tawnyowl)--another story that I knew from first conception had to be in this volume. The overwhelming majority of werewolf fics in this fandom are Werewolf Aziraphale, or Both Werewolves, or Oops All Porn. (Not that that’s a complaint. I just want some plot and character in my smut, and that’s where this fic delivers. And Werewolf Crowley is hot too.) It’s another star on the worldbuilding front; I’d read more chapters of this about the characters’ backgrounds and what it’s like living on the moors.
For Life (tawnyowl)--like a quarter of the GO werewolf fics of the right length for this book are Tawny’s. Thanks friend, please keep up the good work. Helping each other heal from trauma is always a compelling narrative, and again I would read more of this to find out about the world and watch the relationship develop. It’s got an interesting approach of shedding the “monster” identity by embracing it, using it to redefine the self. Both of our leads have done this and they’re using that experience to empathize with each other. And it’s hot. The communication and acceptance is hot and also the sex is hot. Both can be true at once.
Less Dark A Place (orphaned)--including this fic was almost an accident. I was looking for something to bump up the page count and accidentally found a gem. God it’s so compelling, it’s a tragedy that the author orphaned it, whoever they were. I’d love to read more about how their relationship changes and how they both handle the challenges that you know without a doubt they will face. This would have made an incredible novel-length work. Leaving them on the precipice is compelling in its own way though—they’re teetering on the edge of something new and scary and uncertain, which is a lot like how an intense new romance feels even in real life.
Doggone Batty (@kedreeva)--the reason I decided to do both werewolves and vampires in the same anthology. I love the asexual and aromantic approach to relationships. I’m asexual myself so I appreciate seeing those relationships done this well; they don’t need to do those things in order to want to be close. The relationship doesn’t even have room for that, it’s too full of other things for me to think about what it doesn't have. I love the hilarious misunderstandings in this fic, the bit where Aziraphale learns how to do a thing just because it’s fun (barking at a closed door like an idiot), the twist is ludicrous (compliment), and I want to give them both hugs and couch cuddles.
Phew! That's a lot of text. Hopefully tumblr doesn't get huffy with me for including too many links and tags.
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multiheadcanons · 3 months ago
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TF2 MERCS AND FAMILY
scout: he loves his ma. he loves his ma so much if you even think about thinking about making a your mom joke he is genuinely on the verge of losing his shit. his ma is not a joke. she was a wonderful lady who did the best she could at all times and everyone better respect it before he respectfully shoves his foot so far up their asses they’ll be tasting his toes until christmas. he didn’t know his dad, so he doesn’t care. insult the fact he doesn’t have a dad all you want. but keep his ma’s name out your fuckin mouth. i know people like to think he’s got brothers, frankly i think he’s got cousins. all boys, from his ma’s side. about four of them. the genes are very strong on his ma’s side, so they look like they could be brothers. they were hellions. couple of them have chilled out at this point, and scout respects them for it. even if it is weird with them being dads and shit. couple of them haven’t, and he respects that too. at least they didn’t bother to lie about it.
soldier: soldier had decent parents. his dad was a drunk, and was pretty emotionally distant, but as far as he knows was never a mean or violent person. his mom was a nice old lady. no nonsense, no coddling. she was a woman with a good head on her shoulders surrounded by fools. they had both passed by the time he took the job in teufort. he misses them sometimes, but he’s glad his parents are able to rest. comforted snipes when he heard about his parents. he knows snipes really loved them. only child; his parents had fertility issues and didn’t try again after they succeeded with him. they just didn’t have the heart for it. he sees the team as his brothers. he fights with those guys (and pyro), sometimes he actively fights those guys (and pyro), and frankly is that not what brothers do?
pyro: pyro doesn’t really remember their mom or dad, but they remember their older sister! about twelve years older than them, they did most of the parenting. it wasn’t good parenting, and they argued and physically fought a lot with their sister, but as pyro grew up pyro came to understand that their parents… probably weren’t good people if their sister had to raise them. they don’t know where their sister is, but they did take the time to locate their parents, with the support of the team behind them, helping lead the charge. it was a disheartening, frankly frightening experience to see them withering away in a nursing home, but they barely knew them. they don’t know why it aches so much. they don’t know why they’re so scared. they see the team as their family. those are the people who have shown pyro they will always be there. they don’t think the team would just leave them somewhere to die. the team loves them for who they are. and they love the team. most of the team. no, no, all of the team, all of them. they just love some of them more than others.
demo: demo’s dad passed about a decade before he took the job. a jolly man. a drunk. easygoing. down for anything. demo realized after he passed he was the one who kept his mom from imploding with neuroticism. but he loves his mom. the firecracker she is. he remembers her when he was really young. she was a woman who was simply always on the ball. intelligent, creative, brutal. a giantess of a woman, though she stands five feet two. they’re on good terms as long as he’s got a job. most of the degroots are chemists of the explosive subvariety; few made it to retirement. so he cherishes his mom. he’s glad to have her around. he had a lover at one point. genevieve. a wild woman, sporadic in her time in his life and explosive when she was in it. she brought life into him, more than he thought he could contain. any day with her was a total mindset shift for tavish. quite a few years his senior; one of the brightest chemists he grew to know in his higher educational, perhaps his professional life in general. a flame he could not stay away from. she was magnetic. she passed at 30, cutting their budding romance short. breast cancer. he couldn’t make it to her hometown to attend the funeral. he sent flowers to the next of kin. it floored him. he didn’t know how she would go, but he never thought it would be from something so mundane. thinks of her often.
heavy: heavy loved his dad, he supposes. very quiet man. it was hard when he passed. it was hard being the only man in a sudden matriarchy. and in a way, he was almost blinded. he didn’t see how well his mother actually had a handle on things as he grew to fill his father’s role. so as he matured, and took the job in teufort, he was constantly worried about them. he loves his mother. he honors his mother, prays the lord blesses her every step so she may leave nothing but life and light in her wake. he will actually fucking kill you if you even speak about his mother without his express permission. and his sisters… god help them. it has taken him a very long time to accept his sisters’ absolute abysmal tastes in men. he can’t even think about it he starts to gag. he loves his niece and nephew though.
engineer: engie comes from a big family of bright and creative minds. his mama had her masters in music theory, his dad had been an engineer, as his father before him, as his father before him. middle child of four. two boys, two girls. his younger brother became a hotshot doctor, his baby sister’s a vet; his older sister does underwater welding, and family reunions are hell to plan. he’s very proud of the family he comes from. he just wishes he wasn’t the one who got roped into the mann business. but he wouldn’t wish this on his siblings either. the siblings do a conference call every couple of months to make sure everyone’s still alive. they last maybe 30 minutes before someone is called away. his mom passed about three years into the job, and they cremated her because nobody could get the time to go to the funeral. their father followed shortly after; which they understood. he wasn’t the same man without her around.
medic: medic has been surrounded by intelligent, wild, wonderful women his entire life. he is the result of a teenage pregnancy, and he is his moms best friend. she had him when she was 16. with all credit to the man, his father did stick around. he struggled for them. but they did pretty okay as medic grew up. normally went with his mom to university and was cooed over. his dad died when he was 16 from a work accident. it rocked the home. he and his mother leaned on each other heavily in the grief, and he entered adulthood with a dear friend instead of a mother. but that’s okay, because he truly needed that. he loves his mother to death. and she is very proud of her son. she’s a zany woman, with a wild imagination. fully aware of what her son has become, and is simply happy that he found a place for himself that treats him well and isn’t jail. they call each other all the time to chat, and normally will entirely halt what they’re doing to spend time with each other. heavy’s met the woman. they have the same smile. he married his childhood best friend young. another pathologically high spirited, highly gifted woman. a chemist. genevieve. something about it never felt right (he’s gay.) but nobody could deny he loved that woman with every fiber of his being that he could spare. they were two peas in a pod. you couldn’t see one without seeing the other. the first person he came out to. she passed at 30. breast cancer. it destroyed him. he didn’t think he would survive to find someone he truly loved like her. keeps their wedding photo in his wallet.
snipes: oh man. ohhhhh man. do we have to go into it. he loves his stepparents so much. he loves them so much it hurts. he just wants to do right by them. the idea he’s failing them or has failed them or will fail them genuinely eats away at his soul. he knew he wasn’t gonna have long with them, that they were on the older side when he fell into their lap, and he was grateful for every moment he got with them. it wrecked him when they passed. and nobody was there to comfort him through it. as far as he knew, nobody tried to reach out. his real parents can get fucked though. he doesn’t hate them, but he does wish he didn’t spend so much time thinking about them either.
spy: youngest of two sons. came from a decent home. both parents were hard working and supportive. he and his brother were just brutes. they argued all the time, and his parents didn’t know how to even begin pacifying them both. his mother was a schoolteacher, and his father did paperwork for a nearby firm. they were fine, honorable jobs. made enough to live comfortably. it just wasn’t enough for him. for either of them. it wasn’t enough for one of them alone. his parents passed shortly after he reached adulthood, and he hasn’t spoken to his brother since the funeral. in a way, the team is his family. he has nothing left to go back to, that he knows of. he wouldn’t know who else to even turn to if he needed some backup muscle, or a medication, or a differing perspective, or a soundboard, or entertainment, or company, or support. the team has taken care of him, and in a way loved him, truly, for years. even if they weren’t explicitly in the room, they’ve seen him at his absolute worst. they’ve seen him at his absolute best! and stayed. and even if they don’t think it’s true, spy would be there for them if they needed him.
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lsunstreakerl · 1 month ago
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1k of au'd fopa, where I tried to gender beam them and missed by accident. mostly oscar and logan focused, with an arthur feature. fred is the last piece lol. oscar/olivia POV, logan POV
Olivia is sitting in the airport terminal, leg jittering with her fingers wrapped tight around her racket duffel. She's stopping over in Sydney before she leaves for her first major competition, and she's trying to be as calm and collected as she's rumored to be.
Everyone else must see a different Olivia than she does in the mirror.
There's a pair of shoes entering her field of view, scuffed white Nikes attached to a mortifyingly attractive boy.
She hopes her hair isn't messy.
"Ah, hello, sorry- is someone sitting here?"
Olivia clears her throat. He's French. This is terrible for her.
"Just me, but like- one second."
She shoves her duffel and within it several hundred dollars worth of rackets to the floor, clearing up the seat next to her. It's been hours since she got ready, she's in her airport outfit, why doesn't she ever put in more effort in the mornings, why do boys only approach her when she isn't trying? It's like they have a sixth sense for bad timing.
He smiles, dimples at his cheeks.
"Merci...?"
"Sorry! Olivia. My name is Olivia."
He settles next to her. He's wearing some kind of heavy knit shirt, artfully distressed jeans and fucking designer bracelets on.
"Merci, Olivia. I am Arthur."
Cool, hot French boy's name is Arthur. She's planning their wedding in her head already.
He extends a hand, long tanned fingers and manicured nails, eyes warm.
"I am flying to Sydney to audition, for the university."
Ah, a student. She shakes his hand, mentally counting the seconds, trying to figure out at what point it's weird or not to still be holding on. She stops at four.
"I'm going for-"
She nudges her duffel with her foot.
"-I'm actually stopping back at a friend's flat before I fly out again for a tennis competition. Are you arts, or...?"
He looks like an art student. Or a student who deserves art about him. Whatever, no difference to her.
His eyes light up, impressed.
"Tennis, very impressive. Are you a pro? And ah, music, hopefully."
That'll be tough. She's not sure if the university adds points for being hot or not, but surely there's some kind of modeling scholarship they can give him.
She can feel her cheeks heating up, which is as embarrassing as always.
"Pro, if I do well. Hopefully."
Arthur tilts his head, smile curling at his mouth.
"Well, future pro tennis player Olivia, I would love to get your number."
She's going to die. Play it cool, play it cool-
"Future professional musician Arthur, I would love to give it to you."
Thank god. When she gets to the flat she's going to curl in a ball and scream.
------
"So like-"
Logan is tossing the tennis ball in her hand, sitting on the court floor leaning against the wall. She doesn't get much about tennis, but she can serve well enough, and she doesn't know the rules, which is an exercise in creative thinking for Olivia.
"-he's hot,"
She's ticking off on her fingers.
"-French, dimples, a humanities student- he is one hundred percent your type, Liv."
Olivia scowls, pacing the court.
"Well, he hasn't text me, so the wedding is off."
Logan grins, lobbing the ball in her direction.
"Platonic marriage when we're forty is back on! Hell yeah."
Olivia swings, sending it flying back across the court.
"What happened to Kyle?"
Logan makes a face, reaching up to readjust her braid.
"We have 'different long term goals'. Douche speak for 'I want to party and sleep with other girls'."
Olivia winces, leaning down to snag a wayward ball.
"Sorry, Loges. You deserved better than him anyways."
Logan shrugs, tying the end of her braid off and tossing it over her shoulder as she stands, grabbing a racket and winking.
"It's whatever. Not all of us have French boys serenading us at public airports."
"That is not what happened-"
------
Logan is stretching down into a lunge, trying not to laugh as Liv attempts the same, struggling to keep her bangs out of her face.
"Should've brought a hair clip."
Liv scowls, eyes narrowed.
"It's this fucking cowlick, seriously."
"It's cute, don't hate it."
The comment earns her an annoyed side eye as they both stand, checking to make sure they have everything. Liv is wincing already, and she can tell that she's winding up the preemptive complaining.
"Tell me why I'm going running with you again?"
Every time.
Logan flashes her prettiest smile, the one that gets her assignment extensions, extra credit, and invited into frat parties when she's in the wrong sorority.
