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sage-nebula · 11 days

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I've watched pretty much all of Jenny Nicholson's videos (despite not being into most of the things she's into) for a variety of reasons, but one of the reasons I watch her content is because I think that she seems like a truly stand-up kind of person. Of course, given that she is a person creating content for YouTube, we're only allowed to see the version of herself that she wants us to see. I'm under no illusions about that. But the version of herself that she presents to us, the viewers, seems to be a person who is not only genuinely passionate about the things she discusses (and honest about why she'll hold back on discussing certain topics when fans of those topics can be awful about it), but also who considers the experiences of (for lack of a better phrase) the average person when it comes to the theme parks and other experiences that she reviews.

Three specific instances come to mind: one from the Evermore video, and then two from her most recent Star Wars hotel video. (Side note: she was so, so right that Disney marketing is stupid as hell for not letting influencers et cetera use the common names for things. The average person doesn't know what "Galactic Starcruiser" is, but will understand "Star Wars hotel." Get it together, Disney.)

In the Evermore video, Jenny talks about how she emailed Evermore Park ahead of her visit to try to get more information prior to her visit. Things like whether there was a dress code, what she could expect when she arrived there, information that should have been readily available on the website but wasn't. She mentions that she could have mentioned that she's an influencer and that she probably would have gotten a response (because they never emailed her back), but that she deliberately chose not to.

"So I did attempt to email ahead of my visit, trying to ask basic questions about the park and inquire about renting it out. When I did that, I was intentionally vague; I didn't link my channel, and I didn't use my primary email. And I sort of suspect that if I had done the whole influencer song and dance -- said my channel name, my subscriber count -- I might've had better access to the park, and perhaps even a better experience. But that wasn't the point. I didn't want to call ahead. I'm the mystery diner! I'm the undercover boss! If you can't deliver an equivalently good experience for all guests, that's on you and your business." [x]

Then, in the Star Wars hotel video, there were two instances in which Jenny had to reach out to Disney customer support for assistance, and received absolutely nothing in return. The first was when she paid for a photo taking service, but had absolutely no photos taken of her. When she reached out to Disney customer support for a refund, they refused to give her said deserved refund. The second instance was when she had purchased a large droid figure from the hotel, and had it shipped to her house via the Disney shipping service. The Disney shipping service inputted her address incorrectly (in fact I think she says they put in a completely different address altogether), so her droid was lost. Once again she reached out to Disney customer support to find out what she could do about this expensive item she had purchased, only to be told that they couldn't do anything to help her.

In both cases, Jenny took to twitter to post about how Disney was refusing to a.) issue her a refund for a service she paid for but never received, and b.) help her receive an item she'd paid for but never received. Both times, Disney reached out immediately, issued her the refund, and overnighted her lost item. Jenny correctly identifies that they only did this because she's an influencer with a large twitter following, and has this to say in the video:

"They didn't even ask for my phone number. Like someone at Disney just did the legwork to go into the database, look up my booking info, find my phone number and then call me within a day of the tweet going out. And the person who called me was really nice, and I'm thankful he cared to resolve it. BUT, I just always feel very cynical when I try to resolve issues through the appropriate channels available to all customers and nobody will help me until they find out I'm an 'influencer.' I spoke with several other guests who got [the photo taking service] and had the exact same problems as me, and they never got refunds." [x]

And

"But then after I tweeted about it on my twitter account with a lot of followers, Disney suddenly resolved it and they sent me a replacement. They actually overnighted it to me. And along with it they sent a lot of miscellaneous goodies which I really appreciated. So here again, I feel if this had happened to anyone without a lot of twitter followers, they would have had a significantly more frustrating experience." [x]

I feel that this post will probably read as giving Jenny kudos for doing the bare minimum. And I think that on some level, that's true. But it's true because nowadays, many influencers won't even do the bare minimum. They would have Disney immediately issue them a refund, or overnight the droid to them with the additional goodies, and then make posts gushing about how great Disney's customer service is, despite knowing full well that the (again for lack of a better term) average person who doesn't have a huge internet following would never receive that kind of support from Disney. Similarly with Evermore, most influencers would call ahead and flex their follower count to try to get a bespoke experience to then show on their channels. They wouldn't want the same experience everyone else gets. That won't generate good content, in their eyes, and besides, they're better than that. Don't you know who they are?

But Jenny, despite her follower counts, keeps it real. Yes, she appreciates that Disney did give her the deserved refund and did send her the droid + gifts. But she also points out, both times, that if she'd been a person without a large twitter following, they would not have done that, and people in the exact same position she was with the photo service didn't get their deserved refunds. With Evermore, she didn't call ahead because she DOES want the same experience everyone else gets. She wants to be able to give a genuine review. Whether that review is positive or negative is dependent on the business itself.

Again, this probably seems like giving Jenny kudos for the bare minimum of decency. And I agree that on some level it is. But I also think that, in today's day and age, we really don't get that with a lot of influencers, who are in it for the sponsorship money (and who get their egos way inflated), and so it's nice to have a reviewer / theme park influencer who is honest with her opinions, and who recognizes that yeah, Disney did give her special treatment, but that it shouldn't have been special treatment, that they should be helping all of their guests like this, through the normal channels that she tried using, and they are a shit company for not doing that.

I just really appreciate Jenny.

#jenny nicholson

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dark-and-kawaii · 5 months

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༺ 𝒯𝒶𝒾𝓁 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎 ༻

Rolan x Tav/Reader | Zevlor x Tav/Reader | Dammon x Tav/Reader

Summary: Rolan, Zevlor, Dammon, and their tails. You’ve been begging for Rolan to use his tail on you. You fall to your knees for Zevlor, his tail inches away from your mouth. Dammon decides to have some fun with you while waiting in the crowd at the market.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ NSFW - Tail Play - Shameless Smut

༺ 𝑅𝑜𝓁𝒶𝓃 ༻

You had been begging Rolan to use his tail on you, telling him he could do as he pleased with you to let out some anger. Lorroakan had been pushing him to his limit lately and you knew your body would do him well. As you lay pinned beneath him, face buried into your pillow, your voice couldn’t help but to crack with panic as his grip tightened around the backside of your neck.

You could feel Rolan’s tail press against your backside, could feel the object slam against you but slide down and rub against your pussy lips. Your puckered little hole was so tight it was starting to irritate Rolan further.

You could hear him curse in frustration as he shifted his body weight on you. You could hear and feel the faint sound and trace of his tail dragging against you soft ass cheeks, it was almost soothing until you felt it…

You felt the sharp, pointy tip of his tail pressing against your tight asshole and your body tensed with both pleasure and pain. Your attempts to stifle your cries were futile as you felt the forceful entry of his tail, stretching your tight hole wider with each inch it penetrated. The sensation was overwhelming, the mix of pleasure and discomfort pushing you over edge.

Rolan's tail continued to invade your ass, opening you wider with each deliberate thrust. Your legs twitched involuntarily, your body reacting to the intense pleasure that accompanied the deepening penetration. As his triangular tip nestled deep inside you, filling you to the brim, you couldn't help but gasp at the sudden rush of both pleasure and pain.

The raw intensity of his movements made you lose yourself in a sea of sensations, the lines between pleasure and discomfort blurring into a haze.

As his tail delved deeper into your ass, you could feel the stretch and fullness, the relentless invasion that pushed you to your absolute limit. Your wanton moans and cries mingled with the sounds of his growls, creating a symphony of unadulterated lust.

The sharpness of his tail, the way it scraped against your inner walls, sent electrifying waves of pleasure coursing through your body. The primal urge to be taken, to be used as an outlet for Rolan's anger, consumed you completely.

Rolan's grip on your neck tightened, his dominance asserting itself as he plunged his tail deeper, testing the limits of your endurance. The sensation of being filled, of being completely at his mercy, heightened your arousal to new heights. You could feel the heat building within you, the primal need for release growing with each relentless thrust.

With one final, powerful thrust, his tail buried deep inside you, triggering a release that sent tremors coursing through your body.

Rolan let out a guttural growl, his grip on your neck tightening as he reached his own climax. Hot streams of his thick, warm cum erupted from his pulsating cock, painting your back with his milky seed. The sensation of his release, the sticky warmth against your skin, made you feel liked a used a whore, his whore.

You lay there, breathless and covered in his cum, you whine not fully satisfied, you could never truly get enough of this tiefling.

Rolan smiled at you, “Don’t be greedy.”

༺ 𝒵𝑒𝓋𝓁𝑜𝓇 ༻

You fell to your knees in front of Zevlor, your hands trembling as you reached out to caress his tail. The sight of his flushed face, contrasting against his fiery red skin, sent a surge of pleasure through you. You could tell how much he enjoyed these moments, and it always fueled your own arousal further.

As you began stroking his tail, you felt him grip the chair behind him, his knees threatening to give way under your touch. The power you held over him, the ability to elicit such intense reactions, sent a thrill through you. Gods how you loved that you had this man all to yourself.

With a lust filled smile, you guided the tip of his tail towards your awaiting mouth, teasing him with just the tip of your tongue of what was to come. Your eyes looking through your lashes to see that Zevlor was holding his mouth with his other hand, his eyes glazed over… You hadn’t even begun to suckle on his sweet appendage and already he was a beautiful mess.

You wasted no time, grasping the length of his tail firmly in your hand, your fingers gliding along it. With each stroke, you could feel the pulse in his tail, driving you further into a frenzy of desire. Your mouth hovering just inches away from the tip of his tail, the air heavy around both of you.

And then, with an insatiable hunger, you descended upon him, taking the full end of his tail deep into your mouth. The taste of him on your tongue ignited your own craving for more. Your lips formed a tight seal around his tail as you bobbed your head up and down, mimicking the motion you would use on his cock. Your tongue dancing along the sensitive skin, teasing and pleasuring him.

The desire to pleasure yourself, to touch your clit and indulge in your own pleasure, burned within you. But this moment was about him, about satisfying his needs. Perhaps his reactions alone would be enough to push you over the edge.

Zevlor's grip on the chair grew tighter as he struggled to maintain his composure, each moan and gasp that escaped his lips encouraging you to intensify your efforts, to take him deeper, to bring him closer to the edge.

His hips bucked involuntarily, aching for you to free his cock from his trousers, as you continued your relentless assault on his tail. The wet sounds of your sucking filled the room, mingling with his guttural moans and pleas. The power you held over him, the way he surrendered himself so willingly to your oral expertise, intoxicated you.

With each passing moment, the intensity grew, the pleasure building to an unbearable peak. Zevlor's grip on the chair tightened, his knees buckling slightly. He could feel his release coming.

Zevlor let out a low, guttural moan, his voice quavering, “T-Tav, I-“ The sound was music to your ears, a testament to the pleasure you were able to bring him.

You began to grind your hips into the ground, your one hand leaving the length of his tail to find your clit. You couldn’t take it, you wanted to cum with him. Your tongue continuing to swirl around his tail as you bobbed further down onto it, forcing yourself to choke on it. You wanted more of him. To have him lose control and thrust his tail into your gullet until he came. You knew it was a fantasy that would never fully be realized, but perhaps it would slowly awaken his fiendish side one day and you’d find yourself gagging on his appendage.

As you continued to suck and take more of his tail down your throat, your fingers pressed into your clit, rubbing in small circles as you felt your own release build.

Zevlor's breathing became ragged, his eyes fixed on you as he watched your fingers and the wooden floors become soaked with your essence, your hips bucking while your drool dripped down from his tail. The scene was shamelessly lewd, and the sensation of your throat closing around his sensitive tail pushed him over the edge.

He let out a long, drawn-out groan as his cock pulsed within the confines of his trousers, his hot seed staining them.

His climax was a sight to behold, his eyes fluttering closed as his whole body tensed. The cum stain was enough to push you over the edge, your hips bucking against your fingers as your own orgasm washed over you.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, you released Zevlor's tail from your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his appendage.

