#Video Interviewing Tools

[kovacic444]

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[lokiii909]

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[jdunlevy]

Oral History Metadata Synchronizer (OHMS)

I came across this by quite the circuitous route, but it’s very cool and I think exactly fits the bill of what I was looking for as a way to index—and increase discoverability of—and present audio and video content like interviews and first-person narratives—whether “oral histories” or not.

OHMS is a two-piece system for, first (free web account required), creating a timecoded index (and) or transcript from an audio video source and then, second, an open-source way of presenting that audio or video on the web so that it is searchable and allows for easy navigation to specific points of interest from the index.

Reading up on OHMS in turn led me to Omeka, a new-to-me open source CMS and web platform—or rather “platforms for sharing digital collections and creating media-rich online exhibits.” I could see this being useful not just for sites for libraries, museums, exhibits, and the humanities, but also for news and journalism projects—thinking deep-dive sorts of treatments and “microsites.”

Links:

Oral History Metadata Synchronizer (OHMS) site

How to start using OHMS

OHMS Viewer README at github

Using OHMS with Omeka

Omeka

“OHMS and Omeka: The OHMS Plugin Suite” by Douglas A. Boyd, March 6, 2019, digitalomnium.com

Finally, how great is this 2013 Leonard Nimoy oral history from the Yiddish Book Center? It’s a great demostration of OHMS, but also a great unusual narrative from Nimoy, who is at least trying to speak Yiddish throughout. Fascinating!

[cortexreaver]

maybe im just stupid and not thinking hard enough about it but i don't really understand why people are up in arms about how ai-generated art is going to make it easier to spread misinformation when it's already effortless to spread misinformation. you don't even need to be skilled at image manipulation or anything you can post a pic of whatever the fuck and claim it's something else and get enough traction for it to reach masses of people who dont bother fact checking shit. lying online is easy and people have been doing it for as long as the internet has been around we are aware of this yeah

[littleroomba]

dan howell during interviews

[video ID: the word ME handwritten in all caps. the M is circled and selected, then, using a rotate tool, turned into a W, so that the word spells WE instead.] description by @dnp-described

[plutoswritingplanet]

Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.1

a/n: guys... you can't tell me y'all weren't expecting this. Title from the song "Vicarious" by Tool. Really wanted this to be a one shot, but as usual, I have shit to say. Will be Cross-Posted on AO3 as soon as they open the site back up.

Warnings: Nothing Explicit YET, some sexist remarks and creepy behavior from the man of the hour, Questionable Corporate Ethics, Set Before The Events Of The Show, Reader is written to be Plus Size.

Summary: Sidekick projects have been scraped completely after numerous accidents, but as a viral video of your hero work makes rounds through the public, you're forced to take part in a six moths program, that will forever change your life, as well as Homelander's

PT.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5

It all started with a video. An insignificant, minute-long nothing posted to TikTok by an account, that up until then, made short edits specifically of A-Train and some B-list no-name hero. Quickly, it gained traction, making rounds throughout the app, bleeding over to other services, all the way to national television. First, an independent local station, soon picked up by a Vaught-affiliated one. Normally, that's where it would've stayed. Stillwell would extend an offer of a chance at an interview, alongside one of the Seven. But for some unknown reason, that small piece of nothing climbed all the way up to the floor eighty-two of Vaught Tower.

Well, to be quite honest, Stillwell knew exactly why she was in this situation. After a very messy graduation speech at a small college, Homelander lost almost twenty points with a young adult demographic. It would've been an easy fix, if not for the delicate nature of the breached subject, and Madelyn knew, this sudden interest in a nobody from nowhere, who, coincidentally, fit the demographic perfectly, was anything but a happy accident. It was a test, both for Homelander, and for her.

Which is why, Madelyn Stillwell and Homelander, the Homelander, the most American supe to ever exist, are cooped up in your living room, glancing about the modest decor, as you pour iced tea into three glasses with tacky fruit print all over them.

You've refused every single invitation, every single Vaught representative that knocked on your door. Your inbox was flooded with emails, your phone number was blowing up two, three times a day. And yet, your answer remained the same. You were not interested in a collaboration, thank you for the opportunity, please leave me alone.

That wouldn't fly, not with Madelyn, who, pushed by the constant nagging from the upper levels of the Tower, decided a more direct approach was the right one. So, she dragged herself into this… Well, to be quite honest, bum-fuck-nowhere, and brought her star pupil with her. No one would refuse working with Homelander himself, after all. At least that's what they both thought.

-I appreciate the effort - there's a practiced, borderline bored intonation in your voice, and Homelander's hands flex on his thighs - But I've already talked with, um, Jerry? From HR? The answer is still no.

Your house is small, but cozy, with sunshine pouring through the windows, reflecting onto the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to your kitchen. An artist's home, through and through. Homelander hates it, hates the ordinariness of it all. He was so much above all this, sitting on your worn down couch physically hurt him. And the smell. The smell was the worst part. Reheated lasagna, mixing with a lingering aftertaste of cigarette smoke, and an undercurrent of weed, that almost made him retch. If it weren't for that damned video, you would be nothing more, than another brainless ant under his boot.

-Well, we - Madelyn offers her best, brilliant smile, gesturing to herself and Homelander - are very passionate about discovering new talent.

Your mouth twitches into a knowing smile, and for just a second Homelander feels flames of intrigue rising in his chest. Not for long, though, because you recline back into an armchair, taking a sip of the iced tea, and his eyes flash to the way your throat moves as you swallow. You could be hot, he concludes. Young, and with a truly spectacular rack. But there was something off about you, like you were constantly on the verge of dying from boredom, some invisible weight always on your shoulders. No amount of fake smiles and high-end makeup could cover that up.

He'd fuck you. If you'd beg him.

-We want to offer you a new, revised contract - Stillwell extends her hand with a rather thick binder of papers, and you hesitate for a moment, before reaching over. - Hopefully, it will make you reconsider.

You don't even show them the decency of looking through it, placing it on the table instead, and Homelander feels an itch form itself in the corners of his eyes. Stillwell looks taken aback as well, her brilliant smile faltering for just a second. You on the other hand, take another sip of your drink, before placing it right in the middle of the contract, the moisture from the ice creating a wet circle in the paper.

Your heartbeat is even, it doesn't pick up even a smidgen, when you look between Stillwell and America's Greatest Hero, who is slowly but surely growing annoyed by your persistent indifference.

-Thank you, but I already said no - you repeat, and this time, Homelander shifts on the couch.

-And why not? - he asks, tension entering his voice in a way, that makes Madelyn squirm - Countless supes, with much more impressing powers than you, I might add, would kill to be in your place.

"To work with me" goes unsaid, but he can see in your eyes, you read it from thin air of superiority engulfing him. Annoyingly perceptive. You nod your head slowly, before turning away from them, looking out of the window of your living room. There's a small patch of grass, and a second house, so similar to yours, but at the same time, completely different. Your chin sticks out in its direction, and Homelander follows with his eyes.

There are paper butterflies stuck to the windows, cut out clumsily, most likely by children's hands.

-My neighbour, Missus Johnson - you explain - She lives there, with her three kids. Her husband died in a fire caused by your friend, Lamp Lighter.

Madelyn stills, Homelander raises an eyebrow.

-I can afford this house, only because my mother signed an NDA, after The Deep sank my father's fishing boat. - again, your heart stays completely unaffected - Accidentally, of course.

-I was not aware… - Madelyn starts, and it's hard to decipher whether she's talking to you, or Homelander.

Someone at the research department is going to have a very unpleasant evening.

-That's alright - you interrupt her with a raised hand and a small smile - This whole neighborhood is filled with similar cases. And I'm very, very attached to this place.

Why, Homelander couldn't tell. For all he knew, this was some shit hole, right in the suburbs outside New York. Not even the half decent ones. A forgotten by everyone, dying piece of land, that housed insignificant humans, who would never amount to anything, you included. He lived in a lavish apartment, inside a miracle of modern architecture. Who wouldn't want the same?

-And - there's something new entering your tone of voice - If I'm going to betray everything I stand for, I need to give something back to those people. Does your contract reflect that?

Madelyn bites the inside of her cheek, her scrutinizing gaze making your skin itch. Still, she sighs after a moment, excusing herself with that same, practiced expression she uses on every shareholder. Homelander follows her out, nodding his goodbye to you, but before he can leave this dump, Madelyn stops him with a hand pressed against his chest. She gives him one look, makes him aware that his job isn't over, and he can feel the muscles of his face twitch.

So, obediently, he lingers in your doorway, taking a few calming breaths, before facing you once more.

You've changed positions, your armchair abandoned in favor of sitting by the window, one leg bent in a way, that shows quite a nice view of your calf, your long skirt pooling around you. Homelander's eyes trail up with mild interest, and he indulges in his X-ray vision. He's just being curious, nothing more.

Your underwear is, well, for the lack of a better word, plain. The bra seems to be slightly ill fitted, digging into the sides of your breasts, making them almost spill from under your pits, and Homelander swallows thickly at the sight. There are little, pink hearts on your panties. The colors are dull and washed out from frequent use, and the once frilly lace is starting to fray at the edges.

Apparently Vaught's compensation was not sufficient for you to buy some decent undergarments.