"Because I throw your fuzzy little balls for you, and you love me."
"Right."
The answer is dry and flat in a way that's very Liv, and Logan tries to ignore the way it makes her heart flip.
She keeps their pace easy, because she's technically on a rest day, and Liv doesn't run track, so Logan isn't going to put her through her normal run- mostly because she doesn't want her dead or hating her.
It's mile three when the question crawls out of her chest, finally bursting free from its ugly little cage it's been sitting in since Kyle dumped her.
"So like- Melbourne. What's that like?"
"Huh?"
Liv is out of breath, slowing her pace slightly to look sideways at Logan. She tries not to feel judged, even if she wishes she could take the question and shove it back in, ignore it the way she has been the last few weeks.
"Just wondering."
They're slowing to a walk, and she tries not to groan, because Olivia has her talking face on, and Logan doesn't really want to talk about it.
"Why, you thinking of moving?"
She's joking, but Logan flinches anyways, rapidly trying to backtrack when Liv's eyes blow wide.
"Not like- not permanently or whatever, I'm just. A semester or two? Like a change of scenery."
"Loges, that would be- I would be so excited if you did that, honestly. I would love to see you more often."
Ah, there goes Logan's heart again. She should get that checked out.
"I'm just thinking about it, Liv. Don't go crazy."
Liv beams at her, bunny teeth on display, and her cowlick has her bangs particularly bouncy on one side, and Logan needs to stop thinking about one of her best friends like that.
"Sure, yes, I promise to be completely normal about it. Totally."
Logan arches an eyebrow, and Liv flushes slightly, cringing.
"I promise to give it a few weeks before I start sending you all the restaurants we need to try together?"
That sounds more like her.
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malakaie · 6 months ago
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had some feelings to write out – for/about @tommyend, no pressure at all to respond
I started watching wrestling – specifically, AEW – in late October 2023. It’s been just over a year since I started watching, and I didn’t expect it to consume as much of my brain-space as it has. When I started watching, I didn’t really know who anyone was. I had heard a few names – Randy Orton, CM Punk, Jade Cargill, Roman Reigns – but had no real concept of the landscape I was entering or what it would mean to get invested.
Truthfully, it was a little overwhelming, and there was more I didn’t understand than I did. In those first few weeks, I received one very helpful piece of advice: don’t try to understand everything. Find a wrestler or two whose vibe you like and stick with them – the rest will click into place eventually, or it won’t, and either way is fine.
And so I did. I think it was around the lead-up to Full Gear 2023 that I started really paying attention. There was something about what House of Black was doing that was different from anything else I was seeing. I could understand just enough to recognise talented athletes when I saw them, but I wasn’t quite plugged in enough to the overall wrestling “ecosystem” that that was enough on its own to get my attention. Now that I understand more of what I’m looking at, it’s easier to understand what I’m meant to be impressed by – it’s easier now to have that moment of, holy shit, how did they do that?
But I didn’t understand yet. I’d been watching wrestling for about a month and was still finding my footing. What I saw, and latched onto, in House of Black was a group of four impressive performers that I could tell were in love with the art of what they were doing. Everything was done with intent – the way they entered the ring, the different but cohesive styles with which each member of the House wrestled, the gear they wore, the ever-evolving paint on Malakai’s face, the evolution and growth of Julia’s character.
It was both the moment that I finally, properly understood that professional wrestling was also theatre—and, I think, the moment that I was magnetised. It felt like a faction that was made for me: a band of storytellers who wanted to take my hand and show me what wrestling could be and was and is, and had the creativity and cohesiveness and physical talent to pull it off.
I could breathe a sigh of relief. I wasn’t lost anymore, desperately trying to catch up to understanding something that everyone around me already seemed to know. I had a guide of some sort, and one that resonated: I’ve been reading since I was 3, writing stories since I was 11, have always been a little “strange,” drawn to creative types and niche hobbies and other people that don’t have many friends. And here was someone who not only felt like me, sounded like me, but was wanted and loved and succeeding. A stranger to me, in the way that performers and public figures always are, but I felt like it was going to be okay. If Malakai could make it—though I didn’t and don’t know him personally, I had no way of knowing if he was ever afraid, or if he doubted himself—then maybe I could, too.
The more I watched and the more I learned, the more true that became. I’ve been depressed and anxious most of my adult life. I have scoliosis that is likely to get worse as I get older, and causes me pain multiple times a week, if not every day. Hearing someone whose work I admired be open about his mental health—especially when sports industries have typically not been kind to people, perhaps especially men, who are vulnerable in that way—and be honest when he’s in pain shook something loose in me that I hadn’t quite realised was stuck and frozen in shame. It’s okay that I’m afraid. It’s okay that I have days where my brain is trying to consume itself. It’s okay that I’m in pain. Did I get out of bed today? Have I been outside? Have I eaten? Have I done something to be kind to myself—or, failing that, kind to someone else? Have I done something creative today?
I started my “gender journey,” for lack of a better phrase, in 2018. There was a lot, a lot, of messing around with pronouns, labels. I didn’t know what I was, only that “just a girl” didn’t feel quite right anymore. And then I felt like I was lying, because, well—I was fine being a girl when I was ten, and thirteen, and sixteen, so why was it suddenly different at 25? Sometimes I still feel like I’m lying. The generation above me often still holds an image of trans people that requires them to have always been miserable, always been “pretending.” A few months ago my mother suggested it was fine if my idea of being feminine had expanded, but she didn’t really believe I was trans, because I’d never been unhappy as a girl child, and besides that I looked like a “clone” of the small handful of other transmasc and nonbinary people she’s met. I must be a pod person. (Newsflash, mom: This is just what queer people look like, a lot of the time. I cut and dyed my hair and got one singular tattoo. How terrible.)
She didn’t ask me how I feel when people call me she, or her—it makes me feel horribly small and unreal, by now—and in fairness to her, I didn’t quite defend myself either. I cringed and shrunk and asked for time to think about it, when what I wanted to say is yes, I know I haven’t had the history you expect to see from me, but this is who I am, and I’m not telling you that I was never a girl. I’m telling you that girl isn’t the place where I stop.
But I was scared, and I felt cornered, and I didn’t say any of that.
What I did have, though, was an artist and a performer and a storyteller who did things with his expression, his clothing, how he presented himself to the world that was like a lightbulb going on. The confidence of a man who told stories with the way that he looked, and who used feminine symbols to do it. He wasn’t any less masculine—but it was an embracing of both that cemented who he was, and I thought: holy shit. I can do that. Our identities are not the same, and I’m not too keen on speculating about the identities of public figures that I don’t know in any event—but it’s reassuring, motivating even, to be able to regularly see someone comfortably expressing his gender (because, yes, cis presentation is gender expression too) in a way that makes sense to him and incorporates the feminine and resonates through his art without doubt or reservation or compromise. This is who we are. Take it or leave it.
I don’t know what’s coming next for any of us. AEW looks like such a different place—in a good way—from when I started watching, and the world is looking pretty scary these days, but I’m still here. The art that got me interested in wrestling in the first place is still here, and I have my theories—unsubstantiated, so far—about where Malakai and House of Black are taking their story, but regardless of theories I’ve been so fortunate to watch them continue to grow and evolve over the past year. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I know the love for the story and the art is real.
I don’t know you personally, Malakai, and I don’t want to claim to, no matter how many scraps I’ve gathered together from interviews and how much of the backlog of matches I’ve done my best to watch so I can understand where you’ve come from and where you’re going next. But your work and your love for your craft has moved me, and I’m glad I stayed alive when it was hard so I could be around to see it when it mattered.
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lyssasdrafts · 11 months ago
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★ 𓈒 ݁ STAR—CROSSED (rhysand x reader) ⊹
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chapter four: (written) ✧
𓈒 ݁ ✫ masterlist previous next
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you never expected to be in the position you were right now.
a part of you considered leaving at the sight of rhysand, dying inside at the possibility that he knew your secret interest. you thought about all the ways he could use this knowledge against you, taunting and teasing you about it in class as usual.
if it weren’t for mor, and if it weren’t for how great of an opportunity this was, you would’ve packed up your things and walked out the door.
you can stood there frozen in place, staring at rhysand and thinking of all the ways this could go wrong when he calls your name again, forcing you to answer him.
“y/n?” he repeats, his voice questioning you.
“rhysand,” you respond with the same tone. “what are you doing here?”
he picks at the invisible lint on his clothing, dusting off the imaginary dirt on his shoulders before he says, “i’m today’s model.” he holds his head up high, still as stuck-up as usual. you didn’t know why you had expected him to be more professional outside of school.
“well, i’m the photographer,” you respond, blinking at how obvious that statement was. you wait a moment in silence before adding, “i guess that means i’m working with you today.”
you expected him to throw his head back groaning or make a retort about your inexperience. instead, a flash of amusement lights up in rhysand’s eyes, he swiftly brushes a hand through his hair while he walks closer to you.
“you must be the photographer that mor was talking about,” he realizes. “it’s your first time working with velaris?”
you nod silently. rhysand seems taken aback, “i didn’t know you did photography.”
“you never asked,” you shrug. it was the truth, though you had to admit that you purposefully kept any details about your life outside of academics from him.
“i saw your portfolio,” rhysand says, “it’s… quite good for a beginner.”
you blink at him before responding, “thank you….” staring blankly at what he just said. “is that a genuine compliment?”
“i can recognize fellow talent when i see it,” you could’ve sworn rhysand gave you a wink there, there was that arrogance again, before he continued, “don’t tell me you’re one of those photographers who think they’re better than us models.”
you cross your arms, “well then, don’t tell me that you’re difficult to work with—”
“and what if i was? have you heard what other people at the studio have said about me?” rhysand cuts in, only for you to shake your head.
“it doesn’t matter to me,” you say. you knew plenty about how insufferable he was already, you wouldn’t be surprised if other photographers have felt the same during their much briefer experiences with him.
you expect rhysand to further question you about your photography and working with the studio, but instead he smirks deviously at you, “it doesn’t matter because i am still a great subject model, after all.”
“oh please, you’re anything but,” you scoff.
the hint of playfulness in rhysand’s violet eyes never dulled as he licks his lips before smugly responding, “really? because i could’ve sworn you were repulsed by me until you called my face pretty today.”
“let’s just start the photoshoot.”
rhysand chuckles, but the look in his eyes never leaves his face as he waits for your direction in front of the camera.
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“not like that!” you say, correcting rhysand’s pose. he pauses and turns his head towards you frustratingly, “what do you mean?”
“i said to pose like that, not this,” you frown, bringing your camera down to examine the photos. taking a pause from your photoshoot, rhysand walks over to you while you squint at the pixels on the camera screen.
“i never knew your stuck-up self did anything but study,” rhysand huffs from behind you. “let alone anything creative.”
you shoot him a look, “it’s just for fun.”
“whatever you say,” he crosses his arms. “but there’s definitely nothing wrong with the way i pose.”
“it looks awkward in this photo,” you tell him. you hesitant before confining, “…i think it’s better if you pose like this.”
you take his wrist and position his arms above his head. “place your arms like this,” you mumble. then you instruct him to lean back so his posture seems more natural. you had never been this close to rhysand before, even physically touching him. you tried your best to push away the thoughts in your mind, thankful that he had only complied instead of complaining, quietly nodding whenever he asks about your opinion on the slightest movement.
you try your best not to look him in the eyes and focus on his position, blinking when you lingered too long on his raven hair. maybe his stylist did a good job earlier. rhysand looks at you starry-eyed before you clear your throat and move away from him, but his gaze still never leaves you.
“perfect.”
he gives you a sidelong glance while remaining still in his pose that you directed, “you want me to stay like this?”
you nod, moving with your camera to start taking pictures at different angles with this new pose. then you slightly position rhysand differently, with his arms placed over his chest and his head tilted.
“you take everything so seriously, no wonder you’re like this with photography too,” rhysand mutters.
“i think we’re finished,” you say dryly. “i’ll send these to the studio and they can decide which ones are good.”
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you begin packing your things as rhysand fixes his hair in the mirror before leaving, you fight the urge to roll your eyes at the sight. this first photoshoot hadn’t actually been half as bad as you expected. while you had put up with rhysand’s humor and remarks, you also noticed that he didn’t seem as unprofessional as you thought he was.
“i guess i’ll see you again next time,” you sling your bag over your shoulder, placing your camera around your neck with the strap. you don’t bother to wave goobye to rhysand and expect that he doesn’t give you the curtesy either. you weren’t nearly close enough for that yet.
he’s still getting ready to leave the studio by the time you’re by the door when you walk out. you let out a deep breath knowing that your nerves about this first photoshoot were for nothing. taking one more look around the lobby of velaris studios, you’re about to catch a ride home before you feel a tug on your arm.
“give me your number, y/n,” rhysand says. “we should keep in touch for the next photoshoot.”
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— NOTES
the tension between rhys and y/n 👀👀
cassian and azriel will make their appearances soon 🙏
— TAGLIST
@thelov3lybookworm @starsand @lilah-asteria @therealmoonstone @just-a-social-casualty-1 @ashjade19 @girlontheblock @cherry-cin @daughterofthemoons-stuff @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @sweet-chai-amore @kierramofficial @noelli-smv @c-dizzle99 @littlestw01f @marina468
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dtmsrpfcringe · 6 months ago
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the definitive dictionary and almanac of Tinhattery
hi, this will be a list of the main misogynistic accounts, definitions people have questions about, accounts you should follow and abbreviations— let’s gooo!! If you’re tagged in this I probably put you on the accounts to follow section. Adding a cut here because it’s long and gonna get longer
definitions!!!!