Both of you were left panting, your bodies flushed and glistening with sweat. Your fingers slowly withdrew from your soaked core, leaving you feeling sensitive and satisfied.

Zevlor, still leaning against the chair, despite the explicit moment you had just shared, he couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for having you by his side. His heart swelled with affection as he gazed at your flushed face.

He reached out, his touch gentle and loving, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Zevlor whispered, his voice filled with warmth and tenderness. "I am the luckiest soul in existence to have you at my side. It is a blessing I will never take for granted."

༺ 𝒟𝒶𝓂𝓂𝑜𝓃 ༻

You were both waiting for the crowd to dissipate so you could make your way home from the market. It was a beautiful day, and you knew it would be packed with all kinds of beings picking out the freshest fruits and vegetables.

Dammon had a firm grip on your hand as he tried to navigate through the crowd, but people kept bumping into you. Suddenly, a large orc pushed into your side, causing you to stumble and fall into Dammon's back. Your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shirt as your face and chest press against his backside.

His tail wraps around your thigh instinctively, holding you close, and you can feel a shudder run through your body as his tail creeps up. "Dammon, what are you-" but before you can finish your sentence, his hand reaches behind him to hold your elbow, and he whispers, "No one will know."

Realizing that there's no way to escape the crowd at the moment, Dammon took advantage of the moment. Slowly, he maneuvered his tail, pushing up the loose skirt you were wearing. You felt a mixture of excitement and anticipation as his tail pressed against the top of your panties, sliding slowly into them.

His tail finds its way to your wet sex, brushing against you with every movement. Your breath hitches as he presses the tip of his tail against your entrance, seeking entry. You wince slightly in pain as it pushes harder, the sharp tip gradually forcing itself into your tight little cunt. Your nails dig into his back as your legs tremble. Dammon's eyes darting around, checking if anyone had noticed.

A part of him secretly wishing that someone would witness the erotic scene he was creating, to see how his tail alone could make you tremble with pleasure. Unable to wait any longer, he surges his tail forward, thrusting it deep inside you.

You bite back a moan at the sudden intrusion, feeling only the tip of his tail inside you. But then, it drives further and further, filling you up in a way his cock never has. It pulls back before plunging back into you, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body. You can feel how wet you are, your juices trickling down your thighs and onto the dirt path.

The forceful thrusts from Dammon's tail forced you to push your face deeper into his back, and you can't help but cry out his name into the fabric of his shirt amidst the growing pleasure, “D-Dammon!”

"You're doing so well for me, princess." Each thrust bringing a new wave of pleasure, and soon you find yourself gasping openly, disregarding the surrounding crowd. Dammon’s ears perked to the sweet sounds you were making in public as he continues to pleasure you with his tail.

His eyes once again looking around the area, only this time he catches eyes with an older elf man nearby, his eyes fixated on you while Dammon's tail plunges into you. The realization only adds to the excitement for Dammon, thanking the gods that his blacksmithing apron was concealing his hard cock.

You could no longer resist the pleasure as his tail bottoms out, driving deep inside you. With every forceful thrust, your body responds, your walls clenching around his invading tail, craving more. The pleasure builds, spiraling higher and higher, until you can't hold back any longer. Your cries of ecstasy fill the air, mingling with the sounds of the bustling marketplace.

Dammon, driven by a combination of using you in public and being watched, increases the pace of his thrusts. And with one final thrust, Dammon's tail penetrates you deeply, hitting all the right spots causing your body to convulse, pleasure washing over you in a tidal wave of bliss.

As the intensity of your climax subsides, your legs give way beneath you, causing you to collapse against Dammon's back. He quickly reaches behind him to catch you with his strong arms, preventing you from falling to the ground. The weight of your body against him bringing comfort.

Looking down with hazy eyes, you notice a small puddle formed at your feet, evidence of the wetness that had spilled from within you… You only hoped no one had noticed…

With a low voice, Dammon whispers for only you to hear, "You've made quite a mess, love. But don't worry, I'll take care of you. I'll clean up every last drop once we are home." His words send a shiver of anticipation through you, knowing that his desire for you is far from sated, and you know he was true to his word. Once home he’d force your legs apart to lap up every last bit of your juices…

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #tav #bg3 smut #bg3 zevlor #Zevlor #Rolan #bg3 rolan #rolan x tav #rolan x reader #rolan bg3 #dammon #dammon bg3 #dammon x tav #dammon x reader #zevlor bg3 #zevlor x tav #zevlor x reader

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cassandrva · 1 year

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the spiderverse movies, especially across the spiderverse, are perfect stories to analyze through a metafictional lens (for context: metafiction is when a story deliberately draws the audience's attention to its status as a story)

it's almost inevitable for a spider-man story set in a multiverse to build commentary on what it means to be a spider-man story. itsv certainly does it, but atsv doubles down on it tenfold.

throughout all of the film we see characters imposing a narrative on miles, telling him not only what to do but also how to present and even think about himself and his place in the world. they want him to distort his story, make it palatable, to conform to the beats and tropes everyone expects from him both as miles morales and as spider-man.

his guidance counselor wants him to be poster boy for the stereotypical american dream "poor child of immigrants pulls himself up by his bootstraps to become a great scientist" narrative

miguel insists on subjecting every single spider-person to the same traumatic tropes— sorry, "canon events" that (according to his algorithm) define the very nature of a spider-man story. he's like the comics authority of this spider-verse. any divergence miles attempts from the standardized narratives that are thrust upon him is heavily policed and disciplined

both the counselor and miguel are essentially saying the same thing: being who miles is is about sacrifice, and it's about suffering. to prevent that suffering or to acknowledge its absence means erasing his identity respectively as an afrolatino young man and as a superhero

and he is having none of it. this is not a spider-man narrative, this is his spider-man narrative. he's not going to reduce himself to fit into a nice cookie cutter generic marketable version of his own life

and in his literal main character moment he graduates from guy who is doomed by the narrative to Guy Who Dooms The Narrative. he's taken control of his own story. bet in the next movie he's gonna make the whole canon theory unravel. bet he's gonna break canon so hard it explodes.

#postmodern icon who breaks free from traditional narratives #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #atsv #miles morales #across the spider verse analysis #across the spider verse meta #atsv spoilers

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solarrclxud · 4 months

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HAPPY VALENTINES

pairing : multi x reader (wriothesley , neuvillette , childe , ,xiao )

genre: fluff

warnings : not proofread , the use of " my love"

a/n: well guess who just got revived from the dead ! (its me hello) ALSO ill be getting to my inbox soon! thank you for the requests while i was gone !

Wriothesley watched you dust a shelf that held his extravagant and excessive tea collection . You were muttering something about how he really needed to clean more often when he shifted his head off of his palm to grin . You squinted at him . " You're being suspicious" you prodded him. He shook his head and looked down to the work he was supposed to be doing as you resumed dusting , moving to the shelf below , only to see a tiny box behind the usual boxes of tea. With a slight frown you attempted to move it to the front . As you put it down , something rattled within and u heard wriothesley get up from his chair . " Finally, i thought you'd never find it" he laughed. You stared at him confused . He smiled and made his way over to you , opening the box in your hands to reveal a keychain . One you'd seen in the market a few days ago but hadn't bought.

" Happy valentines my love "

Xiao was deliberate with his gifts. They were frequent and personal. Thanks to him, you had an entire box tucked away in your cupboard , full to the brim with charms to ward off evil, flowers he had picked up and chunks of ore he had carved while u slept. Today when you awoke to a piece of jade used as a paperweight for a small note on your side table, it was not a new occurrence. The note was written in beautiful flourish and u smiled as you read it. A simple good morning and a wish for a good day. You didn't think much of it through the day as you went about the Harbor , couples exchanging simple affection was a usual for you to see at the cafe u ran but today it seemed more frequent. In the evening you walked back to the Inn , to find Xiao pacing on the balcony, slightly red faced. When you called to him , he jumped like a startled animal before he smiled a little, holding out what seemed to be a hair piece fashioned from the same kind of jade he had given to u in the morning.

"i have heard that mortals have this celebration of love. i thought it fit hat we must take part as we are...in love."

Childe was out on a business trip. His absence felt strangely heavy that day due to the presence of couples around liyue harbour. You had longed to see him for a week now but all you had was a letter from a few days after he had left , dating his return to the next month. It was one of his longer trips no doubt . As you got home that evening, you unlocked your home and was met with the sound of someone already there. You frowned , grabbing a knife from the kitchen as you etched towards the sound of...singing? Now that you thought about it the voice was familiar. You entered your bedroom to childe leaning over a bouquet of flowers strategically placed on the bed humming a tune in obvious excitement. You began to laugh, causing him to turn around to see you and inevitably join in.

"the job finished faster than planned, thanks to my expertise so i thought id suprise you ! happy valentines!"

Neuvillette was a doting lover, and contrary to his professional persona, at home he was nothing but a tired man. That morning you woke up to him for the first time in what felt like ages. You checked the clock, 10am, he was late. You uttered his name softly in an attempt to wake him up. He just hummed and nuzzled further into you, it was obvious he was awake by the soft smile on him face. " Neuvi you're late" . He shook his head and pulled you closer. His voice muffled as he said,

"I took a day off...i have a reservation at a restaurant but can we go back to bed for now my love?"

slaying with the comeback (school is murdering me)

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primaviva · 5 months

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gingerbread; gwen stacy

featuring. gwen stacy x fem!reader

synopsis. making gingerbread with your girlfriend—gwen stacy.

warnings. none, just fluff! one suggestive joke and intense kiss description

gingerbread—a cherished christmas classic that invokes a symphony of senses, whisking you away to a world of holiday enchantment. as much as you would hate to admit it to someone who is passionate about christmas, the art of constructing a gingerbread house has eluded you. well, perhaps there was a time in your youth when you attempted such a creation, but it never truly became an integral part of your holiday traditions. sure, you delighted in the occasional indulgence of premade gingerbread cookie snacks found at the local market, striving to awaken the spirit of the season. however, those moments were akin to coloring within the lines of gingerbread-themed books from your childhood—a fleeting taste of the magic.

but today, it seemed that this would change.

gwen, surprising a fervent advocate of all things christmas, extended an invitation to her home while her dad was out working late. the purpose? to make gingerbread.

as you stepped into gwen's apartment, a winter wonderland unfolded before you. the air was infused with the delicate fragrance of freshly cut pine, mingling harmoniously with the nostalgic scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. not to mention the little festive touches to the apartment like the wreath that was in your face as you knocked on the door.

in the heart of gwen's kitchen, a tableau of culinary goodness awaited. the ingredients for gingerbread lay scattered across the countertop, more than enough boxes than there should be of premade mix. the scent of ginger mingled with the warmth of the earthy undertones of almond, blending into a fragrant melody that coated the room in an irresistible aroma.

the room buzzed with excitement as you and gwen meticulously measured, combined ingredients, and kneaded the dough. the rhythmic sound of the wooden spoon swirling through the mixture created a rough cadence, accompanied by the gentle clinking of utensils against the mixing bowl.

time seemed to both pass by and stand still at the start of things. with each roll of the pin, the dough spread out, its surface becoming a blank canvas waiting to be shaped into something deliciously beautiful for you to destroyed. gingerbread walls, roofs, windows, and doors emerged from the malleable dough, ready to be transformed into a festive yet architectural masterpiece.

as the premade gingerbread pieces were placed in the oven, the minutes stretched out like taffy, building an air of suspense. the addictive scent of freshly baked gingerbread wafted through the kitchen, enveloping you in its warm embrace.

finally, with a melodious ding, the timer announced the completion of the baking process—a moment that marked the birth of something truly extraordinary.

impatience tinged your words as you exclaimed, "goddamn, i could practically feel my toenails growing in place while waiting for that damn timer!" your frustration evident, you turned your head to the side, seeking any distraction from the anticipation that had reached its peak. with a determined stride, you made your way to the oven, bending down to peer inside. the radiant light within the oven cast a mesmerizing glow upon the smooth, golden-brown texture of the gingerbread, causing your mouth to almost involuntarily salivate.

as you stood there, captivated by the sight before you, gwen playfully observed your expression and couldn't help but chuckle. "take it easy," she teased, joining you by the oven. "even as your girlfriend, i don't think i want to eat gingerbread covered with frosting and... saliva."

her playful remark lightened the moment, allowing a smile to grace your face. the warmth of her presence, coupled with the tantalizing aroma filling the air, intensified the feeling of holiday joy. with a deliberate grace, gwen adorned the oven mitts, preparing to retrieve the gingerbread from its warm haven. as she carefully lifted the tray and placed it on the countertop, the sweet fragrance enveloped the room, an atmosphere of festive delight. it was as if the very essence of christmas had materialized in that humble batch of gingerbread.