-Do you want something to eat? Drink? - you ask from your place by the window, and Homelander is snatched back to reality - Do you even need food?

The bluntness of the question startles him, makes him feel defensive, but Madelyn wanted results, so he puts on a mask of his trained smile, and crosses the room. Back straight like an arrow, he looks wildly out of place between all the linens and cushions. He doesn't look at you, trapping your smaller form in the confinement of the window, as he watches over the neighboring house.

-I'm not hungry - he shoots down your offer with a wave of his hand - I've already eaten.

A lie, but he'd never stoop low enough to take any leftovers, especially from you. Still, the offer seems nice. He does like being pampered, even if it's with lackluster things. Your eyes linger on his boyish smile, another practiced thing, and Homelander shifts focus to your heartbeat once again.

-Alright then - your voice sounds indifferent as ever - Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to make some dinner for myself.

He offers a small nod, and watches you from his position by the window, as you slip past him. It does require quite a lot of manoeuvering, but you manage to stand without touching him. He has to admit, watching you balance, as you try to avoid him, was amusing. Still, your heart beats calmly, and, not wanting to be left on his own, Homelander follows you to your kitchen. The beads of the courtain drum delicately over the bronze eagles on his shoulders.

The fridge is buzzing something awful. He can see just how run down the inside mechanism is, the hinges squeaking unbearably, as you reach for a box of reheatable spaghetti. There's cheep beer inside, a moldy lemon, a carton of milk pretty close to expiring, and a half-used bottle of spicy ketchup. Homelander doesn't even recognize these brands, they're not sponsored by Vaught, that's for sure.

Cheap, tasteless, basically offering no nutritional value.

-Would you step back for a second? - he asks, already wrenching himself between you and that pathetic excuse of a meal.

Again, your body sways to avoid touching him, and for some unknown reason, he finds it very amusing.

Then, you watch with a raised eyebrow, as he turns towards your spaghetti, a red sheen overtaking his eyes. An unbearably hot beam shoots out, making the insides of the plastic packaging sizzle. Finally, that gets him a reaction, as you gasp and reel back, colliding with the barely functional fridge. Your heart does a flip inside your chest, and Homelander soaks up your shock like a man starved.

Only when the red fizzles out of his gaze do you dare to move, approaching him slowly, your eyes bearing into him in a way that is frankly uncomfortable.

He turns to you with another one of his charming smiles, trying to handle this sudden scrutiny in as flippant a way as possible.

-I had no idea you can control the intensity of your lazer - you admit, voice slightly breathless.

-Pretty neat, huh? - perhaps he's fishing for more attention, but he doesn't care, because your eyes light up for just a moment in sheer wonder.

-Super cool, actually.

Yeah. Yeah, that's fucking right, he is super cool. And your heart is beating so much faster, and finally you're looking at him as if he's more than just some guy, some living advertisement you're determined to ignore.

And then your eyes shift, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, as you zero in on his shoulder. Something akin to a wave of amusement flickers across your expression, and to his general surprise, Homelander wants to know what's the cause of this shift. Your lips pull back into a smile, teeth peaking at him in all their glory. He can almost imagine them running down his skin, before he pushes the thought back all together, as the lower portion of his suit becomes slightly too tight for comfort.

-Well, thank you for saving the spaghetti - your eyes hold a spark of amusement - My hero.

Okay, alright, he's hard. There's no point denying it. However annoying and insignificant you were moments before, your quip goes straight to his loins, burning enough, for him to consider just how mad Stillwell would be, if he'd have a taste of this newly discovered talent.

If he stands any closer to you, he might find out, because this special little moment you two have shared, is crudely interrupted by Madelyn clearing her throat. Homelander nearly jumps back, you however barely turn your head, reaching for your spaghetti and arming yourself with a fork.

-I've spoken to my supervisor - Stillwell announces, clearly peeved by the way you start chewing on the noodles - A new version of the contract will be emailed to you as soon as possible. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.

-Thank you, Miss Stillwell - you answer with an inclination of your head.

With that, Madelyn nods her goodbye at you, refusing to shake your hand, which does amuse you, you're not going to lie. Homelander however, goes all out, capturing your fork-weilding arm, his fingers sneaking around your wrist like a bracelet. Or a shackle. Then, you watch with a confused arch to your eyebrows, as he brings you closer, until his lips press onto the protruding knuckles. Now that, admittedly, gets your heart going. You were not an easily embarrassed person, not by a long shot, but you could feel blood rushing towards your face all the same.

He has to hold his breath, as he kisses your hand in that charming, gentleman way he's seen in old movies. The smell of pasteurized tomato sauce blows in his direction, like a direct assault on his senses. Still, he needed something that would make you swoon. If everything failed, he knew how to be intimidating, but for now, perhaps he wanted to try something different. Something that would yield much more pleasant results, for the both of you. Mostly for him, let's be honest.

Madelyn asks him to stay back, spy on you throughout the night, and he begrudgingly agrees, if only to mask the fact, that he would do so of his own volition, had she not brought it up. And as such, he floats into the rapidly cooling air, disappearing into the darkening sky, where you wouldn't be able to see him even if you tried. He could see you however, and hear you, and he was about to make the most of the situation.

He spends the whole evening just watching you exist within your space. Normally, it would piss him off beyond belief. You weren't doing anything scandalous, anything that could warrant his attention. And yet, as he floats on, in time lowering himself just slightly, to get a better view, he just can't seem to look away. The spaghetti is gone in approximately fifteen minutes, as you inhale the supermarket food, walking around the living room, the kitchen, getting a few bites on the porch even. You seem so utterly unfazed by the events of the past hour, like you haven't just had America's Greatest Superhero try to convince you to work with him. It's honestly insulting, this lack of reaction.

Then, finally, he can hear a distinct ping of a new email come from your laptop, and you sit down on the couch with a small huff. Your eyes move, your lips twitch, and then he hears your heart stop in your chest. As if working on autopilot, your hand travels up, covers your mouth in shock, and you lean back against the worn-down sofa, eyes glued to the screen illuminating your face in a blue-ish light.

-...fuck… - you whisper, and despite himself Homelander floats even closer to your window.

Finally, he has the chance to peak over the curtain. To sneak into the backstage of the award winning production of your defenses, and see what goes on in those bored eyes of yours, when they're not guarded. And what he sees makes his suit feel much too tight, his body too warm. Quite an unusual thing to get so worked up about, but he's the goddamned Homelander, he can get hard whenever he fucking wants. And so, as saliva gathers on his tongue, he presses himself against the tiles on your roof, all the warmth of the day soaking into his skin through the thick material of his suit.

With a shaky hand you reach over towards your phone, putting in a number and pressing the call button, before standing straight from the couch, almost knocking the laptop over.

-Hey, what's up? - someone says on the other end of the line, and Homelander tries to focus more on the words flowing from the receiver.

-Oh, you gotta sit down for that one - you warn with an anxious chuckle, taking the familiar place by the window.

With your free hand you reach up to open the window all the way. Then, Homelander sees your fingers slip between the pillows and pull out a rather beaten up pack of cigarettes.

Naughty, naughty, he thinks, watching you produce a lighter from that same hiding place.

-Alright, I'm sat like never before.

The voice sounds vaguely female, although the shitty quality of your phone makes it hard to decipher. Your lips pull back into a toothy grin, and you blow out the smoke through the window. It curls upwards and dissipates into the air, right above the roof, where Homelander swallows thickly around a coughing fit.

-You will not believe who visited me today…

-The ICE - the voice deadpans, and you snort around another huff of smoke.

-Pretty fucking close, let me tell you - he doesn't appreciate the joke, not at all - Fucking Homelander.

The line goes completely quiet for a moment, and with every second your grin seems to be growing.

-Deadass?

-Yup - your lips purse, and Homelander zeroes in on the expression - Flew in all Star's Spangled Glory with some Vaught big fish. They tried to convince me to join the Seven.

-And obviously you said yes, because what the fuck else do you do in that situation?

Your grin slowly fades away, and you lean your forehead on the window frame.

-You didn't?

-I didn't.

Again, it's quiet.

Homelander shifts a bit in his position, adjusting against the warmed up tiles of the roof, his X-ray vision bearing into you. Out of curiosity, he looks deeper, eyes floating over your insides. You're relatively healthy. Some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing too serious. And despite that nasty habit lodged between your fingers, your lungs are clear, at least for now. There's a softness to your body, your muscles barely visible, as if you're just another gray human. Oh, and there's a bit of an eyesight problem forming, not enough to warrant glasses, but that shouldn't take long, considering your lifestyle.

-The contract they gave me was really good, you know - you muse to the phone, your leg dangling from the windowsill - Six months of working under Homelander, a Sidekick kinda situation.

-I thought they scraped the Sidekick program - the person on the other side wonders - Too many casualties or something.

-Yeah, well I guess they want to bring it back.

-Why did you say no then? I'm sure they pay is gigantic.

Again, you smile. This one much more reserved, bordering on sad. There's that strange kind of exhaustion settling into your bones again, same one Homelander noticed when he first saw you. Your shoulders slump forward, and you curl into yourself between the cushions.

-It was, it was… - you mutter - But I needed something more, for the neighborhood, ya know?