LCB- Used to stand for letscoffeebreak, she has since changed her username to dejadestalkearmeloser.
NGO- Nightgoodomens
Ingrav, Amy- Ingravinoveritas.
tardisrose- thetardisisblueandroseistoo
Tinhatters- A group of (mostly) tumblr users who think everything in these two relationships are fake and the women are abusive and the men want to run away.
Queeranoners- same as above, my favourite way to refer to them, coined by the amazing @theeminentlyimpractical
sheenbergs- Mix for Michael and Anna’s name
sheenbergnant- the amalgamation of the four bad bitches we love
sheenant- ship name for David and Michael. (Remember kids: shipping is cool but it’s fictional!!)
DT- David Tennant (Georgias husband)
MS- Michael Sheen (Anna’s boyfriend)
GT- Georgia Tennant
AL- Anna Lundberg
PR- public relations
GM- a…delegitimising way of referring to Georgia by refusing to use her last name. Instead use her maiden name. Note how they don’t refer to David as David McDonald
APAT- usually used by tinhatters (stands for Anna Plain And Tall) to refer to Anna Lundberg
PR (Tinhatter definition) - an omnipresent being forcing two rich white men who constantly champion human rights and lgbtq acceptance into a hetero relationship because they just are so oppressed and abused and not because they love their partners!
PR (actual definition) -the professional activities of an agency hired by a person, company, or other entity to shape, create, and manipulate that person/company’s public image. A public relations firm is often useful in helping a company manage its media reputation when a crisis happens, in order to attempt to minimize false information or slanderous statements which could damage reputations.
Shipping- Shipping (derived from the word relationship) is the desire by followers of a fandom for two or more people, either real-life people or fictional characters (in film, literature, television series, etc.), to be in a romanticrelationship. Shipping often takes the form of unofficial creative works, including fanfictionand fan art.
Shipping (Tinhat definition) - NO THEY HATE THEIR PARTNERS AND WANT TO FUCK EACH OTHER LOOK HE BLINKED IN HIS VICINITY THEIR PARTNERS ARE ABUSIVE I SWEAR
GREATEST HITS (posts that killed Tinhatters, feel free to submit your favourites in my inbox)
The breakdown of an anon
tassel jokes
backstreet cringe
Ingravinoveritas admitting it
Laurens amazing fuck off post that snowballed into half the fandom straight up saying fuck you to these people
HALL OF SHAME (Worst of tinhatters, again feel free to submit more)
• Taraiha’s rivals meltdown
NGO hates this fandom for…calling her out
it’s not a choice to be weird and creepy about people’s lives! (Again shipping is fine. This shit is not!!!)
it’s okay if you attack women just don’t criticise Michael Sheen (no idea what she was talking about with David) this same lady had another absolutely dog shit post I guess she removed?!
How dare women…have fun at their birthday parties?? (Part 1)
for a group constantly sexualizing David and Michaels every movement we can’t stand when a woman shows a little chest and has fun
Accounts you should follow!!!!:
@goodomenswarning - same purpose as this account, hilarious, an amazing friend
@badaziraphaletakes - calls out shitty takes in good omens as well, so much more level headed about toxicity than I am but I love talking shit with them. @thegeorgiatennantblog - best Georgia content
@fightingalgth8rs -bad bitches calling out extreme sexism
@phoen1xr0se - one of the best and I devour everything she posts
@davidtennantgenderenvy stands up for what’s right in the fandom, one of my idols and stuck up for me during a vulnerable time.
lmk more I need to add because I’m definitely missing some
THE REPEAT OFFENDERS (booo 🍅🍅):
Ingravinoveritas- one of the bigger ones, refuses to believe Georgia does anything nice for David, or that any of them actually like their partners. Can’t stop fetishizing gay male relationships to save her life. If David blinks he apparently wants to be bent over. Likes to pretend she’s not as bad as the others but has some of the wildest takes and said she felt threatened and scared for her life at someone making a Shakespearean reference. Professional victim
Nightgoodomens- a particularly nasty motherfucker. So toxic she’s quarantined. Misogynistic, ableist, um…yeah not much to say there except for the fact that apparently anything that David does that involves his wife means he’s forced into it. Would rather see them as abused puppies than accept they love their partners. Heavy on the homophobia and bi erasure since yes, fetishization isn’t allyship, it is homophobia. Everything is PR. She doesn’t know what PR means nor that David and Michael are not nearly important enough to have a 24/7 team controlling all social media and personal aspects of their lives. Neil gaiman apologist who blamed his sexual assault revelations on David’s support of trans people. Denies women flirting with each other and boils it to PR friendships??!?
Dejadestalkearmeloser- pretty much the same as nightgoodimens, flips shit when you call her out on it, I mean look at her pinned post about me and you’ll see. Also apparently I’m every account that doesn’t like her. Seems to have a problem with lesbians not liking her (wonder why lesbians don’t like the misogynistic people who only talk about the lgbtq community when it comes to fetishising mlm relationships)
Thetardisisbluesndroseistoo- flips shit at Georgia getting credit for anything, lost her shit on someone saying that Georgia has educated David on lgbtq allyship (he quite literally said himself that she does) later deleted posts when I called her out. Can’t stop laughing at that
invisibleicewands- really, really creepy about Anna, delving into her past and family to try and find…something. Body shaming. Mom shaming. The usual misogyny.
dtmsrpf- I guess a spoof on my name, belongs to one of the others on this list. The usual misogyny with a particular axe to grind against their looks and other things. Definitely a little salty.
georgiatennantunofficial (instagram)- extremely fucking gross. Body shaming and misogyny. Usual. You guys see a pattern yet?
64 notes · View notes
gmasttin · 3 days ago
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Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé fic
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| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.
| 3.9k words
| You can read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2
CHAPTER 3:
Monday starts with a word no one around you seems willing to say out loud: feedback.
But it’s everywhere, in your inbox, the comments on the shared PDF, the voice notes your boss records like he’s telling bedtime stories to an insomniac toddler.
And you, who had the wildly naive hope of making some quiet progress today, are now trapped in an endless chain of revisions, versions, nuances, and phrases like “this is good, but maybe we could find something more authentic.”
More authentic than what, you have no idea. Maybe your current existence.
You honestly can’t remember the last time someone sent you a message that said: “it’s perfect, don’t change a thing.” In your world, feedback is always long, contradictory, and laced with passive-aggressive gems like: “this works, but could we push it a little further?”
Lately, all you get are scattered comments from his PR head, each one soaked in that kind of ambiguity that should honestly be illegal:
“We think the tone is good, but is there a way to make it warmer without losing depth?” “We love the sincerity, but we don’t want it to feel vulnerable.” “Kylian’s read it and says it’s going well.” (Which part? When? What did he understand?)
It’s all like that—vague opinions, nonspecific compliments, contradictory questions sent your way like cryptic horoscopes. One message literally says:
“Do you think the angle is too intimate?” And four lines down: “We love the emotional closeness. Let’s amplify it.”
What doesn’t show up anywhere, at all, is Kylian.
Kylian isn’t in the office. Not in your inbox. Not on Zoom. No signs of life, except for the occasional “seen” check on the group chat you share with his team.
The first time you see the little blue tick, your emotional stomach twists a little. The second time, you just sip your coffee and ignore it. The third, you don’t even bother reacting.
It’s been a week since you saw him.
No one mentions it directly, but the silence around his name has the exact shape of the space he used to take up when he’d just show up. Unannounced, unapologetic, settling into the chair next to yours like he belonged there.
And you keep telling yourself this is better. Now you can work with more focus. More method. More efficiency. That you don’t need to see him to know what he’s trying to say. That this is work, professional, strategic, logical.
But that’s not entirely true.
Because every line you write, every block you structure, every mental image you craft… has him at the center.
And not in a “campaign protagonist” way. In a “this only works if it’s real” kind of way.
Sometimes, you feel like messaging him. Saying:
“If you don’t get involved, this is going to turn into exactly what you didn’t want.”
But you don’t. Because that wasn’t the deal. You don’t want to seem more invested than you’re supposed to be. And because if he’s not showing up, you are not going to beg.
Your day starts every morning with a watery office coffee and the promise, made to yourself, not to overthink things. To just do the job, stick to the assignment, move forward with the production plan.
And yet, every time you open the script, every time you reread a line, you get stuck in the way the words sound when you imagine them in his voice.
You don’t do it on purpose. It’s not cheap romanticism or some overblown obsession. It’s something else. It’s professionalism contaminated by intuition. It’s knowing, deep down, that this project is only going to work if you manage to tell something that feels true. Something that doesn’t sound like it was designed by committee or wrapped in off-the-shelf storytelling.
And that, unfortunately, doesn’t get written on autopilot.
Lucía, who glides past your desk with the smoothness of someone already two coffees in, drops a chocolate bar without saying a word. You just look up at her like she’s thrown you a life raft in the middle of a shipwreck.
“Did you shower today?” she asks.
“Yes. But my self-esteem didn’t.”
“Perfect. You’re ready for another ‘aligning expectations’ meeting.”
The meeting is with Marta, someone from PR, and Guillermo, who showed up in a printed shirt and the energy of someone who still hasn’t realized it’s too late to change careers.
Between jokes and phrases like “let’s land the concept,” you spend half the morning arguing whether a scene in the video needs more organic music, or if “organic” is already too burned-out as a concept.
Guillermo suggests layering sounds from the Paris metro with flamenco clapping. You blink.
“Why not?” he says. “It’s culturally transversal.”
“It’s culturally schizophrenic, Guillermo.”
Lucía writes the line down. She says it’s going straight into her list of “things Y/N says that Guillermo should never forget.”
Kylian’s PR rep, joining in from a Pinterest-Corporate blurred background, nods politely to everything. Every time you pitch something, she says “I like it” or “could work,” but you never know if that means keep going or shut it down.
After the third video call of the day, Guillermo flops onto the Scandinavian-room couch and says: “I’m thinking of becoming a creative coach.”
“Based on what experience?”
“Based on having lots of ideas and zero desire to execute them.”
Lucía looks at you. And you laugh. Because you don’t have the strength to cry.
By midweek, one thing is clear: the project is taking shape. Or at least, it has a skeleton. You’ve rewritten the script three times, reorganized the thematic blocks, renamed the files seven times, cut out beautiful lines that no longer fit, left gaps where you have no idea what to put, and created a folder titled “final versions (for real this time).”
After hanging up one of those long, daily PR calls, Lucía walks into the room with two glasses of wine stolen from a client launch you’ve both already forgotten about.
“I have five theories,” she says.
“About what?”
“About why he’s not showing up.”
She lists them aloud, while pouring more wine:
He’s testing whether you can handle the pressure without him.
He’s secretly working on a parallel campaign reinventing himself as a visual artist.
He’s afraid of falling in love with you.
He’s completely out of the loop because his PR filters everything with ‘everything’s going fine.’
He’s just super busy with the season and the seventeen million matches he has to play.
“Option five feels very real.”
“Option three too.” she says. 
You look at her, not knowing whether to laugh or run away. You decide that, for today, you’ll just leave it on pause.
He’ll show up. Or he won’t.
But you’ve got a script that, for the first time, is starting to feel like a real story.
The tension of the project starts to shift into something else when, on a Thursday afternoon, you find yourself closing your laptop at the exact moment Lucía and Guillermo shoot up from their desks like someone had just pulled a fire alarm.
“Y/N, you’re coming to the afterwork, right?” Lucía throws at you as she passes by, with that mix of invitation and subtle scolding in her voice.
You lift your eyes from the script and give her your best poker face. You feel like you’ve been staring at screens for two days straight until your pupils started begging for help, but there’s something in the way Lucía looks at you that makes you think that if you don’t go, the afternoon is going to feel even longer than it already has.
“After... what?” you ask, faking ignorance, while slowly getting up from your desk.
“Afterwork. Beers. Ending up drunk at karaoke. One of those stupid things that cures post-feedback syndrome.” Lucía shrugs. “Guillermo organized it. You bring the vibes.”
Right then, Guillermo appears dragging the box of the good donuts, the ones he’s been hiding from José Luis for days, like a hidden treasure.
“Idea!” he announces, with a mischievous smile. “These donuts, well, what’s left of them, my place, beers, I introduce you to my new cat Pipo, and we invite my neighbor.”
Lucía and you exchange a look. For a second, your mind drifts back to the script, to the words that have been echoing in your head for days, and you catch yourself realizing how absurd it would be to turn all of it into a drunken game.
“What if instead we stick to the plan and order a gin-tonic every time someone says authenticity?” Lucía proposes, raising an eyebrow. “I need an excuse to get drunk the way I want to.”
You agree, because you know you need it: some time away from screens and notes, a moment where you can feel there’s still life outside of a script about solitude and “fractures.”
You change in a makeshift bathroom closet next to the printer (which, by the way, is still broken). Lucía steps out in a wine-colored dress, and you in jeans that finally let you breathe for the first time in days, and a black strappy corset-style top.
You walk two blocks to a bar with discreet neon lights and worn wooden high tables. The waiter greets you with that calculated indifference of someone who’s seen everything, except maybe someone ordering “a gin-tonic of authenticity, please.”
You order rounds of beer and a gin for the bet. You sit between Lucía and Guillermo, with the echo of your department coworkers' laughter floating through the glass door.
“How’s that ‘fracture’ section going?” Guillermo asks, teasing you from the first sip.
“Fracture,” because Lucía and Guillermo have decided that between you and Kylian, there’s been a breakup. You close your eyes for a second, bring the beer to your lips and say:
“Fracture’s going fine. Now it just needs to leave the document and find a space in my stomach, where it actually hurts.”