"voilà!" gwen declared, her eyes gleaming mischievously. "our gingerbread base is ready for some serious decorating." the prospect of adorning the freshly baked canvas with a burst of color and creativity brought a renewed sense of excitement, infusing the air with a contagious energy.

gwen's eyes sparkled with mischief as she turned to face you, a playful grin spreading across her face. "so, my creative partner in crime, any design in mind for our masterpiece?" her words inviting your imagination to run wild. "i was thinking a haunted gingerbread house, complete with gummy worms and licorice spiders. but i'm open to suggestions, of course." a sigh left your lips, of course spiders.

you couldn't help but wear a sly smirk on your face as you locked eyes with gwen, indulging in the banter between you. "y’know, you sound so corny right now," you jest, a hint of truth lacing your words, eliciting a dry laugh.

gwen couldn't help but laugh at your reaction. "alright, alright, no more cringey names, got it," she replied, feigning seriousness.

sauntering toward the countertop, you leaned on it, peering closely at the freshly baked gingerbread, contemplating the possibilities. "how about we recreate your apartment? a cute lil’ surprise for mister stacy when he returns home."

the thought of transforming the gingerbread canvas into a miniature replica of her own living space definitely excited gwen, even if it was up to debate if she had the skill to execute that.

“i would love for my dad to come home to see a miniature gingerbread version of our apartment,” she put it simply. gwen leaned against the countertop next to you, examining the gingerbread pieces. "we'll need to get creative with the decorations. maybe some pretzel stick furniture, and we can use icing to make tiny portraits of us hanging on the gingerbread walls," she suggested, eyes sparkling with excitement.

gwen walked off to her cabinets and grabbed an array of things ranging from sprinkles, pretzels and cookies, to gumdrops she had stored all the way in the back where you swore you could’ve seen some cobwebs. "so, how's it feel to be in the presence of a master gingerbread architect? i hope you can keep up with my design skills, babe,” gwen smirked playfully, raising an eyebrow at you.

you couldn’t help but let a laugh escape from your throat. “master gingerbread architect? please, if you can’t make your webs stick to the side of a building for more than fifteen seconds i can only imagine how you think you’ll be able to stick two gingerbread walls together with some frosting,” you tease, playfully bumping her hip.

gwen couldn't help but burst into laughter at your remark, pretending to be offended. "hey now, my web-slinging skills may not translate perfectly to gingerbread construction, but i'll have you know i've got a few tricks up my sleeve," she quipped, winking at you.

as she picked up the box of icing, she playfully flicked a bit of it in your direction. "watch out, or i might just stick you to the gingerbread walls too," gwen teased, sticking her tongue out at you.

but in all seriousness, she was grateful for moments like these, where you could just be yourselves and have fun together. as you focused on decorating the gingerbread pieces, she couldn't help but steal glances at you, a soft smile playing on her lips. it was moments like these that made her appreciate how lucky she is to be in your presence.

you chuckled lowly at her little threat. “i think you should watch out then, cus’ who said i wouldn’t enjoy being webbed to the wall by you?” you questioned, making a bold comment to the tall blonde.

you watched as she got together the frosting, mixing it before putting it in baggies. you began copying her movements, helping her mix the already selected holiday colors such as red, green, and white and put them in their respective baggie before cutting the tip of it so it can dispense the frosting.

gwen couldn't help but blush at your daring response, her pale skin transitioning to a pretty rose while feeling a rush of affection toward you. "oh, you’d enjoy it, huh?" she replied, voice laced with amusement. "well, maybe i'll have to put that to the test sometime."

as you worked together to mix the frosting and fill the baggies, she admired the way you effortlessly picked up on the process. it was one of the reasons she loved being with you—you always embraced new challenges with determination and a willingness to learn.

or at least get through those said challenges… if anything.

gwen grabbed a decorative plate, seemingly a fancy traditional plate that looked irish, probably a gift from her grandparents to her dad. once the frosting was ready, she grabbed one of the gingerbread walls and the floor from the parchment and put a dollop to the plate to make it act as glue for stability. then, she began piping a decorative trim along the edges, using the red frosting. gwen delicately squeezed the baggie, letting the smooth, creamy texture glide onto the cookie. the scent of the sugary frosting mixed with the warm gingerbread, creating an intoxicating aroma.

she glanced over at you, noticing your focused expression as you worked on your own piece. "looking good over there," gwen complimented with a grin, playfully nudging your shoulder. “gingerbread, not you, well you are but- i’m talking about your lovely art right there.”

you let out a choked laugh as your hand faltered from piping the frosting down the side of one of the big gingerbread squares for the apartment. it wasn’t too difficult, but for someone who doesn’t do this annually you clearly struggled with some things. “all i've done so far is stick the back wall to the other side that you did,” you state plainly. “if this is art to you then i would hate to hear what you think of picasso.”

gwen couldn't help but let out a boisterous laugh at your self-deprecating comment. "hey, don't sell yourself short! i’m sure picasso would be so proud to see your one singular gingerbread wall," she reassured you, trying to suppress her giggles.

gwen put her piping bag down and walked over to your direction. you felt her chest hit your back as both her arms snaked from behind your waist to your arms. she reached over and gently took your hand, guiding it back to the frosting baggie. "here, let me show you a little trick. just apply a little pressure and let the frosting flow out smoothly all on its own. you got it," she encouraged, setting an example for you.

you tried to pay attention, but it was hard when her smooth yet raspy voice was whispering in your ear, so close you felt her breath tickling your cheek.

you both continued decorating the gingerbread walls, adding intricate details and personal touches. gwen used the white frosting to create a snow-like effect on the roof, while you expertly piped green frosting to resemble a wreath on the front door.

as you worked side by side, the room filled with laughter and the sweet scent of gingerbread and frosting. it was moments like these, where both of you could be silly and enjoy each other's company, that truly made gwen's heart flutter.

you carefully spread a layer of frosting inside the gingerbread house, creating a smooth carpet-like surface. a mischievous grin plays on your lips as an idea takes hold. secretly, you squeeze a dollop of frosting onto your pointer finger, ready to execute your playful plan. "gwen, come see the carpet i did," you command, diverting her attention from the oh so important and intricate task of assembling miniature furniture out of cookies, pretzels, and other random yet surprisingly edible materials. she turns towards you, her gaze fixed on your direction, unsuspecting of what's about to happen.

swiftly, you rise onto the balls of your feet, reaching her height, and with a quick and unexpected motion, you press the frosting onto the tip of her nose, smudging it up towards the bridge. a mischievous giggle escapes your lips as you revel in the spontaneous act, marveling at the frosting adorning gwen's nose.

gwen's eyes widen in surprise, a gasp escaping her lips as her fingertips touch the sticky yet velvety texture of the vibrant green frosting adorning her nose. its hue is so vivid, it could rival even the grinch himself. her eyes widened in mock shock, but a mischievous grin quickly spread across her face. "oh, it's on now!" the blonde exclaimed, playfully narrowing her eyes at you.

without missing a beat, she grabbed a dollop of frosting from the table and quickly retaliated, smearing it on your cheek. "oops, looks like you've got a little something on your face," gwen teased, unable to contain her laughter.

the two of you burst into a fit of giggles, frosting-covered fingers and all. you couldn’t take each other seriously. as the frosting war continued, you both ended up with streaks of frosting on your faces, looking more like abstract art than gingerbread decorators. but it didn't matter—you were having fun, and that's all that truly mattered in that moment.

“hey, i put a lil’ dot on you and not this fat ass blob,” you defend, wiping some of the frosting from the pile she planted on your nose and adding it to her nose. “cute nose job, rudolph. not lookin’ botched at all,” you teased.

gwen couldn't help but laugh at your quick retort, wiping off some of the frosting from her nose and smearing it on your lower jaw. "oh, so you're a critic now, huh?" she playfully responded, a smirk as clear as a snow globe. "well, i'm just gonna add some extra flair to your already sexy nose. rudolph will have nothing on you."

your laughter filled the room as we continued the frosting battle, merrily colorful streaks on each other's faces. no matter how silly or ridiculous you two might look, you were always able to find joy and laughter together.

but amidst the chaos, gwen couldn't help but steal a moment to appreciate your playful spirit and the way your eyes sparkled with mischief. you were truly her partner in crime, and she wouldn't want it any other way. or how she would put it, her “creative partner in gingerbread crime.” well, whatever that means.

the frosting war continued, we eventually ran out of ammunition, leaving you both covered in frosting from head to shoulder. you and your girlfriend stood there, breathless from laughter, and she couldn't resist pulling you into a tight, frosting-covered hug. "you're the best, you know that?" gwen whispered, her voice filled with genuine affection as raspy as it came.

you instinctively step back from the hug, finding yourself nose-deep in gwen's sweater. the thick frosting that had made its way into your nostrils tickles uncomfortably, and you valiantly suppress the urge to let out a loud sneeze. hastily grabbing a napkin, you wipe away the frosting, finally lifting your gaze to meet gwen's as her words register in your mind.

in that moment, clarity dawns upon you, and you realize what she said. the initial distraction of the frosting mishap fades away as you comprehend the deeper meaning behind her innocent words.