Your caller hums softly in understanding, and Homelander feels like something is passing him by. Some unspoken fact, that you and your friend find obvious.

-And - you hesitate, eyes flickering towards the laptop, your heart beat picking up ever so slightly - They sent me a revised contract. And it's fucking good. Really fucking good. It could help this entire place get back on its feet.

-But you still don't want to - the voice says for you, without judgement.

-No - you sigh - I really, really don't.

-Say no then - your friend supplies, and once again Homelander feels a flame of annoyance start to burn within him - No one else knows about the contract, there will be no expectations.

Slowly, you nod your head, clearly relieved by the way your friend reacted to the news. Homelander however, caught you right where he needed you. That's your lever. Not seduction, not intimidation, just plain, stupidly human guilt.

-Thank you - you whisper into your phone, finally smiling again - Oh, wanna know one more thing?

-Obviously.

-Homelander's wearing a padded suit.

Something's stuck in his throat, as he reels back from his position. Before he can stop himself, his eyes begin to glow red, because how the fuck did you know?

-Okay, that's bullshit.

-Unless his shoulder dislocated in the middle of talking, then no, it's definitely not bullshit.

Your friend gives out a choked laugh, one which you mirror with your own. If Homelander wasn't so utterly flabbergasted by your (correct) observation, he would've stopped to appreciate the sound. As it stands, however, he pushes himself off your roof, a couple of broken pieces falling off of the tiles. And then he's up in the air, cutting through the winds, headed straight for the Tower, leaving you in the comfort of your insignificant, smelly home.

The contract is leaked before the sun is up.

You're awoken to thousands of news articles flooding your timeline, all listing the truly wonderful and selfless points in the fated email. With a white face, you read them all, the speculations, the theories, the angry comments about you being chosen without an actual casting, while all those up and coming supes are busting their asses in auditions.

Soon enough, you're visited by every neighbour possible, congratulating, thanking you. A barbecue is set in the street, as a way of celebration, and you want to throw your phone, and subsequently yourself into the nearest river.

Madelyn Stillwell sends you an email, scheduling a meeting at the Vaught Tower. No need for pleasantries at this point, you stare at the bare bones invitation. "We eagerly await the start of our partnership" looks back at you, mocking your resolve. And thus, the end of your life as you know it begins.

"Project Delinquent"

The words are printed in an ugly, corporate font, and they stare back at you, outlining the mold you're supposed to fit in, in such a perfect way, it actually, almost makes you retch. True, during high school you were quite the little rebel, but people grown and learn, and seeing your character be watered down to that simple word, does send a wave of nausea through your insides. Even if this is hell of your own making, even if you're ready to swallow it all down with a smile, there's a pang of humiliation stinging your heart.

The armchair in Stillwell's office is uncomfortably narrow. It barely has enough room to accommodate your hips, and you wonder if this design is intentional. There is a growing ache in your calves, as you sit so close to the edge, you can't fully relax into your position, balancing on your feet instead. The armrests dig into your sides, and the way the sun is shining through the gigantic windows of the office, is shaping this charade of a meeting into an overstimulating nightmare. Still, you endure. For all the wonderful benefits enclosed in your contract, the charity work Vaught is going to supply.

Or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself, stuck between the marketing department representatives and a literal Devil of a woman.

Madelyn Stillwell doesn't know what to make out of you. Your files were filled with all sorts of questionable activity, especially around the college area. It's honestly a miracle you've managed to get your degree, and attend all those silly little demonstrations at the same time. Your criminal record has been wiped clean, weeks before you even agreed to sign the contract, just in case any leaks would find their way into the media. Leaks that were not orchestrated by Madelyn, of course.

High school rebellion was almost too easily marketable, Madelyn decided to focus on that part of your life as much as possible, her vision slowly coming to fruition. All she needed, really, was cooperation. And while you seemed to be mostly receptive to her ideas, she needed to make sure Homelander was on his best behavior. Which, well… Could go sideways in the worst way imaginable, but Stillwell tried to have some faith in her best superhero.

The idea of releasing details of your contract to the public, was a stroke of genius, she did not expect from Homelander, and she made sure he was thoroughly rewarded. With him, it was always better to choose the hands-on approach, unfortunately. With you, however, ideals were the key. Whatever feeling of solidarity you harbored towards your neighborhood, provided a leverage relatively easy to control. Still, as Stillwell looked you over, crammed into her office in your, frankly, lousy attire, she couldn't help but be just a tad worried about your compliance.

-…And then - the marketer continues with a dramatic gasp - Homelander comes in. America's Greatest Hero, offers you a mentorship. And you…

You look up at the representative with a rather sour expression. They have to work on that too. Media training was crucial. You won't be able to sell anything, if you keep grimacing like that all the damned day.

-… Are starstruck - your mouth twitches - You strike up a deal, selfless. A rebel with a heart of gold. Finally, you can make some real change happen, so you push aside your anti-corporate values, to discover, that Vaught is so much more, than you could possibly imagine.

It's hard not to laugh, and you swallow thickly, biting your lip, as a middle-aged woman you don't recognize gets up from the couch, and makes her way to the wall opposite of your torture chair. There, tucked in a corner and hidden under a black cloth, stands a mannequin, roughly your size. With a flourish you find utterly out of place, the woman tugs at the cape, and as it falls to the floor, so does your stomach. You can't hold it in any longer. A rough snort of laughter rips out of your nose, and you cover your mouth instantly.

-That better be a laugh of delight - Ashley, a ginger menace, mutters under her breath, and Stillwell turns to you with a tight expression on her face.

-Something the matter?

-I mean - you take a deep, grounding breath, tying your amusement in the back of your throat - I knew it's going to be skimpy, but this is…

You look around the room, seeing various stages of corporate outrage, and then you lock eyes with Homelander. Stillwell insisted on his participation in the meeting, as the both of you are supposed to work closely together, and throughout the whole ordeal, he looked borderline ready to die of boredom. Now, however, his eyebrows lift in a curious manner, as he takes in the, to be completely honest, horrendous costume, and your full figure. Something dangerously close to disgust twists your features, as he shamelessly drags his eyes all over your body.

Who would've thought America's Sweetheart was a fucking creep?

Rolling your eyes, you get up from the cursed armchair, your knees cracking loudly. Crossing the room, you take a closer look at the clothing, or rather, lack there of. Torn fishnets, plaid tennis skirt, and a corset top, made out of some leather-like material. Truly, a fetishists wet dream. Your fingers sample the fabric of the skirt. Surprisingly stiff, it seems to beg for a wardrobe malfunction. With a frown pulling down your lips, you lift the material up, and as expected, find no safety shorts underneath.

Homelander watches you intently, as you inspect the costume. Just the thought of your soft body in this skimpy, corporate bastardization of a rock star, makes heat rise in the lower part of his stomach. With every disapproving pull of your, and don't quote him on that, perfect lips, he's more and more convinced this whole charade is just an early birthday present. He'll have to thank Stillwell. Or better not, because as soon as he throws her a sidelong glance, he discovers, she's already looking at him. With a rather tense expression at that.

He feigns innocence, almost raises his hands in mock defeat, but decides against it at the last second. You're still watching him, torn between inspecting the costume, and shooting disgruntled looks in his direction.

Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, your hand sneaks to the front of the corset, fingers closing over the full cup, where your breast will soon reside. You give the mock leather two squeezes, and a high-pitched laugh wheezes out of your lips. Homelander's head nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Stillwell, confusion clear on his face.

She's looking at you cautiously. He knows that expression all too well, he's seen it multiple times during their partnership. She's calculating, with bated breath, just how much of a problem you'll inevitably become. How to turn it around in the company's favor, how to steer you in the right direction, should the need arise.

But then, you clap your hands, still giggling quietly, and turn to the designer, who's been watching your reaction with a growing distaste.

-That's one hell of a push-up bra - you comment with a raised eyebrow - My tits will fly straight out of this, if I even think about moving my arms.

Now, that's something Homelander would love to see, and you note his leering face with an uncomfortable shift in your posture.

-Your physique has to be god-like. There's no shame in a little padding - the designer answers simply, and your eyes glimmer with amusement.

-Oh, I bet - your eyes float for just a second in Homelander's direction, and he wonders if lasering you down right now would be too harsh of a reaction.

The image had to be kept up, however, and he deflects your blatant provocation with a bright smile. Or rather, it would've been a bright smile, if his cheek didn't twitch in a way, that portrayed exactly how forced his pleasantries are.

-There will be a press conference, seven PM sharp, where you'll be introduced to the public - Ashley informs you, her eyes glued to her tablet - Homelander will give a welcoming speech, explain that you're a temporary member of The Seven. Then, you'll need to say a couple of words. We'll send you the talking points ASAP.

-Right… - you mutter, not particularly thrilled by the idea of public speaking.

Stillwell looks over her shoulder towards Homelander, giving him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Slowly, he moves from his spot by the window, hand extended in a greeting, teeth flashing in a smile. Your eyes involuntarily shift towards his rather sharp canines, and for the first time, since you've signed the contract, you truly feel uneasy. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, a perfect, American shade, that glimmers just a tad too dangerously. There's no need for super senses, he can feel your nerves in the very air you breathe.

-Welcome to The Seven - his voice is smoother than you've ever heard before - Fireball.