Lucía claps silently, palm pressed to her chest, and you’re surprised at how seen you feel without anyone asking for more. Because sometimes, just saying “it hurts” is enough for someone to offer you a solidarity seat.
The night moves along with agency stories, inside jokes about impossible briefs, and yes, the classic “authenticity” drop from some guy at the next table, which prompts you to hush Lucía before the bar decides to collectively cancel you.
And just then, you see the glass door shift: it’s him. He’s wearing jeans, a plain tee, and that brown leather jacket that suits him so damn well. He doesn’t walk in right away; he stops at the threshold, rocking his weight from one foot to the other, as if scanning the place while waiting for his three companions.
Your breath stumbles. Lucía and Guillermo both look at you, knowing exactly what this means.
“Y/N, I think your challenge just leveled up,” Lucía whispers, smirking with complicity.
He’s already seen the table, already seen Lucía and Guillermo, and finally makes his way over with that calm of his that slows down everyone else’s pulse.
“Mind if we join you?” he asks softly, almost like he needs permission just to breathe.
Lucía improvises chairs out of three stools and slides them in with a theatrical gesture.
“You had to ask?”
He sits next to you. The background noise fades. Your hand trembles around your beer.
“Mind if I order a round of gin for everyone?” Lucía asks, half-smiling.
“The bet still stands,” Guillermo replies.
He raises the gin like a soldier toasting in silence, and you’re forced to choose between drinking and smiling. You do both. The gin burns your throat a little, and when you lower the glass, he’s glancing sideways at you.
“You got the ‘intimacy’ section under control?” Kylian asks without preamble.
Your heart makes a metallic sound.
“I mean... I’m refining it,” you answer.
“Perfect,” he says. “Because I’d like to hear it.”
And just like that, with no further setup, the night becomes an open canvas of possibilities: Laughter masking insecurities, looks dancing dangerously close to the edge of what hasn’t been said, and that quiet pull to lean in a little closer without anyone making too much noise when shifting their chair.
And so, between beers, gin-tonics, and word-trigger bets, you discover that the most valuable feedback wasn’t buried in PDFs or shared folders, but in an unexpected toast that spins the whole spirit of the project around… and maybe something else, too.
The music drops a few degrees, but the pulse of the night still thumps in your temples when he leans in and whispers, voice just barely louder than a brush of lips:
“Need some air?”
You nod before thinking, and he gently takes your forearm, as if afraid that one wrong move might scare you off. You step out into the bar’s small back patio, where soft yellow string lights warm the chill and only the faint clinking of glasses and laughter filters through the glass door.
The air outside greets you without questions. You take off your jacket and hang it over the back of a chair, fully aware of his fingers brushing your shoulder as he steps aside to help. You lean against the metal railing, and from the corner of your eye, you see him approach, slow, measured. There’s something about the way he moves, deliberate and aware, that disorients you more than any script you’ve ever written.
“I needed this,” he says, not looking away from your profile. “The bar was… you know.”
You nod, and you’re surprised at how natural the shared excuse sounds now, like something you’d rehearsed.
His eyes lock with yours when you turn.
The city’s murmur becomes the perfect soundtrack, and suddenly everything else disappears: the beers, Lucía singing off-key somewhere inside, Guillermo with his over-the-top accent.
Your heart beats with a rhythm you don’t recognize. You want to say something clever, something that diffuses the tension, but what comes out is:
“I guess… we just needed a breather.”
He tilts his head, weighing your words, then reaches out and gently brushes the side of your wrist. The contact is brief, no more than a blink, but it burns your skin. 
In that tiny moment, you feel the heat of his palm, the texture of his jacket, and the fracture in the invisible wall you’ve both built, from the first meeting to this night.
“You’re different,” he murmurs. “When you work, I mean.”
He bites his lower lip, as if looking for something more concrete to follow that up. You respond with a soft smile, feeling something open wide and glowing in your chest:
“And you’re different. When you’re not working.”
There’s a perfect silence, where the words evaporate midair. He takes one step closer, and that step turns the railing into both a boundary and a bridge. You want to lean in, to brush your lips against his, but something in his gaze holds you back, desire, yes, but also hesitation, care.
He sighs, and the tension breaks with a quiet nod:
“Let’s go back in, yeah?”
You nod again, and as you turn toward the door, you feel his hand graze your back, guiding you without rush. In that touch, there’s a silent agreement: tonight, for the first time, something more than a project has started writing itself between the two of you.
The hangover from the night before hits right at nine a.m., when you walk into the agency with the under-eyes of a nocturnal mapmaker. The first light of the day slips between the briefing pages and reminds you that today is the big day: filming begins tomorrow in Italy, and you need to have everything tied up before you fly.
You step into the Scandinavian room—empty, silent, almost reverent—and turn on your computer.
In front of you, a document titled “FINAL Version – Rome Script” blinks like a lighthouse on the screen. You open the outline: 1. Intimate intro / 2. Journey / 3. Conquest and contradiction / 4. Breaking point / 5. Rebirth...
Your task this morning is to fill in section 3 with the latest footage: the studio photoshoot, the voiceover you’d left pending, and the bridging music that will link the narrative to the airplane shot sequence.
You start rewriting the voiceover. Writing long, weighty lines, trying to find the precise tone:
“To pass through the silence’s shadow, to rise above the noise of fame, to find in the air the possibility of becoming something new.”
You feel the weight of every word: this isn’t a slogan, it’s the promise of an emotional journey.
Meanwhile, you reorganize the image folder: You select close-ups of his hands tying his sneakers, his breath held just before the final whistle, the reflection of the moon on his cycling helmet in that clip from the French national team. You rename the files with codes only you understand: “hand_01,” “breathe_03,” “moon_02.”
Mid-morning, your phone vibrates with a short message:
Prod Team: PLANE READY. BOARDING 16:00H PRIVATE RUNWAY.
You close the document and laugh, unsure whether it’s from nerves or relief. You check the time: just enough for a coffee you won’t drink, a sandwich you won’t eat, and a taxi ride to the airfield.
You hop into a cab that smells like old leather and gasoline. On the way, you mentally run through your storyboard sequence. You know the best shots will be the ones where he doesn’t realize he’s being filmed, when he talks about his childhood in that low, unguarded voice.
When you arrive, the guard greets you with indifference and opens the walkway hatch. In front of you stands the Gulfstream: white, polished, its doors half-open like it’s giving you a confident wink. You fixate for a second on the embroidered logo on the wings, a stylized KM that almost looks like a heartbeat, before climbing the stairs.
Inside, the jet is another dimension: cream upholstery, warm light integrated into the panels, leather seats that recline and swivel. The production team is already there, waiting with two cases full of hard drives, wireless mics, and catering that smells like fresh bread and strong coffee. No one looks at you strangely, everyone’s focused on final technical details.
You settle into the seat on the right, right across from the folding table. You spot the back of Kylian’s head, tilted down, as he scrolls through his phone. 
He looks up suddenly, sees you, and gives you a half-smile, saying nothing. You quickly glance away, like his seat is some kind of forbidden territory. But the gesture carries something like complicity: you both know that in a few hours, you’ll be filming the first sequences together in the city.
The engine hums softly and soon you’re rising above Madrid’s rooftops. After a couple of hours, the landscape shifts to dark patches dotted with lights: highways glowing like rivers of fire, small towns scattered across the plains, until the first signs of Italy flicker on the cockpit’s radar screens.
As you descend into Rome, you spot the Coliseum glowing in the distance and a mosaic of winding streets barely visible in the night. The plane touches down in silence. The airfield guard welcomes you with a curt nod and, in minutes, you’re inside a black van waiting at the terminal.
The drive to the hotel takes you past avenues lined with cypress trees and façades bathed in the soft glow of streetlamps. In the rearview mirror, you see Kylian, leaned back in his seat, focused on his phone. You’re reviewing your notebook with the shoot plans: tomorrow starts in a villa on the outskirts, with views of the Tiber and a sunset you could slice with a knife.
At the hotel, a restored Baroque-style mansion turned boutique stay, you’re welcomed with a warm “Benvenuti” echoing through the marble lobby and a faint scent of limoncello.
The concierge hands you the keycards: 213 for you, 214 for him. In the carpeted hallway, you pass each other for a brief second: he turns left, you turn right.
Inside your room, warm light surrounds you: heavy curtains, a walnut desk, a bed perfectly dressed in crisp white linens. You drop your suitcase onto a chair, turn on the vanity lamp, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, the travel fatigue drawing shadows beneath your eyes, but also a trace of anticipation glowing behind them.
You turn off the main light. Only the low lamp beside your bed remains. You lie down, open your notebook, and write at the top of the page:
“Rome, night. This is where it all begins.”
You close the notebook, sigh, and allow yourself, for the first time since the first round of feedback, to simply be.
Tomorrow, with the Italian morning light, the project will come to life in a different way. For now, all that’s left is to sleep.
Your phone screen lights up softly on the far side of the bed.
00:17. Not a second of rest since you arrived. 
Maybe it’s the built-up exhaustion, or some rogue impulse from your brain, but you decide to message him.
You: Are you awake?
A few seconds of silence. Each one as heavy as a raindrop against glass.
Him: Too much.
His honesty in just that two words, too much, catches you off guard. Your pulse quickens, imagining him lying back in the dark, just like you.
You stare at the ceiling, counting the lines in the molding.
You: Me too. Thought I’d crash after the trip, but it’s hard to switch off.
The “seen” appears like a dull dagger. You bite your lip. Two minutes pass.
Him: Want company?
Your cheeks heat up. You want to answer with a resounding “yes,” but instead, you type:
You: Depends on…
You freeze. Depends on what? Me? You? What this means at midnight in Rome?
A ping.
Him: On you 😉
You close your eyes, and breathe in, deep.
You decide the best thing is to meet him, even if you’re not exactly sure why. You get up, adjust the oversized shirt you’re wearing as pajamas, and knock on your room door. A soft click tells you the lock has turned.
You step out into the carpeted hallway, barely lit by dim lights. The silence is almost as thick as the dark. With quiet steps, you walk toward room 214.
He’s already there, waiting at his door frame, door half-open, a sliver of golden light behind him. The rhythm of his breathing echoes in the stillness of the night.
“Hi,” he whispers, as if afraid of waking half the hotel.
“Hi,” you reply, aware that your voice sounds strangely different from just moments ago.
The space between you is minimal. Just enough to brush shoulders, for the energy of all the unsaid words to fill the gap.
“I’m used to sleeping in hotel rooms,” he admits, “but I can’t seem to manage it tonight.”
“I’m not used to it,” you murmur. “Especially not alone.”
He smiles slowly. That slight curve of his lips makes you feel like someone just cracked open a narrow beam of light inside your chest.
“So… should we stay up for a bit?”
You bite your lower lip. The hallway smells like a story just beginning.
“Yes.”He closes the door to his room, and in doing so, the darkness seems to turn more intimate. Right there, in the middle of that Italian hallway.
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rmstitanics · 7 months ago
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* GENERAL OBSERVATIONS, PART FOUR.
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ASTEROIDS
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Determine the sign, planetary ruler, and the house that ASTEROID SHAKESPEARE (2985) is in to figure out which genres of Shakespeare plays you might enjoy the most!
╰► Example: My own Shakespeare asteroid is in 5H Pisces, and Pisces is ruled by Neptune. The 5th house is associated with romance, while Neptune governs illusions, mysticism, secrets, prophets, and deceptive idealism. So I would probably enjoy his romances and comedies such as Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
In my natal chart, ASTEROID WASHINGTONIA (886) CONJUNCTS SUN. This asteroid was named after George Washington, and the Sun represents our Ego + Core Identity. Guess whose first ever fixation as a historian was the American Revolution? ✨Me✨.
Look for ASTEROID KLIO (84) in your chart to determine what types of history you should study! For example, I have 11H Klio in Virgo, which is ruled by Mercury. So this means that when it comes to history, I might be drawn to studying the friendship dynamics that existed between historical figures (shoutout to Abraham Lincoln and William Henry Seward as well as Ulysses S. Grant and William Tecumseh Sherman my BELOVEDS) as well as public discourses and social movements of a given time period.
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PLANETS
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9H VENUS placements might be more comfortable with befriending strangers on the internet + having online relationships than they are with developing their in-person connections.
While working on my Famous Individuals With Your Moon Sign post, I noticed that a LOT of authors have ARIES MOONS. This absolutely checks out because Aries Moons tend to be assertive individuals who become pioneers in their fields of interest, which many of these authors were.
If you have difficulty relating to your SUN SIGN or BIG THREE placements, check the aspects in your chart and spend some time researching them! HARD ASPECTS to your personal planets may be the culprits responsible for this.
VENUS rules over the 5H of creativity, so check the house that your Venus placement is in to determine your most prominent sources of creative exploration!
╰► Example: Taylor Swift has Aquarius Venus in the 1H. Her music is often inspired by 1H themes of exploring her core identity, and it is known to have Aquarian undertones of progressivism and rebelliousness. When I saw this placement in her chart, I immediately thought of her songs “The Man” and “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?”.
╰► Example: William Shakespeare had Gemini Venus in the 12H. His works are widely known for their explorations of hidden enemies, endings, spirituality, mental health, and loss — and with his Venus being in Gemini, it’s clear that he had a lot to say about these topics.
Because the MOON rules over the 4H of home and roots, the house that your moon sign is in can show you where you might feel most at home. For example, I have my moon in the 9th house of higher education, and I’ve always felt the most at home in academic settings.