“what?” you questioned, urging her to repeat it.

gwen quickly snapped out of her daze, realizing that she had been staring at you. a slight blush crept up on the blonde’s cheeks as she realized that she had been caught. "oh, uh, sorry," gwen stammered, sounding a bit softer than usual. "i was just… admiring how cute you look, even covered in frosting."

a nervous chuckle escapes gwen's lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she finds herself feeling more embarrassed than that one time her headphones failed her during class, blaring my chemical romance for an unplanned five seconds. "i guess i got lost in the moment there. but hey, you're always a sight to see, whether you're covered in frosting or not," she stated, trying to play it off like her hands still don’t falter to shake when you make her nervous. gwen reached out and gently wiped a bit of frosting off your cheek with my thumb, her touch lingering for a moment. "you’re my favorite mess," gwen added.

a warmth spreads across your cheeks in response to gwen's comment. "oh, really?" you retort, secretly wanting to hear more from her. however, you quickly regain your composure, reminding yourselves of the task at hand. "enough, we still have shit to do," you interject, trying to steer the focus back to the gingerbread house.

gwen raised an eyebrow at your response, but couldn't help but notice the underlying hint of vulnerability in your tone. “learn to take a compliment,” she comments.

but gwen's soft smile tugs at your heartstrings, drawing you closer to her. she leans in, her gaze fixed on your eyes, as if she's searching for something deeper within you. in a surprising move, she uses her thumb, still adorned with the frosting she had wiped off you, and gently smears it across your lips. her voice carries innocence as she remarks, "looks like you've got a little something."

the touch of gwen's thumb against your lips sends a subtle jolt of electricity through your body, leaving you momentarily breathless.

but as she stepped closer to you, faces mere inches apart, gwen couldn't resist the magnetic pull between you.

as you close the remaining distance between you, gwen's lips meet yours with a gentle, lingering pressure, initiating a tender kiss. the sensation of her lips against yours sends a shiver of delight down your spine. the world around you seems to dissolve into a hazy blur, leaving only the two of you enveloped in a moment of pure connection.

your lips move in perfect synchronization with gwen's, their dance a delicate and intimate rhythm. each brush and caress of her soft lips against yours ignites a cascade of sensations to your skin—subtle yet electrifying. the taste of the frosting lingers on your tongues, a delectable blend of sweetness merging with the warmth of her own unique lip balm, a hint of vanilla intertwined with the minty sweetness.

lost in the tender embrace, you become acutely aware of every detail—the velvety texture of her lips, the way they meet and meld with yours in the most gentle and affectionate manner in which she moves. it's a moment where time stands still, where nothing else matters except the intoxicating closeness and shared intimacy between the two of you.

as you gently pull away from the kiss, your eyes instinctively rise to meet gwen's gaze. her lips, now adorned with a generous coating of green frosting, seem to attract even more of the sticky sweetness due to the presence of her lip balm. a rush of heat floods your cheeks, betraying your flustered state, while gwen smirks knowingly at you. a dry scoff escapes her lips, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on you, clearly surprised by the effect she has on you.

your attention is captivated as gwen's tongue emerges, delicately gliding along her lower lip, collecting the frosting in a deliberate and tantalizing manner. the sight of her tongue ascending to her upper lip, methodically removing the sweet coating, holds you in a mesmerized state. you watch with unwavering focus, afraid to tear your gaze away, as she withdraws her tongue back into her mouth, savoring the taste once more.

gwen, fully aware of the effect her actions have on you, wears an expression of both satisfaction and amusement. it becomes evident that she takes pleasure in being the sole catalyst for such a reaction from you, relishing in the power she holds over your senses.

as gwen finished licking off the frosting from her lips, she let out another low laugh. "mmm, still tastes as good as ever," she commented, her voice tauntingly husky. "you’re right, enough is enough. let’s get back to work, shall we?"

with a playful wink directed your way, gwen swiftly turns around, retrieving a towel and extending it towards you. you accept it, grateful for the gesture, as she grabs another towel for herself. without missing a beat, she proceeds to wipe her face clean, the remnants of frosting vanishing from her lips and leaving behind a pristine canvas. with a determined focus, she resumes her position, ready to dive back into the task at hand.

as you and gwen huddle together, the gingerbread apartment sprawled out before you, a wave of excitement washing over you both. the gingerbread walls, perfectly baked and golden brown, stand tall and sturdy, ready to be transformed. with nimble fingers, you take the lead, carefully applying royal icing along the seams of the rest of the walls, joining them together to form the structure. gwen follows suit, her touch deft and precise, ensuring the stability of the gingerbread apartment. the icing, a pristine white, resembles freshly fallen snow, enhancing the enchanting charm of the scene.

together, you meticulously construct the details—a miniature door, adorned with candy cane stripes, opens up to reveal a sugary haven within. the windows, crafted from translucent sugar sheets, allow glimpses into the home.

inside the gingerbread apartment, you and gwen become masterful decorators, so much so even the hgtv channel overlords would envy you two. tiny tinsel garlands, carefully woven together, drape along the walls, reflecting the glow of imaginary holiday lights. delicate icicle-shaped ornaments, made from crystallized sugar, hang from the ceilings, shimmering with a frosted sparkle. the living room area boasts a miniature christmas tree, painstakingly fashioned from piped green icing and dressed with tiny edible baubles, crafted from old halloween candies. a crackling fireplace, created by using chocolate shavings and red m&ms, casts a false warmth to the empty room. moving into the kitchen, a gingerbread dining table, complete with intricate icing lacework, holds a feast of miniature treats. tiny gingerbread cookies, iced with intricate designs, sit in a bowl, waiting to be enjoyed by you and your girlfriend. plates of assorted candies and chocolates are arranged, slowly dwindling as your hands continue to dig into the bowl for more material.

the two of you continued working on the gingerbread house, your playful banter and teasing gradually fading into a comfortable silence. as you placed the final touches, the gingerbread apartment began to take shape, looking like a cozy little abode.

both of you stepped back, admiring your handiwork. the walls were neatly decorated with frosting trim, the roof had a snowy white frosting coating, and the windows were outlined with colorful candies. it was painfully over-stimulating to the eyes of anyone who hates christmas, but also beautiful.

gwen reached out and took your hand in hers, squeezing it gently. "look at that! we make quite the dynamic duo, don't we?" she remarked, a bit too prideful of her mediocre work. "our gingerbread house is the envy of all gingerbread houses.”

you continue to stare at it, finally realizing why it bothered you. “it’s missing something,” you put simply. “we need to add the little people who will live in this apartment.”

gwen nodded in agreement, leaning a bit onto your shoulder to see from your perspective. "you're right, it needs some little residents to bring it to life," she replied, her mind already racing with ideas.

she reached for the bowl of extra gingerbread dough and started rolling it out. gwen looked over at you, a soft yet evident grin on her face. "how about we make gingerbread versions of ourselves? it'll be like a little homage to us," she suggested, a playful smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

gwen began cutting out the shapes, carefully crafting miniature versions of the both of you with the dough. as she added the details, gwen couldn't help but chuckle at the tiny gingerbread drum set she included for her miniature self.

once the dough was baked and cooled, you set to work on decorating our gingerbread doppelgangers.

as gwen rummages through her cabinets, retrieving an array of icing tubes, a flicker of suspicion tugs at the corners of your mind. the sheer variety she has in her possession leaves you slightly amazed, as well as curious and a bit concerned. nonetheless, you set aside your intrigue and begin piping the features of your gingerbread creation, starting with your own skin tone, meticulously crafting every detail.

glancing over at gwen's side, a knowing smirk graces your lips as you catch a glimpse of her artistic endeavors. with precision and flair, she expertly pipes her iconic half-shaved hairstyle onto the gingerbread figure. the piercing blue eyes she possesses, which sometimes give you the creeps, are replicated with remarkable accuracy. the adorable ensemble of wide-legged jeans, converse shoes, and a shirt adorned with a hand-drawn heart catches your attention. squinting slightly, you can read word for word what it says.

"i heart my girlfriend?" you repeat aloud, surprise evident in your voice.

gwen's laughter rings out, full and infectious. "you took the words out of my mouth," she playfully teases, reveling in the shared sentiment.

unable to resist the warmth that spreads across your face, you steal a glance to your right, discovering that gwen has already crafted a little gingerbread man of her father. turning your attention back to your own mini-you, you work diligently, not wanting to fall behind the swift pace set by your girlfriend.

as you finished and placed the gingerbread versions of yourselves inside the gingerbread house, it truly came to life.

you stepped back, taking in the sight of your creation one final time. "perfect," you declared, a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction filling you.

"it’s so perfect,” gwen adds, mimicking what you said.

you let out an exaggerated eye-roll, your playful annoyance evident. "well, thanks for that," you quip, though your words are tinged with a hint of amusement. but then, as a mischievous thought strikes you, you freeze in mock disbelief, placing your hands dramatically on your head.

in a sarcastically shocked tone, you inquire, "but wait... who will protect them from harm?" your voice drips with playful melodrama, heightening the comedic effect of your question.

slowly turning towards her, you meet her gaze, awaiting her response. with a mischievous grin, she finally breaks her silence.

"i'm so glad you asked," she declares.

in one swift motion, gwen lifts her mini gingerbread representation of herself and playfully makes it leap onto the roof of the gingerbread apartment. as she rotates it, a delightful surprise is revealed—the infamous ghost spider suit, meticulously piped onto the other side down to the mask to the teal ballet slippers.

"don't worry," gwen reassures you with a touch of theatrical flair, "i'll be there to save my damsel in distress."

you try to maintain an unamused expression, your face fighting back a smile as you struggle not to burst into laughter.

gwen couldn't help but break into uncontrollable laughs at your reaction, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

"surprise!" she exclaimed, unable to contain her amusement. "you didn’t think i would add the one and only spider woman of new york? you had to have seen this coming."

gwen playfully made her mini gingerbread ghost spider do a little victory dance on the roof of the gingerbread apartment, reveling in the silliness of it all. but beneath the lightheartedness, there was a hint of truth to her words.

she walked over to you, wrapping her arms around your waist, laughter subsiding into a warm smile. "but y’know, i don't need a superhero suit to be your hero," she whispered.

gwen couldn't help but lean in again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, the taste of frosting still lingering.

both of you erupted into laughter, unable to contain your amusement at gwen's joke. the joyful sound filled the room until it was cut short as the door knob turned and the door abruptly swung open, revealing gwen's father returning home from his shift at the station.

"how's it going, girls..." his voice trailed off, his steps slowing as he took in the unexpected scene before him.

the air was thick with the scent of frosting, and the room bore witness to a delightful chaos of flour, candies, and scattered decorations. but amidst the mess, the most prominent sight was your meticulously crafted miniature replica of the apartment.

you both froze in place as her dad's voice filled the room, a mix of embarrassment and panic coursing through your girlfriend's veins. she turned to face him, cheeks burning with a bright shade of red she usually rocked when embarrassed. "uh... hey, dad," gwen stammered, trying to sound casual despite the chaos surrounding you both.

gwen quickly glanced at you, hoping to find some solace in the situation, but it seemed like you were just as caught off guard as her. she could practically hear the gears turning in her dad's head as he tried to make sense of the scene before him.

before he could say anything, gwen took a deep breath and mustered up all the confidence she could. "surprise, dad! we made a gingerbread apartment!" she blurted out, gesturing towards your creation. "and, uh, we may have gotten a little carried away with the frosting and...stuff.”

“stuff?” george repeated, stepping closer to the counter to get an even better look at the creation. you could see her dad's expression soften as he took in the sight, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile. "well, it certainly looks like you two had a blast," he chuckled, shaking his head. "just make sure to clean up after yourselves, alright?"

in perfect synchrony, your voices blend seamlessly as you both respond simultaneously with the words "of course, mr. stacy" and "yes, dad.”

relief washed over you both as you realized her dad wasn't angry or upset. he understood that sometimes you both could get a little carried away with our antics. you both nodded vigorously, already planning on how to tackle the mess.

as her dad left the kitchen, she turned to you with a sheepish smile. "well, that could have gone worse," gwen affirmed, relief evident in the way her chest exhaled. "looks like we'll have a lot of cleaning up to do, huh?"

“a lot seems like an oversimplification of it,” you groan, looking around at the absolute mess you both made of the kitchen. “and here i thought we was finally gonna eat the damn thing”

gwen grabbed a nearby towel and started wiping the frosting off the table, motioning for you to join her. "but you know what they say, babe. teamwork makes the dream work," she added, causing you to instinctually roll your eyes yet again.

as you diligently sweep the floor, meticulously wash down the counters, and even kneel down to scrub away any lingering evidence of your reckless baking, your eyes continue to wander back to the oh so enchanting gingerbread house. its intricate details and sugary allure beckon you, tempting your senses to just skip the cleaning and go straight to dessert. from a distance, gwen chuckles playfully as she attentively wipes down the inside of the stove.

"ahem," she interrupts. "i must kindly request that you refrain from placing your little grimy hands on our masterpiece," gwen mockingly asserts.

she pauses, allowing a moment for her words to sink in. "please, let it exist in its full glory for at least thirty more minutes," she pleads, a hint of jest coloring her voice. "or, if you can't resist, at least capture its beauty on your phone before you rip it apart."

a deep sigh escaped from your lips as you surrender to your girlfriend, continuing to guide the broom across the floor.

- comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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passerkirbius · 9 months

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Where are all the Audio Fiction Fandoms?