Wait a god-damned minute.

Confusion covers all previous feelings, and to Homelander's growing annoyance, you leave him with his hand extended, in favor of turning towards Stillwell.

-That's not my name - you point out, and Madelyn nods her head in a practiced expression of understanding.

-Due to some copyright intricacies, we can't let you use Smirnoff - she explains.

You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, looking back towards the costume. A moment's hesitation, you close your eyes as you breathe out, and once again Homelander feels as if he's able to peak under a carnival mask you carefully placed upon yourself. He lifts it just enough, sees the way muscles on your neck twitch. Your jaw sets in a way, that is slowly becoming intoxicating, and then you turn back to him.

-I'm honored - your voice is hollow, locked far away in the column of your throat, and you don't have enough strength to even attempt a smile.

That's alright, he has enough charm for the both of you, his imposing stature pushing towards you, as his arm sneaks around your shoulders.

Fuck, you're warm. He can feel the heat of your skin seeping into his costume. There's a vaguely familiar smell clinging to your form, mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke. Jasmine flowers, he concludes, and absent-mindedly remembers a rather large bush growing in your backyard. He wonders, if you'd let him fuck you, if he showed up with a bouquet at your door. Women seemed to like those, and although you didn't strike him as the most romantic person, he's positive he could charm his way into your pants.

-I'll show you to your room, sweetheart - perhaps he's laying it on a bit heavy with the nickname.

He can hear Stillwell's heart jump, and he immediately knows, he's going to have to sit through a stern talk later today. You, on the other hand, wrench your head to the side, disgruntled with this new form of familiarity. Your entire body goes tense, and you try to wriggle yourself further away from him. On instinct, his fingers dig into your shoulder, a mockery of a friendly expression, and with just a small fragment of his true strength, he pushes you forward, out of Stillwell's office.

He can do whatever he wants, and Madelyn is getting awfully pushy with guarding you from him. You're just a temporary toy to satisfy the higher-ups. A six months worth of an experiment, that he's forced to be a part of. After your contract is up, Vaught won't care whether you live or die, and you bet your rather ample ass, he's going to exploit that to the fullest. Not only is it borderline insulting, to deny him life's simple pleasures, it's pathetic.

-Nervous about the press? - he asks in a light tone, his jaw clicking softly, when your slide out of his grasp as soon as the doors close.

The casualness of this question throws you in a bit of a loop, but with a couple of rapid blinks, you're back to normal, letting him lead you towards the elevator.

-Public speaking isn't my best asset - you mumble.

Homelander presses the call button of the elevator, then leans against the wall, watching you with a strange twinkle in his eye.

-Sounds like someone's not a people person - he notes, wiggling his finger at you in a manner that is confusingly playful.

-I am a people person - you defend yourself, albeit a bit awkwardly - Just… Not when there's a lot of people.

He laughs at that, a practiced, almost theatrical bark that's as fake as his hairdo. All you have the strength to do, is flash him half of a smile. Thankfully the elevator pings before any more small-talk is required, and you slip into the confined space, standing in the corner. His eyes roam freely all over your body, a shameless act that makes your guts twist, makes the already small space of the elevator even more stuffy. And then, he enters after you, pressing a button to the right floor, and taking a spot much too close to you, than what's necessary.

You suppose it's one of the things you'll have to get used to. This constant invasion of your personal space. Perhaps, if it were someone else, someone that wasn't as empty as you, those actions would've been more intimidating than annoying. Alas, as you watch his chest rise and fall in steady rythm, out of the corner of your eye, his actions remind you of a petulant, spoiled child, rather than America's Greatest Hero. "I can't play with this toy? And what if I do this?" For just a second you entertain the idea of gentle parenting Homelander, and the thought makes the corner of your mouth twitch.

-Something the matter? - he asks, tension sneaking into his friendly tone.

-Just happy to be here, sir - you answer, and he knows it's a blatant lie, another one of your snarky provocations.

Doesn't matter for now, there will be a time to teach you some manners.

The elevator arrives at the right floor, and you bolt out of your place as soon as the doors slip open. Homelander follows closely behind, before closing the distance in a couple of long steps. Then, he's in front of you, and you nearly collide with his form, as he suddenly comes to a stop, in front of a pair of large doors. "Fireball" is etched into a small plack, and you throw the offending piece of metal a withering glance.

-That's your stop, sweetheart - he comments, and once again, you grimace at the nickname - Take a look inside, I'm sure it will blow your socks right off.

Why is he talking to you like you're a fucking child all of a sudden, you'll never understand. The door clicks softly, as you open it, revealing your living space for the next six months. The sight chokes a laugh out of you, because truly, the ammount of "punk" memorabilia is staggering.

-Does cocaine addiction come with the package, or…?

He doesn't even react to your joke, and you don't blame him. For all his creepiness and fake interest, he doesn't strike you as the funniest person on earth. There are guitars hanging over a rather large bed, there's a pristine stop sign next to them, which you suppose is meant to look rebellious. The usage of leopard print is tacky at best, and you truly start to wonder if they even consulted someone out of the corporation to design the space. Most likely no, wouldn't want to waste resources on such a small project.

-Fireball - Homelander's voice is barely above a whisper, but it makes your heart jump all the same.

He's standing so closely behind you, you can feel the warmth of his breath at the back of your neck, but for some unnknown reason, you can't force yourself to move. Instead, you feel him take a deep breath trough his nose, his chest brushing against your back. Your eyes stay glued to a drum set, pushed against a gigantic window. Light reflects off of the cymbals, in your mind you're already playing it, far away from this nightmare of a superhero.

-I'll see you at the press conference - Homelander's hand clasps itself over your shoulder, squeezing a couple of times, as if testing the softness of your body - Don't even think about being late, young lady.

You don't know when he dissapears, as you stand there, frozen. One foot over the threshold of your room, breathing shallow and borderline panicked. It could've been seconds, could've been hours, until your head finally snaps to the side. He's not there anymore, you're alone in the corridor, and as you slam the door closed behind you, something you've only suspected before becomes abundantly clear.

There is something deeply wrong with Homelander.

[what-eats-owls]

This info was of some surprise to folks on Bluesky, so I'm going to repeat it here in light of the sheer number of "the Internet Archive was an uncomplicated good apart from this one weird move" posts I've seen...

Are we all aware that IA has been gradually pushing the dogma that generative AI is a net public good, and has been feeding books, music, and video into AI?

This article is about how IA is actively using AI in their archives. It's an interview with Brewster Kahle, founder and Board Chair of IA. Choice quote:

This is the blog post about the comments they submitted to the US copyright office arguing against any new copyright regulations for AI. Some more choice quotes:

You can guess how I feel about framing the writers and artists whose work BUILT generative AI as "workers" who just need to be "retrained."

Last year they hosted a zoom panel called "Generative AI Meets Open Culture: Opportunities, Challenges & Ethical Considerations." Multiple visuals were AI-generated art, the panelists were asked to avoid discussing copyright. It's an hourlong panel and I couldn't find a transcript, so I skipped around to see if anyone addressed the elephant in the room. I found at ~32 minutes, a vague gesture at acknowledging it wasn't great if you tried to replicate an artist's style, but fine if you just wanted generic art.

(If anyone finds a more concrete statement in there, and/or a transcript, I'd love to know! The tenor I got was overall "look at how cool these tools are and let's talk about how they're a public good.")

At the end of January 2024, they hosted "Public Domain Day," including a panel on incorporating Generative AI in art. They invited two artists who utilize Generative AI, and a publisher whose books go immediately into the public domain. More quotes from their own writeup:

This was an event in celebration of public domain, but as far as I can tell, they've more or less avoided even acknowledging that creators are actively being harmed by Gen AI. Again, if anyone can find a clearer statement, please share it.

Another wrinkle in this is that Kahle, on behalf of the Internet Archive, sued the US Government in 2004, challenging the law that automatically granted and renewed copyright to a creator. Previously, copyright was opt-in only, had to be regularly renewed by the holder, and cost money to do so. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court in 2007, but was dismissed. (Scroll down to Docket 07-189, Kahle v Mukasey, for court filings.)

To be clear, this is the law that means you automatically own your own work. It's not a shock that Kahle's suit failed. But if Kahle had won, artists who didn't pay to secure and maintain copyright over their work would be SOL right now in the lawsuits against generative AI image and text scrapers.

So yeah. My tiny violin for IA continues to shrink.

[deception-united]

Online Writing Resources

YouTube:

Abbie Emmons: A published author. Her videos have great tips and advice for plot and character development.

Hello Future Me: Mostly worldbuilding tips, but very in-depth, with specific examples.

Ellen Brock: A professional freelance editor who provides help with all aspects of writing—outlining, worldbuilding, character writing, plot development, publishing, and generally answering any questions writers may have.

Terrible Writing Advice: Great writing advice, if you can handle the sarcasm.

Podcasts:

Writing Excuses: Albeit fast-paced, the given writing advice is quite useful. There's multiple seasons addressing topics such as story structure, characters, and genres, amongst many others.

The Creative Penn: This podcast is run by author Joanna Penn, who shares the lessons she learned in her own journey and advice for writing and publishing your novel.

I Should Be Writing: Interviews with various authors, and encouragement for aspiring writers.