12H JUPITER placements might do well pursuing an occult career field, such as becoming a professional astrologer, tarot reader, palm reader, or even a past life regression hypnotist.
Going through a period of writer’s or artist’s block? Check to see if your TRANSIT SATURN is in the 5H or if Transit Saturn is aspecting the 5H!
TRANSIT MARS in the 9H is a time of yearning for academic recognition and success. If you have this placement and are currently a student, take advantage of opportunities for class participation, extra credit, study abroad, and extracurricular activities!
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ASPECTS
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MIDHEAVEN OPPOSITION URANUS natives loathe adhering to social norms and are prone to having unpopular opinions that, if expressed, would drastically alter their social status.
MOON OPPOSITION MARS can indicate strong willed and incredibly assertive personality types that, if caution is not taken, may be viewed by others as “bossy”. They’re the type of folks who like to take the reins and lead the group during a group project.
SUN CONJUNCT URANUS people strike me as the type who enjoys researching conspiracy theories, especially if their Sun sign is Scorpio or Gemini.
MERCURY-URANUS as well as MERCURY-VENUS are the types of people who could be uniquely prone to social media / screen time addiction.
VENUS TRINE SATURN natives are sensitive to rejection, and when rejected, might carry it as a deep wound for a long time.
MERCURY CONJUNCT PLUTO individuals have the potential to be excellent speechwriters, poets, songwriters, and journalists.
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menofchaos · 1 year ago
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Coco
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Note: Third time I'm trying to send this out! I missed sleep to write this, which usually means it'll end up being one of my favorites like the Vegas story. I do have more of this written, so please let me know if anyone would be interested! This is the first installment of Coco x museum! reader. Picture credit goes to @richardcabralofficial on ig & divider credit goes to @spideyspeaches. Enjoy!
Coco lit a cigarette as he walked down the sunny streets of downtown San Diego, Angel and Gilly planning their evening of bar hopping. They decided to head down to the beach for a long weekend, a getaway from the pressures of Santo Padre.
“Damn, that’s a big ass building.”
“Ain’t this the museum you wanted to go to?” Angel asked.
EZ nodded, “Yeah at some point. You guys don’t have to come in.”
The four of them turned down the street toward the entrance and Gilly laughed, “Oh I’m definitely going.”
Angel frowned, “You wanna go to a museum? You good, homie?”
“If all the chicks in the museum look like that? Fuck yeah, I do,” he scoffed and nodded over at the museum steps.
They all looked up to see two men in suits talking to a woman, her long curly hair flowing gently in the wind as she laughed. Coco’s eyes widened when he saw ink covering her throat, bright acrylics on her tattooed hands. His eyes followed her curves, covered up by her professional attire. He licked his lips when he heard Angel mumble, “Damn.”
EZ shook his head, “I didn’t mean we had to go now.”
“What better time than the present, boy scout?” Gilly smirked, “You guys in?”
Angel looked over at Coco, who shrugged, “Why not?”
“Alright,” Gilly clapped, “Think she dresses like that all the time?”
“She’s way out of your league,” Angel snorted, shaking his head as they crossed the street.
“You think you have a better chance?” Gilly arched an eyebrow.
Coco laughed, “You two gonna bet again? Since it went so well last time.”
Both men glared at him before going back to arguing over who would ask her out. The men in suits walked away and the woman turned to see the four of them heading up the stairs.
“Welcome,” she smiled and opened the door, “Ticket counter is to your left, let me know if you have any questions about the exhibits.”
Gilly looked her over slowly, “Thanks mami. I do have a question. Are you the exhibit?”
She laughed politely, “No, I’m not.”
“Too bad, I can’t stop staring,” he winked, heading inside. 
“All these artifacts and I can’t take my eyes off you,” Angel smirked and followed him in.
EZ shook his head, “I’m sorry about them, it’s their first day in public.”
Coco took off his sunglasses as she laughed, “It’s all good, I’ve heard worse,” she closed the door behind them, “Enjoy the museum,” she winked at Coco before a younger employee called her over.
Coco watched her walk off, hips swaying. Gilly and Angel were still quietly bickering over her. While they were distracted, he took a few steps toward where she stood with another woman wearing a regular museum uniform. The woman went into the exhibit and she turned to Coco.
“Can I help you?” she asked him.
“Just wanted to apologize again for my brothers,” he told her, “They’re harmless.”
She smiled, “That’s sweet, thank you. Like I said, I’ve had way worse pick up lines than that. I was a little bummed I didn’t hear one from you, though,” she admitted.
Coco’s eyes widened and he smiled, “Oh yeah?”
She nodded, “See if it was more original than your brothers,” she teased.
He laughed softly, “They didn’t exactly get creative, did they?”
“No but at least they didn’t say they’d nail me to the wall,” she shivered slightly in disgust, “That one grosses me out.”
He shook his head, “I wouldn’t have let them get away with that one.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Coco,” he held a hand out to her, “Yours?”
She introduced herself and shook his hand, “I guess you wouldn’t let them get away with that, would you, boogeyman?”
His eyes lit up, “You know that story?”
She smiled, “Of course,” she scanned the patches on his leather. Coco held his breath for a moment, waiting for her to dismiss him, “Santo Padre? What brings you to San Diego?”
“We wanted to get out of the desert for a few days,” he murmured, “Hang out at the beach.”
“That’s why I live here, so I can be on the beach whenever,” she smiled, “How long are you in town for?”
“Till Tuesday,” he bit his lip, willing his heart to slow down.
She nodded, holding his gaze for a moment, “So, you got a line?”
He shook his head, “No lines,” he licked his lips, “But I’d love to take you out later.”
She smiled, “I can’t tonight but I’ll take your number and call you tomorrow?” she pulled her phone out of her pocket.
Coco recited his number to her, smirking when he glanced over to see Gilly and Angel glaring at him. She nodded, “I’ll see you soon?” she took a few steps back, smiling.
“See you soon,” he smiled slowly, his eyes on hers.
She giggled and turned down a hallway, out of his sight. He rejoined the other guys.
“What just happened?” Angel asked, “You get her number?”
He shook his head, “Gave her mine. Thanks for making me look good,” he smirked as EZ handed him a ticket, “Thanks, bro.”
“Motherfucker,” Gilly swore, “You’re such a dick.”
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After the museum, the four of them headed to dinner, then a bar on the beach. They stood around a pool table, EZ and Angel against Coco and Gilly.
“I still can’t believe you snaked her from me,” Gilly shook his head.
“You don’t have a claim on her, homie,” he smirked, taking a sip of beer.
“You come on too aggressive, bro,” Angel said.
EZ snorted, “You weren’t much better.”
Angel scoffed, “I wasn’t as bad as him!”
“All I did was give her my number,” Coco watched Gilly take his turn, “It’s not like I stole your girlfriend or some shit.”
Coco was in the middle of his turn when a loud cheer erupted behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a high top all holding their drinks up, laughing.
“Wait, isn’t that her?”
Coco grinned when he saw her sitting at the high top, a pink margarita in her hand and a relaxed smile on her face. She caught his gaze and she smiled wider, waving at him. He held up a finger, turning back to finish his turn, “It is.”
He sunk two balls and missed the third, setting his cue down when he heard, “Lord have mercy. Look at that.”
All thought left his mind when he saw her heading toward him. She had forgone her professional attire, a longer asymmetrical skirt with a button up and blazer, for a tight black and white dress that hit mid thigh. Her long curled were tied up in a ponytail, two braids nestled among the strands. Her darker lipstick made him want to smear it.
“Hi,” she smiled.
“Hey,” he murmured, “You look beautiful.”
She giggled shyly, “Thank you. This is a coincidence.”
“Your plans for the night?” he asked, glancing at the table that was not so subtly spying on her.
She nodded, “College friends in town for the night. We’re going to the beach tomorrow before their flight leaves.”
Coco smirked, “We’re going to the beach too. The one down the road.”
“So are we,” she laughed, “Another coincidence.”
“Or fate,” he suggested, failing to keep himself from checking her out.
She felt butterflies under his gaze, “Could be. I gotta get back but how about this? If you find me at the beach tomorrow, you can take me out to dinner.”
His eyes lit up at the challenge. Between his military training and club antics, he knew he could meet it, “I’m down. See you tomorrow, ma.”
“See you tomorrow,” she kissed his cheek softly, walking back to her group. He couldn’t stop smirking the rest of the night.
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Coco sat down on a lounge chair between Angel and Gilly, “Why the fuck do we stay in the desert when we could be here?” he asked as Angel passed him the blunt.
Angel laughed, “We should convince Alvarez to start a San Diego charter.”
“Coco just wants to be near his new girl,” Gilly opened a beer.
“You still bitching about that?” Coco arched an eyebrow, “How many chicks are out here, go pick up one up if you got that much game.”
“Oh now you got game?” Gilly asked, “With that crooked ass nose.”
Coco passed the blunt to EZ, retort on his tongue when his phone lit up with an unknown number. He opened it to find a picture of her smiling, sunglasses covering her eyes and her long hair tied up in a messy bun. He could only see from her shoulders up, a table with beer pong set up in the background. It was accompanied by a text.
I’m here! Ready for your mission?
He smirked, typing out, ‘Mission accepted’ before standing up, “Well you fuckers can keep playing with each other, I’m going to get a date.”
EZ grinned, “Good luck, bro.”
Coco fist bumped him, “Good luck with these two,” he joked and grabbed his phone and cigarettes, sliding his sunglasses on as he walked up to the top of the sand. He remembered the size of her group the night before and knew they wouldn’t be that hard to spot. He checked the picture again, his heart skipping a beat at her smile. Another text came in as he tried to study the background for clues.
No clues but I do have a drink waiting for you
He noticed rocks behind her and scanned the beach, grinning when he saw a cliff to his left. He walked down to the water, taking his time to smoke a cigarette as he made his way over. A large blue canopy with a long table under it was set up next to the cliff, coolers and bags scattered around towels and blankets set up on the ground. He swore under his breath when he spotted her in nothing but a black and green two piece, a drink in each hand. Tattoos covered both arms and curled around her long legs, a few on her back and sides. She was talking to two other women, one in a pink one piece and the other covered by an oversized white t shirt and men’s swimming trunks. Four guys stood at either end of the beer pong table in different colored bathing suits. He walked up, ignoring the looks the guys gave him as he tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and grinned.
“Coco!” she leaned in to kiss his cheek, “That didn’t take nearly as long as I expected.”
He laughed, “I was a Marine, baby.”
“That’s not fair,” she pouted, “Here’s a beer if you want it. Let me introduce you to everyone,” she offered him the bottle.
“Sure, thank you,” he took it and followed her around the tent, shaking hands with everyone. They all went to college together, getting picked up and invited in by others in the friend group. They used to be a bigger group, she explained, but fights, moves and break ups splintered the group until it was the remaining seven of them. She hung back with him as the guys kept playing, one white boy, Dan or Dave or something, glancing at him often with a glare.
“Your friend in the green doesn’t like me that much,” he teased a few minutes later.
She looked over at the canopy and sighed, “He claims he’s protective, but he’s not like that about anyone else. He’s just one of those white knight guys.”
“White knight guys?” he frowned.
“Yeah, if I do something he thinks could hurt me, he acts concerned for my well being but he just has feelings for me and gets jealous,,” she explained, “He did the same thing in college when he found out I was dancing.”
He arched an eyebrow, “Dancing?”
She nodded, looking up at him, “I didn’t come from a good family or anything, so I had to pay my own way through college. I got some scholarships but it didn’t cover everything so I started stripping to help pay my bills and shit,” he watched her as she spoke, knowing this was a test of his reaction.
“That’s smart, you probably made bank,” he winked.
A  smile lit up her face, satisfied in his response, “You know I did. No student loans for me.”
White Knight Dan/Dave called her over for her turn but she declined, telling him she’d play later. His disappointment was visible, tossing another glare Coco’s way as he went back to the game.
Coco smirked, “Damn, I’m making all kinds of enemies talking to you.”
She took a sip of her beer, “Who else?”
“My homie’s still mad,” he laughed.
“Tell him if he can find it in his heart to forgive you, I have a bunch of hot, single friends I can introduce him to,” she offered.
He laughed softly, “That might do it, thanks mami.”
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girlactionfigure · 2 months ago
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WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THE JEWS IN HOLLYWOOD?
Since October 7, many Jews have noted that the Jews in Hollywood have been largely hesitant or unwilling to denounce the Hamas massacre, address the hostage crisis, or talk about the skyrocketing violent antisemitism in the Diaspora. Other Jewish Hollywood figures have entirely -- and very publicly -- adopted a pro-Hamas narrative, despite the fact that half of the world’s Jews live in Israel and the evidence documenting Hamas’s genocidal antisemitism is extensive. 
For an industry with so many Jews, and for an industry that is so historically Jewish, this may seem shocking or surprising. This is also especially disappointing given that while a number of recent films deal with the Holocaust, Hollywood largely seems unable to acknowledge the current antisemitism threatening us at this very moment. In other words, Hollywood profits off our trauma but does nothing to better our situation -- or even makes it worse. The reality, however, is that this is neither shocking nor surprising. This behavior is actually part of a larger historical trend.
While there have always been many Jews in Hollywood, for reasons which will be outlined in slide four, Hollywood is an industry catered to a non-Jewish audience. The Jews in Hollywood have always walked a thin line so as not to offend the sensibilities of non-Jews. Jewish stories and Jewish advocacy, which Jewish-owned studios once avoided entirely, now must be reduced to whatever level is deemed tolerable enough for everybody else.Jewish enough so that it’s quirky, but not so Jewish that it’s uncomfortable.