To be clear, this isn't me complaining, and I know, there are plenty of fandoms for audio fiction podcasts and the like.

But I have always found it weird how few shows get the big, self-sustaining kinds of fandoms, the ones where there's always at least a little trickle of fanfic and fanart. So weird, in fact, that I've been thinking about it on and off for the last 5-6 years, and I have a few theories I'd like to share with y'all as to why, and to see if I can't get some feedback from the audio fiction fans on Tumblr.

Theory 1: Audience Size

The first theory is mostly about demographics - fundamentally, a fandom has to be large enough to sustain itself, and only a certain number of audience members are going to become the kind of fans who make fan works, so ultimately, an audio fiction show needs to get popular enough before fan works start appearing.

There's plenty of support for this theory, of course - Welcome to Night Vale, Wolf 359, The Adventure Zone and The Magnus Archives are titans in the fiction podcast space, and indeed they have big fandoms. But, with that said, there's plenty of other podcasts that are just as big that don't have fandoms, so this can't explain it all.

Theory 2: Audience Distance

This one is similar to the first, but subtly different. A few creators in the space I've talked to have noted that they'd never make fan works of their friend's shows - that feels weird, like deliberately treading on their friend's work. They don't have this feeling when playing in big fandoms, or fandoms where they don't know the creator. This implies to me that fans need a certain level of distance from creators in order to feel comfortable playing with that fictional space. While this is less the case now with the fall of Twitter, a lot of shows, for better or worse, used social media as the primary pillar of their marketing, as well as using Patreons with special access as part of their monetization strategies.

In short, it's never been easier to get close to the creators of your favourite shows, and for smaller shows, the most exuberant fans - the kinds who might make fan works - are also the kinds of fans who will take those opportunities to get closer to the creators. In short, there just might not enough social distance for fans to be comfortable creating works, not at least until the audience grows sufficiently that a creator simply cannot be that close with their entire audience.

This theory I'm not so sure about these days - this one is probably a lot more dependent on the generation of fandom you belong to. Older generations of fandom are more likely to have this queasiness around creator closeness, because they were creating in a time where fandom was a shadow realm, desperately hidden from The Powers That Be, and "No Copyright Infringement Intended" was carved into fan works as an eldritch attempt at legal protection.

Theory 3: Audience Age

To be clear - there are fans of all ages out there. But it is clear to me that fandom trends young, and part of that is just the time needed to participate in fan culture - creating and consuming takes a lot of time, time that tends gets scarcer and scarcer as you get older (there are obvious exceptions of course - stay-at-home mothers have consistently been a major force in fandoms!). It's possible that audio fiction fans just tend to trend older, and thus don't have the time available to create and consume fan works.

Honestly, I'm not sure how relevant this one is - Audio fiction is becoming more popular with younger audiences and slowly shedding the "old fuddy-duddyness" that surrounded it when I was first getting into the space. And, ya know, there are audio fiction fandoms out there, so obviously either the youth aspect of fandom isn't a thing, or it is, but audio fiction audiences are still trending young anyway.

Theory 4: We're getting what we need!

A lot of academic discourse often focuses on the idea that fandoms create for a reason - and that reason is often to focus on parts of a fiction that the original text, for whatever reason, doesn't. The most obvious form of this is the many, many, many examples of ships and erotic fanfiction. You, as a fan, watch a show, see something between two characters, and get frustrated that the show isn't giving you more of that, won't make what is clearly obvious to you, explicit. So, you consume and/or create fan works that help relieve that tension instead.

Or, in shows where the focus is primarily on plot advancement or action, you feel a desire to get to know the characters better - you see the stirrings of these characters, you want to know them better, but the show just isn't the type of show to give you that slow, character-heavy scene/episode that you know would give you exactly what you need, so, again, you go consume and/or create fan works to fix that.

It's very possible that a lot of audio fiction is already built to give these sorts of fan audiences what they want. There's already romantic relationships, characters are openly queer, the nature of the audio medium means that character-heavy scenes are something that the medium directs creators towards, so there's already a lot of character engagement. So, for many fandoms, there just isn't much need to create fan works - there's no tension between what the show is and what it could be.

Theory 5: We can make our own at home!

One interesting theory is that one reason that people make fandom is because, fundamentally, the creators understand that they're not going to be making a film, or a TV show, or a book. They have creative urges, and they're not in a situation in life where they're likely to overcome the enormous barriers to entry in mainstream media, so, in combination with the stuff in theory 4, they play in other people's worlds instead. They know that there's already an audience who will consume their work (they're part of that fan community, after all!), so they can get that validation of creation without needing to create their own TV show or film or book, etc.

Podcasts, however, are different. Now, it's not true to say that podcasts have low barriers to entry - to create a podcast, there's a lot of skills you either need to learn yourself, or find collaborators with those skills. But, those barriers to entry are much lower than visual media. At the very least, audio production is significantly cheaper and less complicated for an equivalent runtime.

Better, podcasts have absurdly low barriers to publication - There are no gatekeepers to satisfy, no distributors you have to convince. Once your thing is made, pretty much no one can stop you from distributing that work. You don't even really need to pay for a podcast host - there's a few free podcast hosts now. So, once you've done the work, pretty much nothing stops you from publishing said work.

So... If you're a creative fan, who loved a show but thinks you can do better? Well, you can! You don't need to play in other people's spaces, you can be inspired by the podcasts you listen to to create your own original work, in the same medium and genre.

What do y'all think? Which of these feel right, which of these feel obviously wrong? Are you part of a audio fiction fandom? What does your fandom feel like to you on the inside? As a audio fiction creator, it's kinda hard for me to get into the inside of fandom culture, so insider perspectives would be super neat for me, so please reblog this to anyone you feel might have an interesting perspective on the whole thing!

#audio fiction #audio drama #podcasts #fiction podcasts #welcome to night vale #the magnus archives #tma #wtnv #podcast theory #fandom #audience feedback requested!#taz #the adventure zone #wolf 359 #fandom meta #fandom culture

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doodle-pops · 2 months

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A Lot Like Love

Erestor x reader

Request: Hello! i would like story with Erestor as first love story please ? In rivendell and the summertime vibes - @sofyawiththelves

Words: 800

Warnings: none

Synopsis: The love story of how you captured Erestor’s heart on a warm summer’s day.

Love was never an emotion Erestor claimed to have experienced, but understood the raw passionate chokehold it placed on people. The countless novels of love at first and love conquering all played out vividly before his eyes between others. He knew what it looked like, but never felt, touched or tasted it. To imagine the colours of love whenever it struck him, should ever he be blessed to live in the moment, was serendipitous.

Erestor found himself on a stroll, meandering through the market stalls filled with merchants and local shopkeepers, searching. For what? He didn't truly know, until...

He found himself in an unprecedented state of nervousness, an unsettling sensation akin to a whirlwind of butterflies taking flight within the depths of his stomach. What made this feeling particularly absurd was the fact that it struck him in broad daylight, amidst a bustling crowd of people.

Who were you and where had you manifested from? Why had it taken him this long to notice your presence?

No matter how hard he attempted to dismiss it, he couldn’t banish this overpowering emotion. It was as though you were an unstoppable and immovable force who had infiltrated his being, someone who seemed acutely aware of the impact you had on those around you. Your enigmatic figure casually meandered through the area, seemingly oblivious to his own statue-like presence.

A sly smile graced your lips, stretching into unrestrained laughter. It was evident that you found amusement in his starstruck demeanour, the sparkle in your eyes betraying your true intentions. This façade was deliberate, he was convinced; you couldn’t possibly be so naive as to overlook the repercussions of your actions.

You strolled about with an effortless elegance, your hair adorned with flowers like a personal halo, and a natural radiance that outshone the sun itself. The summer sun could not maintain its glow when you existed. It was impossible to outshine your very existence. And so, he silently cursed the heavens for placing such an angelic being on this accursed earth, forced to mingle with a motley crew of ruffians. The question that consumed his thoughts was why you had chosen to be here, among those who failed to recognize and adore them as you truly deserved.

Your garments flowed gracefully with each step, mirroring the fluidity of your body’s movements as you hopped from one vendor stall to another. Laughter erupted as you pointed out items and engagingly interacted with the vendors. For all the years he had dwelled in this city, he had been under an enchantment, unable to perceive such unfathomable beauty, magnificence, and perfection. Or perhaps it was his own eyes that had been shrouded by a veil, obscuring his view of this incredible allure.

Such magnificence should be treasured and adored, and put into poetry to be read thousands of times over and over again with cravings to capture the essence of how ethereal you are.

He yearned to reach out and grasp the aura that surrounded you, the presence that enveloped your being and bestowed upon them such mirth. He wished to immerse himself in it, letting it warm his soul and dispel the lingering coldness that had haunted him for years. You were his reason to smile, his reason to exist, his reason to truly live after years of mere existence. He was willing to allow your sunshine to penetrate his life and bring about the change he so desperately needed—for you, for himself.

With the noon sun still high in the sky and the streets relatively deserted, he saw an opportunity. No one seemed to care about his identity at that moment as he strode purposefully through the vendor stalls, making his way towards the person who had ignited this newfound hope within him.

With your focus locked onto a small, exquisitely beautiful hairpin, he sucked in a deep breath and adjusted his hair. Now was the moment, just like in the romance stories he read where the man would approach the woman and swoon her with something unforgettable. This was his moment to repeat all his years of fantasising.

Calling out to you, he watched as you turned to meet his gaze; his eyes capturing a mix of anxiety, courage, and hope. In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Everything fell into perfect alignment, he spoke softly, capturing your attention that was the start of forever. “May I be acquainted with such a magnificent beauty?”

Masterlist

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homerforsure · 5 months

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Can I request #21 "It's alright, I'm here." for the there was only one bed/sharing a bed prompts? ☺️❤️

Only three months late! But I was feeling inspired by @andavs stunning 6 days of Buddie art (this one in particular) and I finally made some writing happen. <3

ETA: Now on AO3 because I did think of a title after all

The Second Hand Unwinds

The body holds on tight to pain. It’s a trite little phrase that Eddie’s snorted at more than once after hearing it from Frank, from well-meaning “I’ve been where you are” guys at group meetings, and from more than one physical therapist. But the fact that it makes for pretty, marketable word art, doesn’t keep it from being true.

Eddie remembers it whenever an old memory works its way out of the darkness like shrapnel coming to the surface and every time pain flares hot and fresh through scarred-over wounds. His body marks the passing of the seasons, notches carved into his bones as the years pass, and Eddie’s muscles brace themselves hard against the most devastating anniversaries of his life. Usually well before his brain has a chance to notice the date on the calendar.

Every time it happens–every time–he forgets what it feels like. He wakes up one morning and it takes him longer to get out of bed. He rubs his eyes and feels better after a shower and doesn’t think anything more of it. And then he wakes up tired the next day. And the next. Eddie wakes up in a gloom and he remembers tossing and turning so restlessly that he’s not actually sure he even fell asleep.

From there it’s a quick slide into running late, losing patience, making largely inconsequential but stupid mistakes at work. He takes one night off from cooking, then two. Christopher doesn’t go without vegetables or protein or crustless sandwiches or any of the other important parts of the preteen food pyramid but he notices the change. Mentions the change to Buck because it doesn’t occur to him to keep secrets like that (not that Eddie would really want him to) and then Eddie finds himself under the compassionate scrutiny of Buck’s gaze with no idea how to explain himself.

So he attempts a simple batch of lemon chicken to prove he’s alright. Then, when Christopher and Buck crack each other up making exaggerated sour faces at each other over the mostly inedible plates that they dutifully try to eat anyway, Eddie doesn’t laugh. He does the dishes himself and he doesn’t turn around when Buck wraps his arms around his waist from behind and rests a chin on his shoulder in a lemon-scented apology.

His body aches. It aches even when work has been easy and he’s angry and he’s fine but also not and he can’t figure out what’s wrong.