Story Grid: Outlining methods, writing tips, editing advice, and analysis of various works.

Blogs:

Creativity Portal: Author interviews, creativity generators, writing prompts and templates, and various other writing resources.

Now Novel: Aside from writing tools, this website has multitudes of posts about characters, dialogue, narration, plotting, editing, and story structure, as well as writer motivation.

Helping Writers Become Authors: Tips on dialogue, characterisation, outlining, plot development, structuring, character arcs, and common writing mistakes to avoid.

Almost an Author: This website is great help for aspiring authors, with advice that ranges from genres to motivation for writers to guidance for making writing a career.

Hope this is helpful! I'd love to hear any other resources you use or are familiar with. Happy writing ❤

Previous | Next

[obsessednothing]

When the time is right

George Russell x reader

Summary: everything needs its own timing to finally get it right.

Warning: no hate on Carmen - it’s just fiction; maybe some curse words; slight implication of cheating but not really; fluff and love

A/N: this has been in my drafts since George’s win at Vegas and I really didn’t know how to end it, so it took some time. Again - no hate on Carmen, everything just clicked for the plot. Also the timeline of this is a little tricky, but whatever. Enjoy it!

Please don’t use my writings without permission! Pictures found on Pinterest.

Las Vegas. The city of sin, gamble and this weekend also of F1 racing. Sitting at the luxurious table, all clad in green colour, expensive decorations and flowers, I looked at my name on the card, just like any other women sitting around me. Some of them were watching me like hawks, I tried my best to smile politely, but deep inside I was so pissed. My gaze turned to the entrance of the hall, buzz and squeals echoing from there, indicating that the hostess of this dinner just arrived. Girlfriend of George Russell. I really didn’t have the best relationship with her, but somehow she always tried to get closer with me, inviting me to the parties, events and even this dinner. But this time I felt furious, because she invited all sorts of women here, it was to celebrate women in motorsport, but most of them were just influencers, trying to get their fame by running through the paddock and making content for their socials.

Why that pisses me off so much? Some would say, that it’s because Carmen, George’s girlfriend, was using his fame and brand collaborations to her advantage, but that wasn’t the case, I really didn’t care about it, when there’s opportunity, she grasps it with everything she can. The thing was that I was the one to be responsible for the supplies of tools, tyres, all the stuff that makes it possible for mechanics to get to their work through tough times at the races. Hard work, same as getting my engineering degree. Then applications, internships, interviews, and voila. I’m working for Mercedes. That pisses me off. That I was working my ass off to get where I am now and some other woman can come, make a video about formula cars and boom, you’re THE woman who means something.

But whatever. My opinions weren’t meant to be shared tonight, I was about to get some good meal and champagne and then go back to the hotel, bickering to my friends over FaceTime to oblivion.

As the night approached, Carmen had an inspiring speech, yeah, she had it in herself, everybody loved her. Even me. Even though I had a crush on her boyfriend. Just like every other woman have. When I walked out of the photo booth, my phone just dinged with the message, which was strange.

“Enjoying the night?”

Looking at the screen of my phone, seeing who is texting me, well, my face was shocked.

“A little bit. You know my opinion on those events. Even if your girlfriend is the hostess.”

Like if I could hear his chuckle beside me at my reply. My relationship with George was casual, sometimes a little awkward, but after all we were good friends. It felt like I met him ages ago, but truth was I met him in his days in F2, when I was rocking through my internship at engineering. Always acting like a sweet boy, he also knew how to make me mad, and especially when he was racing for Williams. But as I moved to my position to Brackley, we haven’t seen each other that much. I also never really understood, what he must’ve said about me to Carmen, because she was always so chatty and smiley around me. Or maybe she’s just keeping her enemy so close. Whatever. I wasn’t the one to destroy peoples lives just because I want something for myself.

“When do you plan to leave?”

Moving to the secluded corner in the room, I smiled to the screen, typing fast.

“Any minute now. I don’t want to be eaten alive by those influ girls.”

“I’m still in garage, I had a debrief with Toto. You can come, if you want.”

Have my cheeks just reddened?

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Carefully, not to disturb the atmosphere of the women chatting around, I made my way out of the hall and out of the building, while I grabbed my coat on my way. Calling a cab, my feet were now walking through the empty paddock, towards the Mercedes garage. Weather was really chilly and my coat wasn’t doing much work to keep me warm, of course, because I didn’t expect to end here, with my heels clicking against the floor of the garage, taking in how George grinned at me, lifting his gaze from his car.

“Good evening, sir.” My voice came out shaky, trying to be funny, my teeth clanking as I tried to rub my arms to get some warmth. George noticed my discomfort immediately and he handed me one of his Merc jackets pulling it around my shoulders, standing near me.

“Better?” He smiled down at me.

I nodded with huge smile plastered across my face. “Much better, thank you.”

“You should get yourself a woollen coat, you know.”

“Or I should get right back to my hotel from the event and not go somewhere I shouldn’t.”

“You know that this is maybe the only chance to talk to you without being interrupted by gossip and Carmen?” His gaze was intense as always, his hands rubbing my arms gently to get me warm even through his jacket.

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Maybe?”

I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief.

“I have some coffee, if you want.”

“You know that I can’t say no to that.”

We sat on the work bench, sipping coffee, content with the silence. My eyes were locked at his car, always amazed by the details and design.

George noticed how I’m staring, also looking to the direction of his car.

“You’re always in awe of cars.”

“I simply love the technology.”

“I adore how you’re a tech girl. You’re not like others, you’re not just pretty face.”

“So, you think I’m pretty, huh?”

His soft laugh rang through the garage. “You got me on that.”

My laugh turned into soft, maybe a little bitter smile. “I should get going, George.”

His hand grabbed mine gently, urging my gaze to lock with his, while I sighed and averted my gaze to the side.

“You’re doing that again.”

“What?”

“Avoiding me.”

“George.. I-“

“I’ll break up with her.”

Shock written over my face was quickly replaced with snort. “We both know that you won’t. You’re invested in yourselves too much to just end it now.”

“I mean it. Really.”

“George, please. You’ve said it for many times and you did nothing. Things are better this way. Me in Brackley and you out in the world together with Carmen.”

Words that cut me deep in my heart, but it was sad truth. We tried so many times to navigate our feelings around our lives, that being hurt was a our standard.

As I waited for his response, all he could do was just nod and look at the ground. And again, this was my time to leave. My hands gently took off his jacket from my shoulders and I placed it on the work bench as I got back on my feet.

“Thanks for coffee. I’ll be rooting for you through the weekend.”

With that I left without turning my head. It was already hard enough.

March 2025

Debriefing was held in the headquarters at Brackley. My lunch break was longer than usual, so I literally ran into the conference room, trying not to disturb Toto Wolff’s speech as I was late already. Last and only free seat was beside George in the first row. How cute. As the meeting was going my mind was filled with his cologne, numbing my senses again and again, which felt like home, but that pang in my chest was still present.

“I hope that we will see each other on the weekend at Silverstone, where we’re gonna crush Verstappen like we do from the start of this season.” Toto was so enthusiastic, drunken by the last victory George managed to get.

Everybody made their way out of the conference room, I was trying to pack my things, when strong arm stopped me.

“What about a dinner tonight?” George had his intense look again, giving me signals that “no” is not in his option list.

With a sigh I zipped my bag, looking at him. “I can’t. I need to get to London for the night.”

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“What? Nonsense.”

“I’m serious.”

“I have a business there.”

“Then you’ll get the business and after we’re gonna get dinner.”

“We can’t, George.”

“We can. And we will.”

And somehow I was now sitting at this fancy restaurant in London, after some shitty meeting I had with our main sponsor, watching George how he’s looking through the menu and trying not to steal any glance at me. There was one unspoken question, but I was dodging to ask.

“Just ask.” And he always knew.

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat I placed the menu at the table, giving him a serious look.

“What would Carmen say, that you’re here with me?”

His eyes lifted from the menu to give me kind of unbothered look. “Why would she have a say in this?”

My brows furrowed at that question while I let out a scoff. “Why? What about the fact that she’s your girlfriend?”

George ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, looking out of the restaurant window as if he was looking for some kind of peace. Then he looked back at me.

“I thought you knew.”

“What? What exactly?”

“That we broke up after the end of the last season.”

What the hell. How come that I don’t know that? Should I know that?

“That’s.. I’m sorry. I really didn’t know, George.”

My voice came out a little strangled, due to my surprise.

“No- that’s- I am sorry. How could you even know.. We made an agreement to not shout it to the world with Carmen. But I thought that you heard some rumours or something..”

“No, I- I really did not.”

Waitress came to collect our orders and then we looked at each other in silence. George placed his hand under his chin, his lips curling in smile, which made me smile too. But overall I didn’t know how to feel in the moment.

“So..”

“So?”

“I don’t know what to think now, George. I know that there’s no possible “us” in this moment, I don’t even know why you’re telling me about the break up. Somehow I know, but no, I don’t want to be hurt just by my fantasy or what ifs.”

George leaned forward to me across the table, gently taking my hand into his.

“I don’t want to rush things.. that’s the last thing I want now. Also I don’t want to hurt you more than I already did. Let’s take things easy and slow and we will see where it leads us.”