THE CONSPIRACY THAT JEWS RUN HOLLYWOOD
I’m sure you’ve heard it before: “the Jews run Hollywood.” This, of course, is yet another iteration of the antisemitic conspiracy that Jews run any given number of industries to manipulate for our own nefarious motives -- from banking to the media to the American government. 
This category of antisemitic conspiracy dates to the Middle Ages, though of course, conspiracies about Jews and Hollywood are much newer, originating in tandem with Hollywood’s beginnings as an industry in the early 20th century. 
It’s indeed true that most major Hollywood studios were founded by Jews, but the idea that Jews did so out of sinister motives -- rather than out of creativity and a need for economic survival -- stems entirely out of antisemitism. During the early years of Hollywood, American film censor Joseph Breen began accusing “the Jews” of using films to push sex, moral depravity, and violence on American audiences. 
Jewish-owned studios in early Hollywood faced tremendous pressure from conservative Christian and anti-Communist groups, which consistently accused Jews of using Hollywood to undermine American values.
THE REAL STORY
In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Jews migrated en masse from Eastern Europe to the United States. While the conditions in the United States were much better than those they’d left behind in Europe, Jews still faced economic and employment discrimination. One of the biggest obstacles for Jews were restrictive university quotas, which prevented them from receiving the necessary education to pursue professional careers such as medicine. 
To make ends meet, Jews resorted to making their own opportunities. Some started as peddlers and later became shopkeepers. Others migrated west — to Hollywood. In fact, Hollywood was born when a Jewish man, Sam Goldwyn (born Shmuel Gelbfisz), joined his brother to make one of the very first feature films in 1914: The Squaw Man.
Many Jews joined Hollywood in search for employment that they couldn’t find elsewhere, but there was a significant effort to diminish the Jewishness of the early film industry, both to appeal to non-Jewish audiences and to satisfy censors. For example, Jews worked under “white” pen names and films purposefully avoided Jewish stories. 
During this period, Jews in Hollywood were determined to assimilate, but nevertheless, stereotypes about Hollywood and its Jewishness persist to this day.
Despite the fact that not a single person in attendance at the Academy Awards made any “Zionist” statements whatsoever and only one person (to my knowledge) -- Yaron Varsano, Gal Gadot’s husband -- wore a yellow hostage ribbon pin, thousands of commenters on Twitter expressed shock that No Other Land won “Best Documentary” in “a room full of Zionists” or in an industry allegedly “controlled by Zionists.”
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Could it be that by “Zionists” they mean...Jews?
A HISTORY OF DE-JUDAIZING JEWISHNESS
From its earliest days, there has been a large Jewish presence in Hollywood. But also from its earliest days, these Jewish actors, filmmakers, producers, and more have been very much aware that the overwhelming majority of their audience is not Jewish. For this reason, they’ve historically downplayed their Jewish identity to whatever level is considered tolerable to the non-Jewish world. 
For example, in the 1910s and 1920s, Jewish actors in Hollywood worked under “white” pen names. From the 1920s-1950s, Jewish actresses got rhinoplasties in what almost amounted to a rite of passage, to erase any ethnic features that might be considered too “Jewish.” 
In the 1930s, Hollywood studios -- many of them owned by Jews! -- acquiesced to the demands of the lucrative German movie market and Jewish employees were systematically removed from their jobs, so as not to offend Nazi sensibilities. According to rabbi and historian Isidoro Aizenberg, Hollywood “even agreed to establish guidelines governing the films’ themes. In all future movies Jews could not be featured, Germany was not to be slighted, Nazis were not to be criticized, and Hitler was not to be mentioned. References to anything Jewish or the appearance of Jewish actors was forbidden. Finally, Germany appointed its own censor in Hollywood.”
WHEN HOLLYWOOD JEWS WENT INTO HIDING
In the late 1940s to mid-1950s, the American government, under Senator Joe McCarthy, enacted an anti-communist campaign known as “McCarthyism” or the “Red Scare.”
While openly anti-communist, the campaign also had heavy antisemitic undertones, with some arguing that it was overtly antisemitic, both given many of McCarthy’s comments and because the campaign disproportionately targeted Jews.
Ten Hollywood personalities, known as the “Hollywood Ten,” were cited for contempt of Congress and blacklisted from Hollywood. Six out of the ten — screenwriter and director Herbert Biberman, screenwriter Alvah Bessie, screenwriter Lester Cole, playwright and screenwriter Albert Maltz, screenwriter Samuel Ornitz, and John Howard Lawson — were Jewish. 
That’s because the proponents of McCarthyism wished to “make an example out of Jewish Hollywood.”
During this period, many Jews in the industry received antisemitic harassment via the mail. 
The Hollywood Ten blacklist lasted 12 years. The Jews who stayed behind in Hollywood did so under non-Jewish pen names.
HOW JEWISH IS OKAY?
As mentioned earlier, Jews in Hollywood have historically had to walk a very thin line, particularly when telling Jewish stories, so as not to offend their non-Jewish audiences. Consider, for example, Holocaust movies, today a very popular theme in Hollywood, though this wasn’t always the case. Up until 1978, Hollywood avoided the subject almost entirely, considering it “too depressing” and -- yep -- too Jewish to be of general interest (as opposed to general World War II movies, which everyone was very much into).
Nevertheless, today, the vast majority of Holocaust films feature the stories not of Jewish Holocaust victims, but rather, those of saviors or even perpetrators (Schindler’s List, The Zookeeper’s Wife, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, Zone of Interest, to name a few). This over-emphasis on saviorism actually seems to have distorted general understandings of the enormous level of non-Jewish complicity during the Holocaust; in reality, less than 0.01% of the population in Nazi-occupied Europe at the time are considered Righteous Among the Nations, those who risked their lives to help Jews during the Holocaust. 
Jewish stories -- pertaining to the Holocaust or not -- that would force non-Jewish audiences to hold a mirror to themselves are very few and far between.
Since the earliest days of Hollywood, there has been a concerted effort to diminish the Jewishness of the film industry to make it more palatable for non-Jewish audiences. 
The origins of this phenomenon date back even further. In the early 20th century, Jewish women in vaudeville would change their last names to sound less “ethnic.” It’s true that there are many Jews in Hollywood; after all, the American film industry was essentially started by Jews. However, that “Jewish representation” hasn’t been very Jewish. 
Some examples of Jewish whitewashing in Hollywood include: 
Casting non-Jewish, generally white characters to play Jewish characters
Reducing Jewish characters to stereotypes
Jew-coding characters without explicitly stating them as Jewish
Depicting a one-dimensional, whitewashed, assimilated version of the Jewish experience
Ignoring the diversity of the Jewish community
Casting white people as Jews while passing up Jewish actors because they look “too Jewish” or have Jewish-sounding names
For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 
rootsmetals
Shoutout to like the 3 Jews in Hollywood with a backbone ✌🏼tag them in the comments 💃🏻
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patroxlos · 9 months ago
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home base . ch6
"friends who are stuck together" - 5.7k words
ultraman: rising (2024). kenji sato x reader
master post. ao3 link.
previous: ch5. "friends who fuck things up"
next: ch7. "friends who use their phones in bed"
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kenji is confronted with his life abroad, his relationship with his dad, and your confusing back and forth
---
Ken Sato is born during his first week at the private school his mom enrolled him in when they moved to the States.
Being the only Asian kid in his class does not help. He is noticeably more tan than his peers and his angular eyes drew attention wherever he went. He cannot eat any of the hefty, greasy viands without rice— because what do you mean you slather the thickest cuts of beef with the sweetest sauces and expect him to eat it with dry bread?
But what confuses and frustrates him the most as a seven year old boy is how difficult it apparently is to say his name.
Kenji Sato. The most direct four syllables. And somehow they are still mispronounced everywhere he goes.
Ken-jay.
Say-toe.
And when they do not bother, children are surprisingly creative with making racially-motivated nicknames.
Sure, English does not come easy to him at that age. He cannot tell the difference between “knew” and “new”, and he struggles with his letter Ls, but if everyone around him is going to be smart about it then why can’t they pronounce his name? He cannot even recite in class without some little brat at the back named Bartholomew mocking his accent.
Still, Bartholomew shortens his own name to Bart.
And he becomes Ken, because it is easier that way.
Even so, all his awards and trophies throughout his professional career keep the ‘Kenji,’ simply because his mom gave him that name. His dad refrains from using Ken at all to this day, and it is not an aversion born from simple preference. You call him ‘Ken’ and ‘Kenji’ interchangeably, but you use ‘Ken’ the most when you are mad or to simply tease him.
He remembers his mom’s frown when his homework starts to get signed as Ken, and throughout the first year at the States it never stopped coming out to all his little changes. He knows she misses who he used to be; a bright, eager boy is now reduced to a sullen, quiet kid. Admittedly, that time is not filled with his fondest memories— he still remembers the smell of her opening up the spoiled, untouched bentos from his bag at the end of the day.
But, on the plus side, he definitely learns a lot of new English words from sitting outside the school office as his mom meets with just about everyone— the teachers, the principal, the district officer.
Failing.
Bullying.
Discrimination. He is proud when he eventually figures out how to spell this one.
It helps a lot that his mom shouts it out so he can hear it even with the door separating them. Will dad do the same if he was here?
It feels like nothing can make his mom smile during those days.
So he signs up for baseball, and she is thrilled.
He is too, until he meets his minor league team, and it turns out boys are meaner in sports than they are in the classroom.
This isn’t tee ball. They jeer, as he is easily one of the smallest there. He struggles to defend himself, but the only thing he can say are roughly strewn-together syllables. He can feel the bright beam of his mom’s smile being directed at him from the bleachers, and he will not be messing this up for her.
His teammates’ taunts don’t end until they see him swing.
He gives them something else to talk about as he sends the first pitch at practice to the other side of the field. He hears his mom cheering a loud ganbatte! and she is as glowing as ever.
He learns a new English word that day from his coach. Prodigy.
But even more so, he learns the quickest way to shut annoying shitheads up.
Because when he also hears one of his teammates guffawing about his mom speaking Chinese, he delivers another expert swing right at his face.
Despite the lecture his mom gives to him publicly in front of the other well-meaning parents, she still takes him for icecream right after practice.
“Kenji.”
“Yeah, mom?”
“Don’t go around starting fights like that again, but when you do, always make sure you win, okay?”
Ken misses her a lot, especially now.
“Dad, I can’t make more time to help completely change Emi’s potty sched again.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as he sits across his dad at the dinner table. Not much dinner was being eaten, as papers were strewn at the center with their meals pushed to the side. Seriously, with all the technological advancements in this house you would expect them to at least use some laptops.
Hayao Sato points more insistently at one particular document. “Please just help me test out this theory, Kenji. Since her diet has increased by a lot now that we are letting her hunt for her own food, most likely her excretion needs have changed.”
“Well I think her poopies are just fine.”
“Kenji—”
“I believe you, okay!” He slumps back into his chair. “Believe me, I really do. But on a practical level, I’m already stretched thin as it is. Those books say that when babies establish a schedule it’s best to stick to it or else they’ll get confused. Now, if you could transform to do more than being a helicopter dad, so we can have at least two Ultramen on the team, then that would be fantastic!”
His mom might have been quick to argue back if she was here, but his dad carries a somber air that permeates into his skin and strikes his heart with guilt whenever he raises his voice against him. Hayao Sato is not the man he used to be— he is frail and feeble, and cannot raise his voice too high without straining his throat.
Even when his dad gets mad now or gives another of his droning lectures, Ken’s subconscious brain tricks him into feeling like the villain for making his dad stress his body like that. A year ago, he will not have cared at all. He might have thought it as reparations for abandoning him.
“You know I can’t transform yet…not right now.” Hayao bounces his leg under the table, an unconscious tick activating from the tenseness of their conversation.
There is a growing silence between father and son, and unknown to Kenji, his dad is also praying at the back of his mind for the grace of Emiko to teach him what to say. 
He misses you.
Other than his mom, you will know what to say to his dad. Hell, you’re closer to him than Ken is, given how you regularly visited him while he was alone in Japan. He ignores the bubbling envy as he broods over it. At least you have always been kind enough to never talk about his dad more than he was comfortable with.
Ken leaves the dinner table wishing his dad was a shittier person. He wishes his dad had taken the more traditional absentee route instead of being a literal superhero. It might have even been easier if Emiko actually divorced Hayao, but his mother never fails to remind Kenji that she loves his father very much.
He has always been made to feel like his resentment is more akin to selfishness. Millions of live depend on his dad, so what importance does a little league baseball game have compared to that? What right does he have? His parents make enough for his comfortable life. He is lucky enough to be in his dream job. And yeah, he’s mature enough to admit that he hated the Ultraman gig at first but now he has kind of grown into the service of it all.
So he hates his temper instead, because he does want to get along with his dad. He really does. It has been a few days since they have started tackling Emi as a team, but this newfound bond is not enough to patch the past two decades of empty chairs, curt calls and missed graduations.
He finds himself on a makeup chair the next day for his upcoming motorcycle ad under Motsubishi.
His makeup artist tuts as he looks at Ken’s black compression shirt. “It’s a shame you have to be so covered up for this one.”
From behind Ken, he hears his hairstylist giggle at that. “Motorcyclists have to get all covered up if they don’t want road rash,” she explains. “Of course, our baseball star knows his way around motorcycles.”
“Maybe he should start knowing his way around the ball field as well,” his MUA teasingly comments as he powders up Ken’s face.