“I’m going to bed,” he says, earlier than usual. “Can you check his homework?”

“Yeah, of course,” Buck answers, getting up from the couch even though Eddie deliberately made his announcement from the far end of the living room. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Just tired.” Eddie waits and accepts the hand on his forehead as Buck checks to see how warm he is, almost looking more worried when he doesn’t find any trace of fever.

Keeping his hand on Eddie’s cheek, he asks, “You’ve been tired a lot lately.”

“Mmm.”

“You’d tell me right? If there was something wrong?”

There’s nothing Eddie can do but nod. He wishes there was something, wishes he knew how to explain it to Buck–to himself for fuck’s sake. He wishes he knew why he’s pulling himself away from Buck’s touch when he wants to melt into it until his body makes sense again.

Buck studies his face, searching for the answers that Eddie can’t give him and then he sighs, gently brushing his hair back before leaning in to kiss him just as gently. “I won’t be up late,” he says. “If you need anything…”

“I will,” Eddie promises.

Fresh spring heat has finally started warming the city and the bedroom is stifling when Eddie closes the door behind him. He cracks both bedroom windows just wide enough to let a breeze in, almost wincing as the smell of jasmine comes in with it, strong enough to make him want to sneeze like a dog does, with his full body and a shake of his head. He leaves the windows anyway, trading one discomfort for another and slides into bed, staring at the whirring blades of the fan until they morph into the shape of their longer, sharper helicopter cousins and stop Eddie’s heart in his chest.

He’s not even in the helicopter. He’s somewhere else. It’s dark and the wind is howling, splattering rain pinging off every surface like flying gravel. Eddie can see through it perfectly. None of the rain streaking down his face impacts his view of the scene at all. He sees Shannon, dressed in sunshine yellow, take a step toward him. Toward the flooded street that’s rushing with whitewater and debris. He screams. But all that comes out of his mouth is blood. When he tries to run, to stop her, to dive in, to rescue her, his legs give out beneath him and he collapses.

A wave crests over the curb and washes Shannon, blood on her clothes and blood on her face, into the river. She vanishes with a choked gasp, reaching for him, and Eddie reaches back, stretching out his hand as far as it will go. There’s blood on his fingers and pooling beneath him and he reaches and reaches, trying to pull himself up, trying to save her, to save both of them, but his body flops uselessly in the rain.

It hurts. And then it doesn’t. And Eddie knows.

He’s going to die.

He’s going to die and he never told Buck- He’s going to die and he hasn’t had enough time with Christopher. He won’t get to explain this to him. He won’t get to see him grow up. He won’t get to see Buck grow old. He’s dying. He’s dying. He’s-

Gasping, Eddie wakes up. It’s still dark; the fan is still spinning. As he struggles to sit up, he can’t get any breath into his lungs. The air is too thick with jasmine, that cloying scent that invades LA every spring, and he puts a hand to his throat like he can claw a fresh opening into his lungs.

So many of Eddie’s worst memories have come in the spring. With this smell in the air. With this light shimmering through the windows. And his body remembers.

“Eddie? Eddie, hey. Eddie, are you okay?” Buck asks, his voice cutting through the fog as one of his strong hands presses between Eddie’s shoulder blades and the other hovers over his thigh. He’s gotten to his knees somehow while Eddie’s been doing all he can just to sit upright and his body is warm and close. That scent of Buck that gets more powerful after he’s been sleeping a while pricks at Eddie’s nose and his windpipe relaxes all at once, finally letting in a mouthful of air.

“That’s it. Just breathe. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you. It was just a dream.”

Eddie can hear how hard Buck is working to keep the fear out of his voice for him and he falls in love just a little bit more in that moment. Turning into Buck’s chest, Eddie lets himself fall into his arms, shoving his freezing hands up the back of Buck’s t-shirt and trying to burrow his way inside. Buck only wobbles for a second as he takes Eddie’s weight and then he cradles him close, one hand sliding up into Eddie’s hair and the other wrapping tight around his body.

“It’s okay. It’s alright; I’m here. I’m right here. You’re safe. We’re all safe. Christopher is right down the hall. Everybody is okay.”

Effortlessly, Buck soothes the wounds he knows are most likely to be hurting badly enough to wake Eddie in the middle of the night and the gravel sound of his sleep-rough words almost brings tears to his eyes.

His body remembers this too. It knows safety and comfort and strength enough for all of his heaviness. Eddie breathes in Buck–herbal body wash and the tang of sweat, the familiarity of his skin–and, gradually, the terror of his nightmare melts into exhaustion.

“What do you need?” Buck murmurs, stroking through the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck. “Some water? Or we could watch tv for a while?”

Buck can feel Eddie shake his head against his collarbone, but the words aren’t as far away as they sometimes are on nights like this so Eddie reaches for them. “No. Just this. Just stay with me.”

Keep holding me is what he means, but he already feels delicate enough to shred and that additional vulnerability is just a step too far. Buck understands anyway.

“Want to lay back down?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

It takes a minute–Buck’s knees protest the change as he shifts his weight off of them and the blankets are half tangled and half on the floor from the thrashing both of them have done–but eventually they fold themselves together. On their sides, facing each other, Eddie twines his fingers together with Buck’s and gets a squeeze in return, one that promises that this is something he’ll never wake up and find gone.

The chill eases from his bones and the screaming eases from his memories and Eddie tiptoes cautiously back to the edge of sleep. He’s wavering there, resisting the fall, and he feels the mattress shift and feels it creak as Buck shifts beside him.

His fingers brush Eddie’s cheek again, curling around to tilt his head forward, just the smallest bit, and then Buck presses a kiss to the top of his head. He breathes in deep, like he’s reminding himself of something too, and then there’s another kiss to Eddie’s forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers. “We’re okay.”

And all of Eddie believes.

#buddie #buddie fanfic #911 fanfic #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buck x eddie #sharing a bed #depression #trauma #nightmares #death mention #should I post this to AO3?#I'd have to title it #I hate titling #allison writes

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artbyblastweave · 1 year

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I prompt you to elaborate on the idea of deliberately making something in a story boring, for I an always interested in your analysis.

In The Boys (Comic version, which I have complicated but more-positive-than-most feelings about) Garth Ennis very deliberately wrote most of the superhuman combat scenes as short, brutal affairs in which whoever was more powerful or better-equipped would just slaughter the other side in a matter of seconds; if the sides were more evenly matched it was then a matter of who swung first. To my memory, there were only a handful of fights blocked like fights instead of like curbstomps. This was in service to Ennis's artistic vision; violence as a swift, brutal thing, only glamourous in the sense of black-comedy dismemberments or the grim satisfaction of being alive when the other guy isn't, and with the majority of all conflicts playing out through via prep-work and intelligence-gathering done in advance of the first punch being thrown.

It was an aggressive refutation of how superhero fights go in more straightforward superhero fiction, with clever tricks, drawn-out dramatic brawls, violence as a palatable form of spectacle, something marketable after-the-fact. A lot of the fights the titular team got involved in consisted basically of jumping distracted supes; one of Homelander's jobs was to just unceremoniously decapitate any earnest upstart supervillain and then have the marketing team at Vought write a comic portraying the fight as something with genre-typical stakes. To this day, I feel like there was a level of honesty about violence in this portrayal. In real life, it's not fun!

But! It did introduce some problems. Namely, a series in which almost every single fight is something Nasty, Brutish and Short created, for me, a form of doublethink about how seriously we should even take the Vought capes as threats. A series in which every fight is deliberately uninteresting (if you aren't entertained by curbstomps) is a series in which every fight is deliberately uninteresting, and from there your enjoyment of the series rides or dies on how interesting you find the non-fight political intrigue, character dynamics, and so forth. The version of Garth Ennis who isn't writing capes is, in my opinion, pretty damn good at that other stuff, so I inched through.

The show patched the majority of my difficulties. It retained the broad thesis that cape fights would largely be curbstomps, and the other broad thesis that capes would largely be useless or counterproductive at their supposed role, but combined this with a number of actual fight scenes. It made Butchers team significantly less powerful, with a significantly greater focus on the sneaky bastardry necessary to flip assets and find weaknesses. It made killing any given supe much, much more of an endeavor, something genuinely very difficult and impressive, and it made every given supe death much more of a plot point or a character beat than it would have been in the comic. The supes being less interesting than typical for their genre, that was preserved- but the situations involving supes that we, the audience, are privy to? All very interesting still!

Now on the other side of the spectrum, you've got Worm, and you've got Jack Slash-as-an-examination-of-Joker. "Your philosophy is ill-considered and fake deep, and you aren't funny" is actually a fairly common clapback against The Joker within officially published DC comics properties, but it butts up against the fact that he's taken pretty seriously as a threat regardless of that fact! Jack Slash is an attempt to reconcile that, to figure out how someone as LOlrandom as Joker could last longer than three minutes as a serious contender, and the answer is "subtle secondary powers that puff up his win rate, in a way that his self-absorption prevents him from recognizing as anything but his own innate talent." He's blatantly shallow. Everyone talking to him is palpably rolling their eyes within the text, but he's got the brute-force necessary to undercut anyone trying to one-up him (Theo's interlude, Tattletale in the parking garage.) It's called out multiple times that's it's mysterious that he's doing so well when he's so mediocre. The candidate he picks for the 9 is a dud. He can't come up with anything more interesting for Cherish than having her do all the other tests over a second time. His big comeback is just Slaughterhouse 9! But More of them! Fuck Yeah!

But! Despite the text being aware of how shallow he is and how thin his ideas are, all of his ideas keep working. It doesn't matter that it's edgelord bullshit- it's edgelord bullshit that everyone else is forced to take seriously and respond to, which is where the actually-great character work in the S9 arc happens. And at this point I think there are basically two camps within the audience. Camp one consists of people who, despite Jacks clear shallowness, nonetheless are entertained and engrossed by the batshit combat scenarios he masterminds, even if he shouldn't be able to mastermind them. I am a counselor at Camp One. Camp Two consists of people who call bullshit on the ability for such a shallow guy to mastermind all that crap and bend everyone to his will, who don't really find anything redemptive in the eventual reveal that it was powers-enabled because they still had to sit through the implausible bullshit. This is a position I have no choice but to respect because it's the position of my cousin, who I adore and want to remain on good terms with at family gatherings. The things we do in service of family, amiright

#parahumans #worm #wildbow #the boys #garth ennis #asks #ask #meta #thoughts #the boys amazon prime #worm web serial #worm web novel #jack slash #media analysis #the boys comic #worm analysis #worm spoilers #the boys spoilers

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oldshowbiz · 3 months

Text

To the public Red Skelton was the God and country comedian. He recorded a best-selling version of the Pledge of Allegiance and told reporters that he read the bible every night before going to bed. His friends and colleagues say it was just an act to ingratiate himself to the public.

Television producer George Schlatter worked on The Judy Garland Show at CBS Television City, just one soundstage over from The Red Skelton Show. Schlatter says, “Red Skelton was a phony with all his God bullshit. He ended every show saying, ‘God Bless.’ Then you realize that his dress rehearsal was the filthiest event in town. They did the dirtiest dress rehearsal and then he would go on and do this, ‘God Bless,’ and the country and the flag and all this shit. He was a dirty old man.”

According to the FBI, Skelton possessed one of the largest collections of pornography in Hollywood. A Bureau memo from the 1940s said that “during the course of an investigation of a purported ring of obscene motion picture operators in Hollywood, information was received that the best known customers for obscene film in Hollywood were Red Skelton, Lou Costello, and George Raft.”

The contradiction between his public front and his personal life was the stuff of tabloid legend.

“Red’s constant drinking when he had his CBS radio show was the whisper of the microphone colony,” reported the trashy magazine Confidential. “Often his hands would be shaking so badly he could hardly get into his clothes to begin the show.” The tabloid claimed Skelton regularly “terrifies wife and kids with loaded pistols.”