Giving me a reassuring smile, I felt the comfort I needed. I nodded, squeezing his hand gently.

“Yeah, leave it up to fate.”

But slow and easy wasn’t really our style…

December 2025

Trains at underground were so busy at this late hour that it was insane idea in my mind to think that I’ll be able to get to the Bond Street at ease. But I did it, once I was outside the station, the beautiful scene of the Christmas London evening was shining bright in front of my eyes. This city was my all time favourite, and it was the main reason why I moved here, leaving Brackley and everything that was linked with it. Throughout the race season I wondered about my job at the factory, yeah, it was amazing working for Formula One team, working for Mercedes, but I craved my own piece of work, that would be seen. Taking my money I saved for the years I was working hard, I started my own business with luxurious watches, and I was asked to collaborate with the company IWC Schaffhausen as a designer for season. And they gave me an opportunity to come with my own collection of watches, my own design being displayed everywhere for the Christmas. I always loved wearing multiple styles of watches, that was a hobby I shared with my father.

Now I was about to get to the event in one of the boutiques at Bond Street, revealing my collection to the business partners, influencers and public. The bell at the entrance door signalled my arrival, Harry, one of the associates of the boutique greeting me with a huge smile plastered on his face.

“Well, well, well, who do we have here, our rising star.”

“Ah, don’t flatter me that much, Harry. It might get to my head. Am I too early or…”

“No, no, everything’s perfect, actually we needed to get a guest list for today, because number of people who wanted to see the revelation of your collection wouldn’t certainly fit here in our shop. But someone arrived early to see it himself first.”

Harry was wearing his huge smile and sparkling expression in his eyes. My face twisted with little frown. He guided me to the room in the back, where they always showed the best sets and to my surprise, there stood the man. The man, who was staring at my work, admiring it, being mesmerised by it, the silver edges of the watches reflecting the blue colour of his eyes.

“Mr. Russell insisted to see it when we first released the info about the Christmas collection.” Harry spoke nonchalantly, but inside he was over himself to have a famous F1 driver in the room. Meanwhile I was just standing there, trying not to smile like crazy. George turned around, seeing my expression, his face softening with smile, which was all the same - beautiful.

“I want to buy the whole collection. Those first produced pieces you have here.”

Harry blinked for a few times, staring at him, then at me. “It’s up to her, she owns those. Fact is that those firsts are expensive, because they have a special engraving on the back. It was made just for the pieces you see here. There won’t be any for mass production.”

Yes, I insisted on making those watches special, because they were meant to be mine after the special deal of Christmas ends.

“That’s gonna be really, really expensive.” My lips were curled into amused smile, looking at George.

“Maybe Miss could show you the collection herself, before the other guests show up? And I’m gonna get you some champagne.” Harry giggled and disappeared to the front of the shop.

George landed his gaze on my figure. “What engravings do those watches have?”

Taking a few steps next to him, I carefully took one of them into my hands, the delicate silver stinging into my skin.

“Those are my favourite.” I turned them over to show the engraving on the back.

15.11.2025

There was also a silk white ribbon with text tied around the silver strap.

Your look is an essence of life for my soul.

George looked over the watches, his breath catching in his chest, I could also see the tears burning in his eyes.

“Those are absolutely enchanting.” He was almost breathless.

“I wanted something to match with this.” I raised my left hand to show the silver engagement ring with small almond shaped diamond at its centre. “This is my engagement gift for you, George. Because there are no possible words to describe how much I love you.”

“You did this for me? Whole collection?”

He was really on the verge of tears.

“I would do a thousand more just for you. I wanted for people to feel the little piece of our love through this.”

George put the watches back to its place, turning back at me, his hands cupping my cheeks.

“I knew that you’re the one from that day I met you. I just needed to understand that feeling over the years. And I’m glad that I finally got some sense. Because I so freaking love you.”

My heart nearly bursted out with all the excitement and joy I felt.

“Let’s celebrate our new collection at this special time of the year. Feel the warmth in every piece of our unique silver watches with our soon to be married couple - The Russells.”

[yuurei20]

hello is there any more canon facts about Idia said outside the game (ex: in an interview with Yana Toboso or Disney, some translated or unused facts etc….)

Hello hello! ^^ Thank you for this question!

Yes yes, here is a translation of illustration comments from Yana, found in the Magical Archives Game Guide (2020)

・"The flames of his hair become weaker when he loses interest in something."

・"Compared to the other villains Hades is quite a comical character, so I think that it would be good for Idia to be very expressive."

・"The bags under his eyes and the blue of his lips are not make up, but entirely natural. His eyebrows always make him look troubled. His hair is flames, so it is always moving, and the ends are translucent. His eyes are always shaded. He has a well-defined face, but he is not aware of it."

・"He makes this expression sometimes when he gets excited. Like when he comes across a strong enemy in a video game, or when things are going according to plan. Most people won’t see this look at first, until he’s grown close to them."

About Ignihyde's dorm uniform (also from the game guide)

"The dorm uniform’s theme is artificial and high-tech. I kept out as much warmth from the design as I could. The jacket is made of pieces of enamel, and was inspired by the triangular pattern of Hades' clothing.

There is a pouch worn around the waist that can hold plenty of tools and batteries. The housewarden has a belt that hangs loosely from the pouch down to his feet, to represent the smoke that rises up from Hades’ feet when he walks. The one-shoulder vest was inspired by the ancient Greek toga."

There are no particular Idia references of note in any of the visual books or the Design Note ^^

And we know from Yana's Twitter that Idia was originally meant to have been the youngest character on the main cast! Yana says that he is the reason why NRC allows grade-skipping.

(Despite how there are no underage characters on the main cast Trey has a line of "we do get some child prodigies here," in Book 1. This was possibly meant to explain how Idia was able to enroll, going unchanged after Idia was aged up for the final version of the game.)

[sadlynotthevoid]

An enstars social media fic with outsider pov included (aka, fans and the public) must be very funny because then you'd have:

• Random no idol fan person asking why is a highschooler going around with a sword.

• Video compilation of Rei Sakuma acting like a vampire.

• Video compilation of Rei Sakuma acting like an old man.

• Conspiracy theories about Eichi Tenshouin and how he "is totally hiding something guys. I don't trust him!"

• "Yes. Wataru. He's hiding Wataru. Look at his hair! That guy can't be human." As a reply to above.

• Alkaloid spotted accounts because they still believe they're not actually famous.

• Regarding the above point, Mayoi's photos are mostly purple blurs or dark corners where you can see a figure who somehow the fans know it's Mayoi.

• Aira's are taken mostly at idol events— others' idol events. A moment you're waiting in the line with your friend, the next you look back and realize the dude behind is Aira from Alkaloid.

• Tatsumi is greeting or smiling at the person behind the camera in most of his, except when he's getting out of a car. Then he's smiling the brightest— and everyone else is pretty much not.

• Hiiro's are a mix of 'spending time with friends/his brother' or a selfie with the person with the camera after he almost gave them a heart attack by dissapearing and reappearing right next to them.

• Shun's accounts in anywhere having an apparently random number added at the end. It actually is the number of the times he had to get a new account to the date.

• Madara fans putting his face in cowboy pictures and cowboy memes the same.

• Madara putting his face in cowboy memes himself and refusing to use normal ones.

• Kanata logging in once a month to post the name of a submarine creature and nothing else during the rest of the day. Sometimes with a picture for reference, which can vary from a photo of the species to a bad drawing of a fish.

• Madara evolving to put his face on mom memes.

• Someone jokingly asking Madara if he can adopt them and getting a positive answer. But they have to call him Mama.

• Hiyori's fans asking him every morning what's the veredict. If he answers Good Hiyori, they rejoice and act like they're going to have a great day. If the answer is Bad Hiyori, they rejoice and take meassures to prepare themselves for a shitty day.

• No one knows if they actually have good or bad days as per Hiyori's answer.

• Occasionally, Hiyori is going to reply with a Good Hiyori but remind to take their umbrellas anyway.

• In an interview, Hiiro is made a question about what song did he enjoy performing the most and he answers sunny trip summer. Immediately Aira affirms that is because he wants to eat lemons. The conversation sidetracks and now no one know if that is the real reason or not, just that Hiiro likes lemons a lot.

• "Alkaloid sidetracking compilation" and the video is four hours long.

• Sakuma Ritsu falling asleep video compilation.

• The rest of Crazy:B exposing Rinne for fun and revenge every so often. It goes from stories from when he just arrived to the city (once he got Niki really pissed off) to his latest act of brotherly pride to, one time he made HiMERU snap, finding any embarrasing moment of his and @-ing Hiiro at it.

• [Many days] since Eichi had to be ingressed into the hospital.

• Hokuto-senpai.

• Knights posting a photo of a small part of the lyrics for their new song:

"what kind of writing tool is that?"

"is that ketchup?"

"why is it written in ketchup"

"Mustard doesn't have the same effect."

• "If I had a nickel for every time [an idol used ketchup to write on non-edibles] I'd had two nickels, which is not a lot but is weird it happened twice".

• "It happens more than you'd think". Actual ES member response.

• People asking Koga to recreate the fight with the guitar.