He winces at the remark, and he tries not to show too much displeasure. Ken knows that if he blows up at them it will only spread around the industry that he is a sore loser. Which he is, and everyone already knows. He stays still on the makeup chair as he gives a nonchalant shrug. “Unlucky streak I suppose. Working on it.”
His hairstylist playfully swoons as she brushes his hair. “We’re still fans, Sato, don’t get us wrong. Being your fan has been pretty expensive lately though, with the amount of bets we put on you.”
“Hey, thanks for the love,” his media persona turns on with full charm. “I know I’m not supposed to promote any gambling, it’s all just family-friendly fun at the field, but you’ll get your money’s worth soon.”
“Now don’t go making empty promises.”
“My game can still pick up,” he defends himself.
His makeup artist rolls his eyes in jest. “Girl, your numbers aren’t looking too good now. I’ve seen Moneyball.”
“And that makes you a baseball expert? What, you gonna compute my ERA?” Ken flings back, but with an easygoing smirk.
The studio thrums with organized chaos as the entire shoot falls into place. The set managers are shouting out orders to the crew and large boxes of equipment are wheeled across the floor. The commercial director can be seen muttering to herself as the lights crew test out different lighting layouts on the sleek motorcycle positioned in front of a greenscreen. While the noise gives him a headache, Ken still takes the experience as a welcome break from his dad and all that is going on at home. At least, until he overhears a nearby conversation mention your name.
“I heard that she’s stopping by to do an ocular on the shoot.”
“Doesn’t she have a fashion week to go to instead?”
“What is she even going to do here except cuddle up to Sato?”
“I bet she’s only visiting because he’s here.”
“She’s acting as if she knows what she’s doing but all she’s done is fuck up all the current systems.”
“These fucking influencers, man. They don’t know any actual shit about business, and think they can coast by with botox and veneers.”
“If she wants to fool around with her boy toy she should’ve asked her daddy to—”
“Hey,” His makeup artist speaks up before he can say anything. “Do you want to chat louder for the rest of us? We can’t hear you.”
The small group of crew members startle from the sarcastic bite, and hastily, they file away to get back to work. Ken only realizes then that his knuckles were turning white from the grip he had on his chair.
For the world always constricts you to specific S words. Scion. Socialite. Slut.
He notices when he scrolls through social media that it has gotten worse in the past few months when it was made public that you are officially being groomed for your new CEO position. It’s all sinister, from the comments on your body to the tweets regarding your shallowness.
He is pulled out of his thoughts when his makeup artist taps his clenched jaw.
The hairstylist coos at him as he tries to relax. “Aww, it’s okay Sato, we know how much your girlfriend means to you.”
“She’s…a friend,” Ken corrects her uncertainly. His makeup artist snorts in disbelief, but surprisingly does not comment.
The silence is getting a little uncomfortable for Ken. He bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying more.
“Ex?” His hairstylist supplies, hoping to be helpful.
“...no?” He sounds even more unsure now.
The group does not notice how the room goes a bit silent.
“She wasn’t asking a question.” His makeup artist points out as he contours his cheekbones. He cannot keep his curiosity at bay any longer as he continues, “So…baby mama?”
“She wishes,” Ken jokes to try to get them to drop the topic, and it is immediately greeted by a small round of amused snickers between them, including one that makes his stomach flip a bit.
“Do I?”
His hairstylist drops the brush she was holding, and his makeup artist nearly topples over his kit when he jumps back. Ken turns in his makeup chair to see you crossing your arms with a smirk on your face. You naturally draw attention, especially in the bold power suit you are wearing.
You turn to the head stage manager, who is standing near you. “How many minutes ‘til shooting?”
“T-thirty.”
“Thank you thirty.” You give her a glamorous smile. “I’ll borrow our star for a bit until then. I’ll have him back in fifteen.”
Before Ken can tell you to wait, he stumbles out of his chair as you grab his elbow. You escort him out of the studio and into the hallways, all eyes on you both. He regains his bearings, and tugs himself out of your hold to get you to stop your brisk walk.
“I need to get back there.”
You wave at him dismissively. “We have time.”
“You don’t understand,” his words firm up as he grabs your wrist to tug you back in the room. “We can’t be seen out here alone.”
Your attention is elsewhere, and when you spot a supply closet nearby you use his grip to pull him with you inside. He stumbles again as he follows you in, uttering protests when you proceed to lock the door.
The lighting of the closet is dim, and he has to steady himself with one hand against the shelf above your head with how cramped the space was. A mop falls and whacks the back of his head as you two adjust yourselves, and you stifle a giggle as he looks down at you, unamused.
Ken has no time for your jokes. “Do you have any idea what this would look like if people saw us like this?”
“They make stuff up all the time,” your breath hits his face with the familiar taste of your toothpaste. “This is urgent.”
“We can talk after the shoot,” he tries to reason with you. “Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but I heard them talking shit—”
“—you know that doesn’t matter to me—”
“And they’re saying that you came here just to see me—”
“Dude, I—”
“—so we need to get back as soon as possible before the shoot gets delayed.”
You clasp your hands over his mouth, shushing him to be quiet. Like instinct, his hands reach for you, softly holding your elbows. You look him dead in the eye as you say “But I did come here to see you.”
His stomach does a flip, and he eases closer to you. You rest your back uncomfortably on the shelves of detergent and floorwax.
“Y-you haven’t messaged me since the call,” you stammer, and he can feel from your touch the little anxious tremors that wrought your body. You have always been so confident out there, but just like Ken, you can get so vulnerable when you are alone. “I know this is inappropriate but my anxiety has been acting up the past few days and I can’t stop worrying that I did something wrong.”
He takes a sharp breath as he pulls your hands off his mouth by your elbows. Your hands slide down to the corners of his shoulders. “Oh shit— oh shit I’m sorry. I completely forgot— so much has been happening…And this doesn’t mean that I wasn’t thinking about you. I was. I always do.”
You relax at his rambling, and he struggles to shut himself up before he embarrasses himself.
You gently squeeze his shoulders to calm him down. “Okay, okay…that’s good. I was worried…that you started hating me again.”
“I never hated you,” he is quick to assure, even though deep down he knows that he had moments where he was close to. “I get mad but I don’t…I can’t imagine ever hating you.”
His hands fall from your elbows to rest against the shelf digging into the back of your waist. You loosely hold his biceps as you purse your lips. Your voice nearly cracks a bit when you say “Even after what happened three years ago?”
“Especially then.” He glances the soft bump of your throat as you take a nervous gulp.
“Kenji…” You look up to the low ceiling. “I…I shouldn’t have asked you to come over. It was stupid and impulsive.”
“I shouldn’t have agreed so quickly. I was being impulsive too.” The distant proximity is palpable to him as he counts the inches apart his chest is from your face. His neck aches from hunching over you.
“No, but I knew you would say yes,” you wearily sigh. Your head lolls to the side, still looking away from him. “I’m always the person who sets the boundaries and ends up breaking them.”
His silence says it all.
He agrees.
But it’s not like he doesn’t enjoy it when you do.
“I’m just standing by what I promised you,” he finally says. “Friends. We’ll always be that.”
You slowly nod. “It’s for the best. Did you record that call?”
“I was too worried about your arm.” He looks down at the sleeve of your suit jacket. You instinctively cross your arms and he misses the familiar warmth of your palms against his skin. His hand reaches up to touch the soft wool fabric. “Does it still hurt?”
“It’s healing pretty well. All in all it’s just a big bruise,” you shrug. “I’m… I’m glad you didn’t record it. I’m kind of embarrassed by…” You look down to your shoes. “...By what I said.”
There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he wants to say. But he knows he might be inviting something more, encouraging more in the future.
He changes the subject. “...You haven’t seen my dad in a while. He told me the other day.”
You finally look up at him again. “Been a bit busy, but I’ll make time. He still staying with you?”
“Yeah,” his tired tone tells all.
And he hates the look you put on whenever he mentions his dad— that measured, cautious stare marked by a hesitance to broach the subject. He cannot fault you for it because he never likes talking about his dad with anyone, but he doesn’t like it when you get like this.
“It’s fine,” his words cut through the quiet before you can say anything. “It’s…added company. It isn’t just me and Mina anymore.”
“But you see others all the time right?” You try to cheer him up.
“...What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, maybe like, your other friends?” You explain.
His mouth fills with a bitterness. He has never had any other friends he can say he is any close to. “...right,” he drawls.
“Ken, I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to be with you at any moment,” you say it so sincerely he almost winces. “Of course you have friends. You were getting along with the staff earlier.”
“That’s just small talk,” he deflects.
You look like you want to argue more, but you hold it in.
“Anyway, are we done here?” The closet was getting stuffier by the minute. “I don’t want them gossiping any more than they probably are right now. We’ve been in here for a bit.”
“They’re not saying anything new.”
He gives you a sharp glare, mirroring your crossed arms. “I don’t want you getting used to it.”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt,” you snip. “It just doesn’t concern you. I’m doing my best to handle it.”
Now that is the stupidest thing he has heard you say in a while. “By openly pulling me out of the room right in front of everyone? Yeah, you’re doing a great job at handling it.”
“What do you want from me?” Your voice raises higher than you want it to.
“To stop being so confusing with what you want!” He says before he thinks. “One day we’re just friends the next you’re pouting about me being too busy for you.”
“So if we weren’t interrupted by your dad, you wouldn’t have went to me?” You laugh without humor. “You’re the one who always acts like you’re going to die if I don’t give you attention. You haven’t changed in ten years.”
“And who is the one who is risking getting kicked out of the company just to see me for a few minutes? Who is the one who always looks like she’s about to cry over worrying about messing up with me?”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he towers over you.
“You know, you have a lot to say for a guy who always comes to me when I ask him to.”
He does not flinch.
You stand facing each other, the walls closing into you. Ken can feel the beads of sweat forming along his hairline as the temperature rises inside the closet from the heat of the tension.  If he was a weaker man, he might have just closed the seven inches that kept you apart. 
“This brings back memories,” he admits.
“Memories we’re not going to repeat,” you finish his thought, trying to take a step back in the minimal space.
“You practically pulled me in here.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to fuck you I would’ve pulled you into the restroom.”
“Like at that gas station?” He relishes in the way your face contorts, and he can’t help it— a chuckle escapes him that has you smacking his chest.
“Okay that was really fucking gross,” you cringe at the memory as he chuckles even harder. “It’s not funny!”
“You were definitely ovulating back then.” He lets you smack him some more, and he nearly bumps into the shelf in front of him as he hunches over even more in laughter. You struggle to keep the smile off your face as you let out your own small giggles.
You take a small step closer to Ken, and your back aches from the posture of having to look up at him. “That was years ago,” you whine but your giggling says otherwise.
“Okay, okay,” He raises his arms up to stop your assault, each hit getting weaker after the other. He cannot help the fond smile he shows when he looks down at you, and as you slowly stop shoving him against the shelves behind him, he lets you bury your face into his chest to hide your mortification.Together, your giggles slowly die down in the warm closet. He ruffles your hair comfortingly.
You mumble nonsense against his shirt. “You’re an asshole.”
“I know.”
“You promised you wouldn’t bring it up again.”
“I never said that.” He tries to peer down to your face but you refuse to lift your head up.
“You deserve to die in a fire.”
“Aw, you don’t mean that, baby.”
You lift your head up to give him a dirty look. “Ugh, shut up. ”
Without ceremony, you both shuffle out of the closet. The stale air of the hall feels chilly as it wafts through you two. Ken subconsciously fixes his hair and shirt even if there is no need to, the muscle memory of being close to you like that is kicking in.
“You better go back. I’ll hang around here for a bit before following so that it doesn’t look like we were doing anything,” you say as you wipe the sweat off your temple.
Ken bites the inside of his cheek. If they would’ve talked about us like that anyway, we should have just done something.
But he respects your agreement.
The shoot goes well and on-schedule. His makeup artist does not question why he needs a small touch-up, his bronzer slightly muddled from his sweat, but all in all he is a professional. The director gushes that he should go into modelling full-time when baseball stops working out. He cannot see you the entire shoot. The studio lights are too bright for him to see anything beyond the cameras pointing at him.
He tries not to make it obvious after they wrap that he searches for you throughout the studio, but when it is clear you have left midway the schedule, he says his polite goodbyes and heads over to the parking lot.
“Mina,” he commands into his motorcycle helmet as he climbs onto his ride. The AI buzzes to life. “I need you to send a quick email.”
Ken comes home to his dad doing yoga with Emi at the center of the Ultrabase. Emi’s large head combined with her tiny little arms makes her struggle with the triangle pose, but she is diligently following her grandfather. She lets out tiny squawks to ask if she is doing it right.
“That’s it little Emi,” Professor Sato encourages her gleefully. “Just stretch out to the sky.”
Before Ken can say anything, Mina flies circles around the baby. “Look, Emi! Daddy’s home!”
The baby kaiju nearly falls over when she spots Ken coming out of the elevator. The floor rumbles with every step as she runs towards him, and he sees his dad struggle to keep himself on his feet from the mini earthquakes. His ears fill with her excited gurgling. The sight of a large monster bounding straight at him does not faze him any longer, and with practiced proficiency he transforms into Ultraman in a blink of an eye and catches his little Emi.
“Hi cutie Emi! You’re bonding with your jiji?” His fatigue melts away when she immediately chirps in response. She wiggles in his hold excitedly. Ken sits cross-legged as he sets her down on his lap, letting her crawl around as much as she likes.