Skelton was often criticized for laughing at his own jokes or breaking up in the middle of a scene. It was an ancient stage trick. Skelton knew that if you lost it on camera, it often made the audience laugh harder. It was a gimmick despised by fellow comedians who saw right through it.

“Dreadful,” said Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy fame. “Just dreadful. I love his talent but I hate … when he does that deliberate and undeliberate breaking up. In my opinion this is the worst possible thing any comedian can do – the worst. And he even lets some of his untalented guests do it. Dreadful.”

Many viewers felt the same. Patty Valentine of Cincinnati wrote, “There is only one person laughing at him and that is himself. He thinks he is funny but no one else does.”

By 1964 the program hadn’t changed much since its first episode back in 1950. The show got strong ratings, but the demographics were far too old for the sponsor’s liking. In an attempt to court the youth market, Van Bernard Productions, Skelton’s production company, negotiated an exclusive deal with Sir Lew Grade in the UK to provide British Invasion rock groups for the show. Changing its name to The Red Skelton Hour, the program presented The Kinks singing “Got Love If You Want It,” Manfred Mann doing “Do Wah Diddy Diddy,” The Hollies performing “Look Through Any Window,” and The Animals playing “We Gotta Get Out of This Place.”

Skelton introduced many British Invasion groups to Middle America for the very first time. But he promised his elderly demographic that he didn’t fully approve, always cracking jokes about their hair and fashion sense.

#red skelton

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togglesbloggle · 1 year

Text

Okie, here’s a slightly dangerous essay I’ve had rattling around for a while. Dangerous because Discourse, which I usually avoid in this space, so I hope you’ll try not to reward it too much and provide weird incentives for me. But it’s a pretty interesting little model, too handy to fully pass over in silence.

Expect mild gender-binary essentialism and heteronormativity for modeling purposes- invoking these things in an explanatory but not normative or ethical sense.

Aside from being aggressively horrible, the state of female beauty standards as a cultural force is also fiddly and interesting in a way that I can’t resist chewing on. Naively, beauty ought to be a pretty idiosyncratic thing. We understand differences in taste between Picasso and Rembrant, or a trip to the mountains and a trip to the beach. But when it comes to human beauty, especially female beauty, we keep needing to reach for phrases like ‘traditionally attractive,’ and things in that vicinity. It’s understood that this ‘traditionally attractive’ stuff has tremendous influence over how our society is ordered, but its origin seems… vague, at best? And it clearly varies between cultures and times; it’s monotonic, not static. And the further away you get from socially mainstream forms of sex, the more it breaks down. Gay and kink communities seem to resist it somewhat, in the form of ‘types’ like bears and butches and whatnot, though it’s still lurking in the shadows a fair bit. So, why?

I’ve arrived at a model that seems to have decent predictive utility, which is: (female) beauty standards are set principally by the ability to convince others that you can leverage male agency.

This is, notably, not exactly the same thing as actually leveraging male agency, or even actually being able to. Male agency itself, though notably responsive to beautiful women in the general case, is of course a lot more complex when you start talking about individual men. These may be asexual or gay, obviously, but even the ones attracted to women are going to have individual preferences, navigate those preferences in different ways, and be more or less responsive to leverage. So to ‘be beautiful’ you’re attempting to land on a consensus, common-knowledge understanding of what everyone else thinks men are attracted to, one that’s anchored by the experiences and preferences of men, but because it’s women who try to achieve beauty in most cases, female-led social spaces are often where ‘beauty�� is processed and filtered from the complicated individual preferences of men and forged in to a coherent set of standards for women to work towards. (Economic forces also play an important role, of course, and are gendered in different ways.)

That consensus, in turn, need not correspond to the preferences of any individual man, even though it’s still (in a removed sense) ‘about’ male preference. An individual woman can even sometimes find more success in the dating market by deliberately stepping away from traditional beauty standards and finding something closer to the actual preferences of (a subset of) the men around her, though that means sacrificing real and important status in other circles. Because as power, the concept of beauty depends on the state of common knowledge among people on both sides of the gender dynamic as much as it does on the behaviors and preferences of men. This is part of what allows beauty standards to vary so widely in time and place (that is, they’re arbitrary to some degree), but be so strong wherever they appear- it’s a Schelling point that women can use to communicate both to men and to other women that they have some degree of influence over others. Thus, one of the many tragedies that heterosexual romance has to navigate. To achieve beauty as power, women have to get closer to that Schelling point, even though being ‘beautiful’ in that sense may actually make it harder to find a good partner that you like. Beauty means the competition is tougher, you’re locked out of considering the preferences of individual men you care about, you’re locked in to fairly oppressive standards that sand off many of your own best qualities because they’re too rare to be included in the consensus, and you’re now filtering for men who date women generically for social prestige rather than having intrinsic interest in you as an individual. But no human can opt out of the power game entirely; the consequences of ostracism in a social species are lethal.

Also, the old joke about ‘Woman Upset that Men are Staring at her Breast Implants’ is, in this model, a perfectly rational set of behaviors on the face of it- you don’t need to invoke either dysphoria or hypocrisy. The woman in question is not interested in actually provoking male behavior, she’s interested in communicating to others, often and especially other women, that she could if she wanted to. She wants enough social power to feel safe, which is a basic and sensible primate drive. It also demonstrates how this particular form of power both promotes and benefits from restrictive male gender roles, particularly as regards when and how to respond to women. The more restrictive the roles, the safer it is to accumulate power without being exposed to undue risk of unwanted (or unsanctioned?) male agency, and in turn the more power will be leveraged by beauty as a force. Feedback loops. Depending on the specifics of culture and local social networks, it’s quite possible for an individual woman to experience the benefits of beauty primarily as higher prestige in her interactions with heterosexual women, and for the dynamic between herself and men as a group to skew more and more negative as she achieves beauty, without beauty itself being net-negative.

(Aside: notice how increasingly restrictive standards of sexual decorum in men in the 21st century correspond to a leveling-off of female workforce participation rates. Libertine attitudes from the 60’s through the 90’s correlate with an expansion of economic power among women as an alternative to gendered beauty.)

One of the reasons that I like this model is that it’s written in the same alphabet as displays of traditional (i.e. political, military) power within formal hierarchies, displays of wealth, or even physical prowess- using this framework, beauty, wealth, and hierarchical power are all measured roughly by the number of people that will do what you ask them to. It makes sense that there would be commonalities between them, such as elements of a seemingly counterproductive red queen race, or brinksmanship in which neither side wants to actually deploy their power.

The differences are also real, and significant- because of the intrinsic dynamics of heterosexuality, beauty-as-a-face-of-power is ‘flat’, without tesselating hierarchies, and it doesn’t scale up indefinitely. This gives it a more limited scope than being a CEO or a president with control over employees, and a much more limited scope than you get through wealth in a tangled economic system. It also means that beauty is much less winner-take-all, meaning that almost all women benefit at the margins from pursuing beauty. It also peaks early and then degenerates over time. All these together in a dynamic mix I think help explain a lot of the complicated relationships that many women have with their physical appearance.

For example, this model makes it pretty easy to talk about why both women and men would be averse to a woman asking a guy out, even in This, The 21th Century- a woman who takes the initiative is in a sense forfeiting a game in which women demonstrate how powerful they are, and making herself less interesting at the margins during a stage of courtship where nobody has much information about the other party.

It also, I think, makes a lot of the old Incel discourse more legible, though it’s probably wiser to leave that particular one as an exercise for the reader. And it’s worth noting also that physical strength shares a surprising symmetry with female attractiveness in this sense, even if explicitly leveraging the social power of physical intimidation is taboo in a lot of modern urban cultures.

Anyway, it’s a good little model. Like all models, it’s wrong, but I think the epicycles here are modest and it's a useful way to interrogate a wide variety of phenomena.

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sgiandubh · 8 months

Text

The ripple effect

So finally, it would seem the news from Hollywood are not good at all. A press release from SAG-AFTRA informs us that AMPTP/TPTB chose to drop the towel after a very long negotiation process (not a good sign, in my book), that continued even after their latest unacceptable offer, as you can read down below (https://x.com/sagaftra/status/1712368110253285730?s=20):

The mainstream media (always NYT, in this house) reported also on the studios' offer, which may or may not be helpful for understanding what exactly is at stake (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/12/business/media/actors-strike-talks-suspended.html?searchResultPosition=2):

Now that is a very hardball, completely insolent position. I am peeling my eyes in disbelief at the idea of offering 'further protections around the use of A.I.', when it was hoped that the use of A.I. would be treated as an exception, not as future reality the industry should work 'around'. This is what really is at stake, not the almost abusive allegation of 'unbearable economic burden' (that is a mafioso pretext) an 800 million USD yearly viewership bonus would supposedly entail. The real financial impact of such a compromise solution, as disclosed by SAG-AFTRA, is negligible: 'less than 57 cents/subscriber'.

And, to make things worse, it would seem the studios deliberately lied to the press, too (it would not be the first time - we shippers know it so well, eh?):

All this circus, despite a cataclysmic impact on California's economy:

(Sourced at: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/21/realestate/writers-strike-rent-ny-la.html).

And that was the situation three weeks ago, when I found this article and promptly set it aside, waiting for the right moment to share it with you. And you know the situation is serious, when news like these are to be found not in the business, but in the real estate section of the newspaper. Along with this kind of comments, likely to suggest the possibility of unrest, if things go on like this:

People living in their flats without electricity or sleeping in their cars: it would seem this strike added unwanted insult to the drastic COVID injury in this particular sector of the labor market.

But what interested me the most about this whole affair was the ripple effect on the British film industry, in an attempt to see what is next for OL's Season 8. Thankfully, I didn't have to go very far and speculate more than the NYT did itself. Oh, and before Mordor starts shouting insanities, their LHR's correspondent paper, back in September, is called 'Hollywood Strikes Send a Chill Through Britain’s Film Industry' (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/19/business/hollywood-strikes-uk-filmmaking-industry.html):

Despite my unflappable optimism, I have to say that doesn't sound good at all, especially when you know this is precisely the case for OL, a production 'with stars who are SAG-AFTRA members' (or at least compelled to stand in solidarity with the strike, by SAG-AFTRA's own statement of conduct). I predict a very late start for the shooting of Season 8. And further unrest in the UK sector 'in the middle of next year' means that UK based and staffed productions may be fewer and less important, since that calendar announced by Equity could seriously compromise their promotion, a risk not many studios are willing to take. So less alternatives for both S&C, at least for the UK alone.

The writers' strike was a very long one - five months. I suppose the studios are willing to play for time and prefer a long stalemate of the negotiations with SAG-AFTRA, in the attempt of breaking the union consensus from the inside. With people's economies gone and the prospect of a dire, uncertain way ahead, there is no way SAG-AFTRA's compensations, mainly aimed at keeping people afloat with their rent costs, could cover the real impact on its members' everyday lives, on the long run. They would also prefer to foolishly cry over a fictitious 800 million USD 'burden' and not see the (at least) six times bigger negative impact on the local economy, which translates both in net losses of profit for thousands of businesses (mainly SMEs) and thousands of lost jobs.

And in the middle of all this, it would seem that Herself is on her way to the NYCC. Whatever for, sweet summer child, I would brazenly ask this strange, diminutive woman who started it all.

#sag aftra strike

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523rdrebel · 9 months

Text

Chapter 4 -

Masterlist, Chapter 3

Summary: AU/Canon Divergent - Set after the rescue of Crosshair, Omega, and Tech from Mount Tantis. The Batch settles down on Pabu and are, for the moment, able to hide from the Empire. Crosshair, with much grumbling, is convinced to see one of the local doctors to monitor his recovery. Unfortunately for Crosshair, Dr. Isabella Ramót is a ray of sunshine and a breath of fresh air - and totally capable of handling his harsh, rough demeanor.