[duffsmckagan]

DEBORAH FROST, DOKKEN, GROUPIES, HEAVY METAL, JAMES HETFIELD, KIRK HAMMETT, METALLICA, MONSTERS OF ROCK

Stories From The Road: Deborah Frost and Metallica

In Deborah Frost, Stories From the Road, music on December 7, 2008 at 2:28 pm

By Deborah Frost

“I once walked into the dressing room of a very huge metal band — well, they were not quite as huge then as they are now, oh what the hell, they are probably the biggest band in the world — Metallica (and they didn’t get that way without airing their own dirty laundry very publicly from revealing in various cover stories tales of the drummer being fellated under the stage nightly during the bass solo to the somewhat drippier venereal complications).

Anyway, they were somewhere in the middle of the bill on one of those late 1980s “Monsters of Rock” concerts at RFK Stadium in Washington, I think it was. There was a lot of waiting around in the days they were all lumped together without their own private jets or drivers and everyone seemed to be in a grumpy mood, particularly James Hetfield, who was sitting next to two fairly unattractive girls who could have been models — only for one of those “BEFORE” acne-medication ads.

Instead of his usual warm greeting, James barely grunted at me that he was doing an “interview.” Which was a little strange, given that he was not really even having a conversation with the skinnier one of the two girls, who was not equipped with any of the usual tools of the trade, like a tape recorder or pencil or piece of paper, only a flimsy little sun-dress which was only remarkable in its cheapness and that it was fairly inappropriate for the weather but did reveal all of her other lack of equipment in every other department.

James suddenly got up, jerking her by the wrist, and disappeared toward the bathroom where other members of the crew and band were, eager to try out the brand new little video cameras (they had just come on the market) they had been playing with. Kirk Hammett also grabbed what I called my Helen Keller camera — one of those point and shoot 35 mm things (this was in the pre-digital era) that even she could have operated.

There was a great deal of commotion when James discovered that Kirk was holding them both over the top of the bathroom stall — where — well, several months later, when I had forgotten all about it and the prints came back from the developer, I was shocked to discover, right in the middle of some happy family vacation, exactly what he was doing with this young lady crouched on the toilet and could not believe that I had not been arrested for pornography. Then again, maybe that only happens if it involves pictures of children and it was VERY clear in vivid living color that James was NO child.

It was almost the end of Metallica as we knew it, when James suddenly roared out of the bathroom, grabbing Kirk by the throat with one hand and the video camera, from which he ripped the film, with the other, before stomping on it and practically smashing the guitarist’s head against the wall as he begged for mercy.”

[joaofelix70]

MISS DIPLOMAT & MR. CHARMING |

dominik szoboszlai x female reader.

author's note: this handsome man's living rent-free in my head. he's a freaking masterpiece. talented, funny, charismatic, attractive. i watched interviews, tiktok videos made by supporters and much more to understand a little bit of his language, personality and what he does towards friends and loved ones. laughed a lot! i made my homework as a writer, hope you enjoy it! (compliments and any kind of retributions are more than welcomed).

summary: your job is involving the commitment of unify the population and create interrelations to another countries, using the eurocup qualifiers and the hungary national team executions. you just didn't expect to fall in love with the no. 10's captain player.

words and characters: 1,811/11,223. it was three days working too hard on this story. i'm begging for your consideration, lol.

────

sports diplomacy: it's the unique power of sport to bring people, nations, and communities closer together via a shared love of physical pursuits. this responsibility is the reason of a transition between strangers to connected individuals, advancing foreign policy goals and augmenting sport for development initiatives. the complex landscape where sport, politics, and diplomacy overlap become clearer, as do the pitfalls of using sport as a tool for overcoming and mediating separation between people, nonstate actors, and states. the power of sport has never been more important. so far, the 21st century has been dominated by disintegration, introspection, and the retreat of the nation-state from the globalization agenda. in such an environment, scholars, students, and practitioners of international relations are beginning to rethink how sport might be used to tackle climate change, gender inequality, and the united nations sustainable development goals, for example. to boost these integrative, positive efforts is to focus on the means as well as the ends, that is, the diplomacy, plural networks, and processes involved in the role sport can play in tackling the monumental traditional and human security challenges of our time. credits: international studies association and oxford university press.

────

MLSZ (hungarian football federation) ──

new training ground at telki.

"i can't believe that being in places like this made up my most theoretically utopian childhood dreams. what a progress in front of me!" you still witness exciting moments where you pinch yourself, trying to believe in the reality that surrounds you: visiting the new training center of the players who are just a few meters away from you, getting ready to represent an entire country.

"your presence is our privilege. a voice of the spread of eurocup to our nation, right here…" the technical director gives you deference, obtaining a measure of humbleness and respect by you.

"the honor belongs to me in its entirety. grateful for having me, sir. while the view is immersive and captivating — my fervent congratulations to everyone involved — could we retreat from the pleasant glass-enclosed room and see everything closer, on the outside? please? i will never get used to this atmosphere." you pour politeness and charisma to the staffs around you, being directed to the proximity of the field and saluting the employees who pass through your path.

meet dominik — your szobo — instigates the nostalgic combination of detailed moments in which your thoughts display as photographic retrospectives. you're incapable to oppose the little enthusiastic laughs, fidgeting the rings between your fingers and avoiding possible suspicious glances from others. however, for you, this wouldn't actually work. the lives of you both are correlated, but different.

the training session is finished. clapping your hands and celebrating the performances, you greet the athletes and recognize some familiar people. nevertheless, reality slows down after those dark woody eyes capture through your soul. his arms tattoos are glorified by the sun's rays, the same illuminated smile is offered to you: that one you got during the very first time you saw him — instantly knowing he made you testimony the accuracy of freedom, catharsis and emotional amorous complement. that he'd be the one to introduce you what you never experienced, what you thought you'd never receive or deserve. what love truly is. when you were novices in your actual professions, not even imagining the future gifts of your unreal purposes.

"there you are!" intimately, dominik points at you, being reciprocated by vibrant nods and your old sort of secret — not that mysterious or serious — handshake. "még mindig emlékszel rá? (still remembering it?). you're a real one!"

"hogy tudnám elfelejteni? alábecsülsz engem. (how could i forget it? you're underestimating me)". your defensive actions demonstrate purposeful falseness. masking any sensitive, verbal or figurative communicative fragment from him is a difficulty that makes you give in over time. honestly, you never complain about this. it's like he wants to understand the factors and layers of you.

"a te kézfogás fickó. ne merészelj lecserélni engem. (your handshake man… don't you dare to replace me)". a shameless wink is send to you, butterflies acquiring space in your stomach.

"és hivatalosan is a szavamat adom rá. (and you officially have my word on it)." your gloss is pigmented against your fingers while you raise it up, displaying an oath, wondering if szoboszlai comprehends that his replacement in your life would be blasphemous.

"diplomata kisasszony, (miss diplomat)…" the hungarian fingerprints are shared and you recognize the sign to hold them, ready to perform your typical fashion icon moment. "gorgeous as always. go ahead! you know what to do!".

amusement surrounds you with the nickname's citation. although, you could feel some curious glances, from the outsiders, about the intimacy between you and him. "i appreciate, our top-class national bless…" you move your body in rotations to exclaim the outfit's characteristics, lifting your feet to show off the specificities of your heels. "how is your hair so well-groomed after sweating, though?" your arms cross and you raise an eyebrow in questioning, trying to hide your fascination.

"thank you, my number-one fan, but don't change the subject. finish our inside joke, c'mon!" dominik grabs his water bottle and spreads the cooling liquid on his forehead, wiping the glowing droplets across his face as he lifted his jersey high enough to exhibits his fortified abs.

your attention is directed to any surrounding scenery, throat being piked. szoboszlai pretends he doesn't notice, preventing to embarrass you.

"alright, alright! you've won, bájos úr… (mr. charming)". your final comment escapes as, practically, a whisper. you can't control the shy laughter, coupled with the considerable redness invading your cheeks.

"that's the secret to make my day!" using his tongue to reproduce a sharp noise, he matches your humorous reactions. "would you like me to show you the infrastructure changes? i'm just gonna take a shower!"

"i've already been granted a tour around here, but in case you insist…" during the dialogue, some athletes cross your space, wishing them good luck for the competition. your concentration on the activity is significant, at the point that dominik's silent admiration goes unnoticed.

"i mean, you know me! i'm gonna insist anyway, so…" he reaches your captivity, bringing you jollification.

"i'll rate you as a personal tour guide. now, go there!" jesting each other, you both exchange exaggerated reverences, like a challenge of who makes the most chaotic one.

────

walking around the area, various subjects are explored, informations entrusted. you ask and are updated about his ethereal younger sister.

portraits of the generations are framed. you magnifies his presence in celebratory pictures, dedicated to find him in the memories and achievements on that wall. pride shines from you and the hungarian finds it lovely.

"you know i'm a sucker for accents… they're much more than mere verbal characteristics, they're stories: life experiences, marks and scars. identities and cultural integrations." the topic is random. through generalized opinions, you're explaining conceptions and dominik is retaining mental observations. he exalts every scrap of your identity, like a faithful worshiper.

"basically, you're admitting being enchanted by my accent. i can see the stars in your eyes. a win is a win!" szoboszlai and his frequent attribute to physical touch, tickling your ears and playing with them. it doesn't bother you, actually: adoring the affection exuded by you and him. you feel like a little girl dealing with your one and only love.