His dad finds his walking stick, and he slowly hobbles towards him. He looks more frail when Ken is in his Ultraman form. “She’s getting more flexible by the moment,” he shouts for Ken to hear. “Emi saw me do some of my physical therapy exercises and she wanted to join in.”
Emi purrs in agreement. He strokes her head as she settles into his lap.
“That’s good. She’s been kind of gaining weight—”
“Kenji, that’s not nice to say about a young girl,” Mina chimes in.
“You know that’s not what I meant Mina.” His bright irises shoot daggers at the floating robot, who only beeps back.
“I understand,” his dad says mirthfully. “Better to keep her in a healthy weight or else she might struggle to hold her head up by herself.”
“Thank you, dad,” He exhales before giving another pointed look at Mina, his emotionless silver face saying it all.
This is the first time they have agreed on anything in the past few days.
“So…dad…I…” It is easier for him to talk to his dad in this form, oddly enough. It creates a good distance, a boundary. It feels less real and intimate.
Professor Sato tilts his head to the side when he hears his tone. “Yes? Did anything go wrong today?”
“No! No, everything was fine today. Great day at work,” he stalls. “Thanks for looking after Emi while I was away.”
“Anytime, Kenji.”
“And thanks…thanks for…sticking around. I wasn’t being fair to you last night and I shouldn’t have gotten mad.” He slumps in his gigantic form, a show of penance.
Professor Sato grips the head of his cane a little tighter, as he looks up at his son. “Kenji, I hope you know I’m proud of you for apologizing like that. You didn’t have to because I know you didn’t mean what you said, but…It means a lot to me that you still took the opportunity to.”
Ken’s shoulders might have sagged in relief if he didn’t hear the words ‘I’m proud of you’ come out of his dad’s mouth. If anything, he freezes up.
“Kenji?”
“...Y-yeah…Um, thanks, dad.” He tolds Emi tighter on his lap, and the baby just purrs more at the added comfortable pressure.
“He got something for you,” Mina tells Professor Sato as she hovers nearby.
“You didn’t have to do that,” his dad brightens up. “What is it?”
He pauses a second too long, so Mina projects a screen showing your calendar schedule for the next day. While the other appointments are censored, at the bottom it clearly states ‘8PM - Meeting with Hayao Sato.’
“I, uh, I know you haven’t seen her in a while so I emailed her assistant to schedule something,” He mumbles, sheepish about doing something nice for his dad for once. “She’s coming here, so you two can stay upstairs while I watch Emi in the basement.”
“That’s…” Hayao is silent for a moment. “That’s really kind of you Kenji. Thank you.”
“No problem….dad…”
Hayao let out a loud sigh, and Mina brings over a stool for him to sit on. “Honestly, I’m glad she still wants to see me.”
“Why wouldn’t she?” He asks, confused. He never hears about you and his dad fighting. He does not think you ever have.
“Well…She must have not taken the fact that you’re Ultraman quite well.”
Now Kenji was fully at a loss as to what his dad was talking about. He leans forward to hear him better. “She doesn’t know. I didn’t tell her. You and mom made me swear not to tell anyone.”
His dad startles at this revelation. “You never did? I…I was afraid of seeing her because I thought she knew.��
“Why did you expect me to tell her?” He is annoyed. Sure, you are his closest friend, but he understands the gravity of concealing his hero identity.
“Because I told her I was Ultraman.”
The revelation shocks him stiff that his colortimer goes off. The sudden shift to his human form causes him to trip over himself and fall on his bottom. Emi cries as she suddenly falls down to the ground as well, but she mitigates her stress to turn to her own daddy to check if he is okay. She squints her beady eyes in concern for him as she crawls towards his smaller form.
But Kenji treads around her to walk straight for his dad.
“What do you mean she knows?! She knew all this time and she didn’t tell me?”
Hayao raises a hand to gesture for him to calm down. “I only told her when I got injured. She was the only one left here that I can trust.”
“That’s still months. Why hasn’t she said anything?” He laughs bitterly. Fuck, you think you know someone.
“I don’t know,” his dad croaks. “And she has her reasons, but that’s not important now—”
“What do you mean it isn’t important now? My best friend knew my deepest secret this entire time! I, I needed someone to talk to about this, dad. You don’t understand—”
“You can shout at me more later.” His dad got up from his seat, impatient. “What I need to know now is if you’ve told her about your ultra.”
“For the last time, no!” He spits out. “I would have, if either of you fucking told me she knew about you.”
“Then you best keep it that way,” his dad grunts, muttering to himself.
Kenji runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Hell no. I’m telling her as soon as I see her.”
“That is a bad idea.” His dad stomps his cane into the floor. “Under no circumstances should you tell her or anyone else that you are the Ultraman. You can let her know that I used to be, but you absolutely cannot tell her about yourself.”
“She’s probably smart enough to have figured out that I am Ultraman! What’s the issue?”
“No, no she wouldn’t think you are…” His dad mutters to himself, and Ken is confused as to why he sounds so sure that you don’t. “She most likely thinks I have taken up a protégé.”
Emi chirps with more worry as she watches them fight. The yelling makes her flinch, and Ken can tell that if this stretches out longer, her fear response will kick in.
He runs his hands over his face, groaning, before reluctantly nodding. “Fine, you win. But I’m definitely asking her why she never said anything.”
“Okay, okay good…” Hayao collapses on the stool, the fight tiring him out. The absolute relief on his face stuns Ken, who takes a step back before walking away without saying anything else.
He leaves the basement angrier than he was when he left the dining table last night, feelings of shock and betrayal coursing through his blood.
His dad is hiding something from him.
You are hiding something from him.
And this definitely goes beyond regular superhero secrecy.
A/N: okie fun stuff abt the process of writing this chapter
- i actually wanted to write an entire fic exploring and showcasing my character analysis of kenji sato especially centering on his relationship w his dad, but i was worried that it was going to be boring lmao since last chapter that him sucking faces with u so i decided to stagger it throughout the rest of his story. it's bc i saw some ppl online saying like "others only care about kenji bc hes hot but they mischaracterize him bc of it they dont know him like i do." and when i saw that i went. "hm this definitely isnt abt me...maybe it's u who doesnt know him like i do" so i feel the need to prove that i understand hes sexy but with layers lmao so that i can have the license to slut him out as much as i want !!! it's because it is really important for me that the reader in the story feels like an actual character who contributes to the plot as opposed to just being tacked on the movie, and with that, it means figuring out what you can do for kenji.
- a lot of the comments tell me that i characterize kenji well and i feel like it's because i relate to him so much? it feels like his spirit possesses me when i write for him lmao he and reader werent actually supposed to fight in the closet but while i was writing the dialogue i felt him being pissed off by what u r saying and i just went w it.
- "thank you (time)" is actually a time-keeping courtesy during productions because it shows that you are aware of the time! not everyone does it but it's fun
- moneyball is a really popular baseball film that uses baseball as a backdrop for us to explore the human experience of being undervalued for who you can be. u should watch it!
- i will write the gas station scene and it will be explicit. >:) . yes it's as gross as it sounds but in a hot way.
finally, i want to give you a warning: the next chapters might be lighthearted, but soon i will be delving deeper into kenji's insecurities and abandonment issues, coupled with the situationship. if you have ever been in a situationship or seen one happen, you know that shit qualifies for a veteran discount due to all the horrors you witness. dare i say it is worse than testicular torture. What makes a situationship so devastating is when both people involved bring in their insecurities with them. i need to give the reader a solid amount of flaws for this to work.
u may hate urself and what u will do. (i doubt it's anything new lmao)
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vintagegeekculture · 1 year ago
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So even though it's kind of the Marvel line, Stan Lee and Jack Kirby didn't really quite reignite Superheroes, the Flash was around a good bit before. But nothing would have been the same without Marvel breathing new life into the genre. What state do you think comics would have been in if instead of writing the Fantastic Four Stan Lee had quit to go sell used cars? Was it inevitable someone would have paired with Jack to do it? What would comics and pop culture look like now instead?
I'm a Marvel True Believer first and foremost, but I think you're underselling how enormously successful Justice League of America was from 1960-1969. Marvel books, especially Fantastic Four (at the time, the "flagship" Marvel comic of the 1960s) regularly topped the polls as favorites for the serious fans in 60s fanzines like Alter Ego, but they were not top sellers until 1970, when Marvel acquired their own distributor. Prior to that, Marvel published their books through DC, who made sure Marvel's runs were lower. They also limited the amount of books that Marvel could print, which is why books like Tales of Suspense had two characters in them (Captain America and Iron Man shared a book). As soon as Marvel got their own distribution, they pushed DC out of the top selling lists.
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Justice League of America was a huge success when it came out, for a reason that may surprise people: nostalgia. Essentially a revival of the 1940s heroes, it was a huge hit because the adult audience bought it.
It's interesting how nostalgia itself as a cultural concept with actual power is a kind of recent phenomenon. Prior to the 1980s, there were huge volumes of books aimed at old people like Hallmark's "Remember When?" books.
I do think the single greatest what-if of the Marvel Age is one you didn't mention: what if Joe Maneely had lived to work on the Marvel Universe?
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Whenever Stan Lee was asked who the greatest artist he ever worked with was, his response was unexpected: Joe Maneely, a name that even some serious fans of the Silver Age may find unfamiliar. But Joe Maneely worked with Stan extensively in the 1950s in Marvel's non-superhero comics like Black Knight and Yellow Claw. He was a beautiful artist, a professional who was always punctual, and even more so, he understood and developed the "language" of comics, and had an even better relationship with Stan than Jack Kirby did, who, by all accounts, was a genius artist but was, interpersonally, a difficult, sullen wound collector who had difficulty keeping friendships (as his Captain America co-creator Joe Simon can attest; he and Jack had a "breakup" long before he ever met Stan).
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Meanwhile, contrast all those interpersonal problems with the difficult to get along with Kirby, with how Joe Maneely used to draw him and Stan holding hands and walking through the park together and so on.
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The downside is that Joe Maneely died at a young age, 1958, in a tragic accident where he fell between railway cars, all 3 years before Fantastic Four. He was the biggest Atlas-era Marvel artist to never work on the Marvel Universe.
A Marvel Universe with Joe Maneely as the major creative force alongside Stan Lee is a change so deep and fundamental I have no idea what it even would look like.
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victusinveritas · 8 months ago
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Writing advice from a good sci fi author.
Some science fiction/fantasy creative writing students I have encountered, a field guide
1. World-Savers: these are generally older students, have no real interest in SF/F, are writing a book to express political or metaphysical ideas they consider to be radical and necessary for the future of life on Earth. In reality, they're writing long Platonic dialogues about their ideas, and authority from various culture and pop culture tropes (aliens, noble savages, fairies, resurrected presidents)–to the extent that their work has a plot at all, it involves a Christ figure transforming the world via a sacrifice. The ideas aren't very radical either: "pollute less" and "love your neighbor, unless they're a dick" are common. Occasionally the message for the world has to do with something more prosaic: reverse budgeting, the evils of Affirmative Action, the importance of installing solar panels, how dare Eileen divorce me and fuck like three guys in the six months after she moved out, etc. These students are utterly confused by actually existing SF/F stories they read, and often interpret them in bizarrely sexual ways. They don't believe in numbering the pages of their manuscripts, and often attempt to submit work in PDF so it won't be stolen.
2. Children with Money: recent college grads, or drop-outs, these people have read Harry Potter, Twilight, and perhaps three or four other best-selling young adult series and nothing else. They are easily upset, especially when someone suggests reading more. Their main interests are YouTube personalities, video games, and a sort of Puritanical pansexuality that actually makes smut boring. They often "forget" to read the work of other students, and have no idea how to use a printer. They warn the other students that their story might be "too intense" because it contains, for example, a depiction of a car accident. Their stories are routinely awful, and always contain a character named "Aidan." Sometimes their parents come to class to make sure I am "not a serial killer", as though they could possibly tell from looking at me. (Oh, "Mamatas" IS a white person name...I guess?)
3. Anointed Ones: They contact me, or the people running the workshop, beforehand, to make sure that "the class is right" for them. They have file cabinets full of their stuff, and after many decades of toil, they are ready to reveal their work to the world. They just need a mentor, and an ally—could I be the one they've been searching for lo these many years? Prior workshops were full of callow teachers and jealous students. Why they were only allowed to submit ten pages a week! Some of them have actually read fairly widely, but you wouldn't know it from their work: three adjectives per noun, a fetish for speech tags other than the word "said" or no tags at all. Often these stories include as characters philosophical prostitutes with very sensitive nipples. They never miss a class and often show up more than thirty minutes early. One time, I had to hide in a closet to avoid an extensive pre-class conversation with one.
4. Frightened Proles: These have read Stephen King and Dean Koontz and sometimes even horror writers from this century. They generally have working-class jobs and write about working people who encounter the supernatural on the late shift. They really hope they can sell their novel soon, but they know it'll take a lot of work. (Ten more drafts oughta do it!) They wear baseball hats to class and look like enormous eight-year-olds. They get very excited when I mention professional wrestling or do a taiji move in class. Their significant others are often nameless—"my girlfriend" "my wife." They buy my books and bring them to class for autographs. Some of them get published after, especially flash fiction.
5. Repairables: decent writers, often involved in the SFF "scene", who need to be fixed after a bad experience with Clarion or another workshop or an overeager editor at a semipro magazine who told them some idiot nonsense they decided to believe because they were told it was "unprofessional" not to consider editorial feedback. These either get published...or lost to MFA programs, video game jobs, fandom, podcasts, or other writing-shaped pursuits. Most of them are ferocious name-droppers; the ones who heard of me beforehand know to keep quiet though.
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