"it's beautiful, how can you blame me? and hey, i know mine's making you grin too." he holds your arm, shivers running down your spine, the two of you being euphoric in the midst of your own enthusiasm.

"putting me against the wall? okay, hum… what were you saying before?" he's changing the subject and you have a natural wit to boo him. lifting his shoulders as a surrender, the hungarian focuses on the specific loose strands of his simple bracelet, which you get used to help him tie it again, willingly.

"trying to avoid the truth? fine! let me take care of you while i talk about my admiration towards globalization and communication. like, with every fiber of me…" you accept the conversation's direction and utter a 'voilà' towards the accessory's new appearance.

"that's why you're the best person i've ever seen doing this job." dominik compliments you, an act full of honesty.

"thanks a lot, mate. but which job? as your bracelet helper or my real one?" you provide tenderness, looking amused.

"i mean… both of them." szoboszlai chuckles, revealing courtesy by your continuous helpfulness.

"literally? because i know you know a lot of people. you're so young and already is the national team's captain." you nudge him in a form of tease. he's a starboy, it's undeniable.

"flattered! literally, thought. you were born for this, believe me." vulnerability collides to you, as his words are deliberated: emotions embracing you and warming your insides.

"dominik szoboszlai, my dear friend, you're gonna make me cry, right here. i'm sorry, i need to do it…"

innocent satisfaction builds strength over you and executes unthought-of approach to the tangibility of your gratitude — his colony enrapturing your sensitive olfaction — in the most out-of-control way. the sounds reach your hearing: a choir of angels singing hallelujah. he reciprocates the contact, laughing at your juvenile excitement. joining him and doing the same thing, harmonizing the triumph. in the separation of the touch, you both remain close to each other and the hungarian doesn't miss the opportunity to feel the softness of your side face, caressing the skin. appreciation and satisfaction invade your structure, delighting on the palm of his hand.

"just a dear friend? why are we pretending all this time?" dominik's reading you. the intimidation at the sight of him overhanging you is paralyzing. you don't usually back down, but in that instant — superior than your most repressed desires — your gasps are escaped.

"who is putting who against the wall now?" insisting and failing on your witty answers, shyness and uncertainty corrodes you.

"please, look at me! i'm not kidding anymore." his voice is questioning, intrigued — contradictorily vulnerable and calm — your rationality being fragmented, fragile.

"you know i'm not the kind of woman you're surrounding by, domi. i'm not an influencer, bikini model. i'm not a public figure. i don't live for the cameras and gossip platforms. i live to work hard. i didn't achieve any of this with some type of perk. my routine and your routine are based on traveling..." who could deny it? szoboszlai's always been all that you see. it's much more than a mere passion. your attraction to him is magnetic, intense, vivid. consequently, terrifying.

"i'm just asking for a chance, (your nickname). i don't lie when i say i've never met someone like you. i may be surrounded by a crowd and you'll still be the one to steal my attention, because nobody compares to you."

your eyelids are closed and the exhalation of his sigh penetrates your lungs with the numbing breath of life you've never experienced before. it's happening: the rare situation where thinking carefully about the pros and cons is unworthy, dumbness. your decision is made and the privilege's resolution unify your lips. the beginning demonstrates slowness and patience — the intensification through the concluded wait of the longed-for reality, transforming light and magical kisses into open mouths discovering each other and witnessing the endearment that both offer — hairs, necks, shoulders and waists captured.

"you're the first to create a meaningful presence in my mind and heart. i want you to be the last one too. i love you, kincs (my treasure). i'm finally brave enough to demonstrate it with no fears." dominik's forearm covers your upper torso. your back against his chest, noses resting on each others. rejoicing at the miraculous, incomparable circumstance.

"i love you, drágám (my precious). you're finally mine and it was so fucking worth waiting." his whisper: the living proof of celestial existence.

"how blessed we are…" intertwined bodies, coalesced essences. solitary melodies turning into the sweetest and most complete symphony.

[willcodehtmlforfood]

Researchers say an AI-powered transcription tool used in hospitals invents things no one ever said | The Independent

Experts said that such fabrications are problematic because Whisper is being used in a slew of industries worldwide to translate and transcribe interviews, generate text in popular consumer technologies and create subtitles for videos.

More concerning, they said, is a rush by medical centers to utilize Whisper-based tools to transcribe patients’ consultations with doctors, despite OpenAI’ s warnings that the tool should not be used in “high-risk domains.”

[jlcardenas]

NaNoWriMo: Screw the Company, Keep Writing

Ever since NaNoWriMo made their statement on AI I knew I was most likely not going to be participating in their program this year. To clarify, I will still be participating in National Novel Writing  Month this year, but not through the NaNoWriMo website itself. Which I’m sure many people do in the first place because the website has been a mess for years. 

I have participated in NaNoWriMo through the website for a few years now, joining their community of writers and creatives. I’m sad that I will not have as easy of a place to make these connections, but I strongly believe anyone who still has an account on the website should delete it immediately. There are plenty of other places to make connections with writers that I will be looking into and I hope everyone else does too.

My decision to stay away from the website stemmed from their odd nonanswer statement about using AI as a writing tool. So I went on YouTube to see how many other people were going to be staying away from the website too, and what I found shocked me. NaNoWriMo, the organization, should have been shut down years ago and the leaders should have to answer for their crimes against humanity. And I’m only very slightly exaggerating here.

I found multiple videos and blogs talking about the NaNoWriMo controversies but none broke them all down as well as the YouTuber SAVY WRITES BOOKS. If you want to watch a long video essay that breaks it down phenomenally with interviews and insider knowledge I would recommend checking out their video on the subject it is where I got most of the information.

NaNoWriMo Cares More About Its Sponsors Than Its Writers

There are multiple instances where the company chose its wallet over its writers. 

During one of their contests, they promised a partnership with another website that also made their own promises to get the contest winner's book published. This was a complete scam. Not a single one of the winners got published through the sponsored website, and the website itself was the subject of scrutiny. 

It made promises that were impossible to keep. No website that promises to get your book published through a big publishing company actually has the power to achieve that. By accepting this sponsorship without vetting its credibility, NaNoWriMo proved it only cared about the dollar amount of the deal.

NaNoWriMo has another sponsorship that has caused a lot of controversies recently. This one is with ProWritingAid, a tool that promises to help cure your writer's block with the use of AI. This is what caused me to question NaNoWriMo in the first place.

How can this organization claim to care about its community of hardworking writers when it is being sponsored by an AI writing tool that cheats and writes for you? Short answer, they don’t care about you. And they almost said as much in their recent statement on AI which side steps actually making a stance on AI at all. 

They knew they had to make a statement on AI but also knew that if they said anything bad about AI they’d jeopardize their sponsorship. Putting the sponsorship before the community.

NaNoWriMo Mistreats its Volunteers

I did not know that most of the NaNoWriMo team members are volunteers. I have been complaining for a while about the messiness of the site and some of the disorganization. And a lot of the team members for certain areas have had to answer for this. No one ever told me they were volunteering with the organization.

Had I known this, I would have understood a bit of the disorganization and aimed my blame at the people who were truly at fault, the ones being paid! I have a full-time job and barely find time to write, I admire the volunteers who took time out of their day to help create this community for us. 

But only today did I find out that NaNoWriMo sent out a document to their area leaders to sign stating that they would take the blame if anything went wrong in their areas. If you’re a volunteer, you should never have to take the blame for a company when an issue is not your fault. I haven’t seen the document itself, but the fact that the organization asked so many of its volunteers without compensation is simply disgusting. 

In Savy’s video, they interview a few ex-volunteers, all of whom had disturbing stories to tell. 

If you didn’t agree with a policy, too bad. You’re the problem and you can be let go at any point. And if you talk about us we will drag you. That’s the general way those volunteers were treated.

NaNoWriMo Dismisses Child Endangerment

One of the most disturbing parts of the video essay was the subject of child endangerment. 

NaNoWriMo had a smaller community within the larger one dedicated to teen writers. You’d expect them to take every precaution necessary to keep those writers safe, right? They did the exact opposite. 

One of the moderators for that community was sending links to their own adult content websites to these teens! Did NaNoWriMo ban him once they received complaints about his conduct? Nope. They stated that he didn’t do anything bad enough to warrant a ban. It’s speculated in the video that they allowed the moderator to get away with this because he had written code for the website and they didn’t want their money maker to take a hit. 

Unforgivable!

Instead of apologizing and ensuring the safety of future teen writers in their community, NaNoWriMo shut down that community of teen writers without warning. Who knows how many teens lost valuable friendships they had made through this community because of this?

This was the last straw for me. If I had been on the fence about leaving NaNoWriMo before, this solidified it for me. 

Keep Writing

If you are a writer and you’re still considering writing for National Novel Writing Month, I highly recommend you still do it! No one is saying to stop writing in protest of this company, but instead, protest the company itself. They do not deserve to keep this month for themselves when it is the people within the community itself that made it grow.

Writers must take back the month of November for ourselves. 

Update your progress on Reddit, X, TikTok, and whatever social media you use. Just keep writing.

Please check out Savy Writes Books video as there is way more that the company did that can ever fit into one blog post.