Trigger Warnings - Emotions. Just, all the emotions. SFW, but mature themes explored. Minors DNI.

As a Bonus! @mythical-illustrator created an amazing fanart of Bells! isn't she wonderful!?? Check out the linked original post and show the artist some love!

The following weeks after Crosshair’s vulnerable moment on the Cliff with Bells, and their tentative agreement, were filled with preparations. Crosshair had to improve his physical state and maintain standing or walking without becoming overwhelmed or collapsing. He was surprised at the level of determination he now felt to grow in strength.

He sought out physical activity more frequently and began taking night walks, in order to avoid the looks or attempted conversations with villagers. Sometimes Omega would tag along, regaling him with stories of the shenanigans she and her friends had gotten into, usually along with Wrecker. He listened and scowled, and tried not to acknowledge the strange feeling of warm nostalgia for a time when he and his brothers were so carefree as cadets. When they'd arrive back at his home, Hunter would be waiting with an infuriatingly soft expression on his face and Omega would sneak a hug from Crosshair before skipping off after Hunter.

No matter how much Crosshair protested, Wrecker had seemed to take it upon himself to ensure that Crosshair was up to his eyeballs in food. He came over once a day when possible, never bothering to knock and kicking the door open, arms laden with various fruits, breads, pastries, and cured meats.

"Ugh, Wrecker- don't you ever knock?" Crosshair hissed at his brother and glared at the newest armful of food Wrecker brought in.

"Uhh–No. Why? I've never had to knock before."

"Start." He growled, but Wrecker was immune to Crosshair’s vitriol and simply laughed in response. Crosshair eyed the food Wrecker deposited on the counter of his small kitchenette. "What the kriff did you bring?" He noticed a few repeat items that he’d enjoyed, including a particular spicy ronto meat pie that made his mouth water.

"Oh! Izzy said that you’re improving but you need to eat more! So I brought you some of my favorite things from the market here!" Wrecker’s smile is wide and disarming, “And a few things you seemed to like from last time.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes, deliberately ignoring the tightness in his chest, and snapped back, "I don't need you to feed me, di’kut."

Wrecker’s large hand slapped his back and Crosshair gritted his teeth against the pain. With a disgustingly soft expression, Wrecker replied, "I know! But- if you don't eat more I will."

Crosshair mumbled under his breath, "Kriffing can't anyone stay out of my fucking business."

"Nope!" Wrecker exclaimed loudly, laughter reverberating in the small lodging. He ignored his brother’s grumbling, more than used to it by now, and digs into the food, knowing that Crosshair will join him when he’s ready.

Crosshair begrudgingly nibbled at the food, sampling a little of each item. He found himself consistently surprised by how much he likes, new flavors and textures he's never had the opportunity to experience before. Wrecker is loud and exuberant as he eats, and as much as Crosshair scowled and grit his teeth, there was a certain comfort that came from sharing a meal with his brother. It was almost like before. When they were a family. When he was whole. Wrecker stays for a while after the meal grinning like a fool that his mission has been successful.

Wrecker had always been good at filling the silence, regardless of whether or not Crosshair cares to hear it. He was now talking about some civilian woman he’d met at the bakery, why he felt Crosshair needed to know what color her hair was or how she always smiled when Wrecker came in, which was every kriffing day apparently, he couldn’t guess.

“Her name is Daisy and she always gives me extras of my favorite things when I go in there! And Omega loves her!” Wrecker’s smile was somehow wider than it was before, something Crosshair didn’t think was possible, and there was a slight flush to his cheeks.

“You like her.” Crosshair scoffed,eyeing his brother with insufferable scrutiny.

“Well– yeah! Daisy’s nice! And she makes the best food!”

"You have a crush because she’s pretty and makes food…" He sneered derisively at his brother. He can't be serious.

"Well…I mean…" Wrecker shrugged, rubbing a hand on his neck, perhaps made a little shy by the topic of conversation, "Is that so bad?"

"We're not meant for that life, Wrecker." His voice was firm, decided.

Wrecker shook his head, "Why not, Cross? We're not soldiers anymore. I mean- not like we use'ta be."

"Don't be naive. You can’t change your nature. We weren't made for relationships, to have normal lives." He waved dismissively, hoping to push the topic away like smoke.

"Well- I'm not letting anyone else make that choice anymore… you shouldn't either." It was a rare serious moment for his large, silly brother, his face sobered.

"Ugh-" This was not a conversation Crosshair felt ready to discuss.

"Hey! What about you and Bells! Huh??" Wrecker nudged him with his elbow, eyebrows waggling.

"Ridiculous." Crosshair snarled, practically spitting the word out. He felt irrational anger at Wrecker’s use of the nickname. He grit his teeth and shook it off, but the feeling lingered at the back of his mind. Wrecker was giving him an amused and knowing look, which only angered him further, "Wrecker- don't look at me like that."

"You're allowed to like her ya know…" Wrecker leaned in, his voice oddly softer.

Crosshair bristled, this is ridiculous! "Wrecker." He warned. He pushed his brother away and focused intently on a cracked spot of the counter. "STOP."

Wrecker was not dissuaded, he wrapped an arm around Crosshair’s shoulders, pulling him close, despite his brother’s protests. "Come ooon, Cross! I think she likes you, too!"

Unable to fight his brother’s strength, he rolls his eyes and scowls. "Don't you have something better to do than pester me?"

"Nope!" Wrecker laughed boisterously, shaking Crosshair in the process.

- - - -

Once he'd been left alone again, Crosshair finally pulled out his firepuncher, he was reverant, mourning, guilty. His thoughts raced in his mind telling him don't bother trying, di’kut, that you can't, you're too weak, and you aren't worthy. He stared down at his disassembled rifle, Maybe now is the time for pushing. His thoughts unbidden turned to Bells. Her maddeningly positive outlook, the way her eyes sparkle brightly when she smiles at him. The surprising strength she carries to challenge him, support him, and defend him– He put his rifle back together for the first time since his rescue and felt a sliver of himself return to him. Perhaps Bells is right afterall, the familiar feeling of the cool metal beneath his fingers giving him a strange sort of melancholy. But is this all that he is? A soldier? A killer? Is he even capable of being anything else?

A frustrated growl escaped his lips as he attempted to lift his rifle with precise, practiced movements, only to feel the uncontrollable shaking of his weakened muscles. He was unable to hold his form for more than a few moments despite multiple desperate, stubborn attempts.

After many long, aggravating attempts to lift and hold his rifle with precision and the same practiced ease he had previously taken pride in, Crosshair was left shaking, sweaty, and sore from the use of his atrophied muscles. Yet, there was a mild sort of satisfaction that he felt just from once again being able to hold and feel the rifle that was once his singular identity. Crosshair determined in that moment that, if he could not have the redemption he did not deserve, he would at least regain this one part of himself - his strength, his ability, his identity. That would have to be enough.

- - - -

During one of Crosshair’s nightly walks, a rare one where Omega or another sibling didn’t join him and he’s left blissfully alone, he enjoyed the quiet coastal breeze and the comforting silence of the village. It was late enough that most had gone to their homes, businesses were shuttered, and the only souls walking the streets were quickly finding their way to their homes for a well-earned rest.

On nights like this Crosshair could almost believe that he had earned his freedom. That he perhaps could have a chance at a quiet life, at peace. Almost. The thought soured like vinegar in his mind and he pushed it back down, hiding it away once more.

The streetlights were dimmed to a comfortable ambiance and Crosshair felt no sense of urgency as he meandered through the streets, eyes observing everything, memorizing every nook and cranny without a thought. A lifetime of training isn’t easily forgotten.

As he walked, a noise came from off to the side, in a dark, covered doorway and he paused, listening more closely. Was that crying he was hearing? Uncertainty clouded his mind and he froze. The crying was stifled, as if the person was attempting to cover up the noise. Crosshair wasn’t sure what compelled him to, but he took a few steps forward leaning in to investigate the sound.

Isabella was curled in upon herself, one hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound of her cry. Her shoulders wracked with sobs, her other hand clutched a data pad.

Unsure what to do, Crosshair looked about the area for another person, someone who would very likely be more equipped to handle a crying woman than himself.

The movement caught Isabella’s eye and she started. She quickly stood up, hands flying to her face to wipe away the tears, "Crosshair!" Her voice was thick and rough from crying.

"Bells." He cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable, "Do- Do you need me to go find someone…else…for you?"

She released a startled chuckle and shook her head. “No. I’m-I’m–fine. Thank you.” She responds haltingly, voice shaking out each word, and continues in vain to wipe at the tears streaming down her face.

He tilted his head to the side, “You’re crying.” It was a statement of fact. Despite his flat tone, Crosshair felt a deep concern for her and took a few soft steps forward to lean against the wall opposite her, “I don’t think I’d call that ‘fine’.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and took a deep steadying breath, attempting to slow the halting gasps. The pair stood in silence, both unsure how to proceed. There was a sense of unavoidable change, that how they chose to proceed could change something indeterminate between them.

Crosshair watched her closely, it was strange to see this woman who so often had a smile on her face, now so broken, eyes rimmed in red and face scrunched in some deep emotional pain. Crosshair felt so out of his depth but also unable to leave her alone in her pain. He knew what that felt like and was surprised to find that he did not want to be the reason that Bells experienced the same.

Her breathing had evened out after a time and she sighed deeply, “Today is the anniversary of my parents’ death.” She spoke softly, almost too softly to hear. Her eyes were focused on the ground, giving him the option to disengage. “And I forgot.” He watched the pain on her face deepen and she slid down the wall, sitting once again and wrapping her arms around herself.

He sat across from her in silence- what words could he give to comfort her? He couldn’t exactly describe himself as emotionally competent. So he did what he had wished others had done for him, and simply sat with her.

“This is the first time I’ve forgotten them… I usually take the day to do something we used to do together, something that reminds me of them. But I was so focused on my work and the new refugees that I didn’t remember until I got home.” Now that she was speaking, it was like the words couldn’t be kept in, they spilled out in a rush.

Honoring the fallen was something Crosshair could understand. Despite the contention he’d often held for “regs” they were still, in some fashion, his brothers and many had been lost. She had presented him with a problem, and problems were something he could fix. “What do you normally do?”

Her eyes were still red rimmed but the tears had stopped for the moment. She regarded him with an unreadable expression before answering, “Last year, I made their favorite meals and stayed up to watch the sun rise. Mom loved the sunrise.” She paused, breathing deeply with her eyes closed, “He used to paint them… My–my father used to paint. He made the most beautiful scenic works of art. I used to paint, too, before–”

Something sparked in Crosshair’s memory, “The painting in your clinic. Was it his?”

Bells’s eyes widened, “Yes. How did you–”

He glanced sidelong at her with a smirk and rolled his eyes, “I wouldn’t be a very good sniper if I wasn’t observant.” His snark was rewarded with a smile, if not as bright as her usual ones. He took this as encouragement and continued, “Why don’t you paint the sunrise?”

“What?”

He shrugged, attempting to keep up his appearance of detachment, despite the growing tightness and warmth in his chest. “You used to paint. So paint the sunrise. That will honor both of them.”

She laughed suddenly, a bright and bubbling sound, “Crosshair! You’re a genius!”

“Don’t let Tech hear you say that… Actually, do. He’d hate it.”

Isabella leapt up and reached out a hand to him, “Will you join me? It was your idea, after all.”

He hesitated, once again Bells has found a way to spin things in a way that draws him closer when he’s so used to pushing others away. He scowled, but still reached out and took her hand, “It’s not like I sleep much anyway.”

“Hm. Might want to work on that.” She smirked back at him. The banter was like a pressure release, the strangely charged feeling passes allowing things to return to normal, for the moment.

For the next several hours, Crosshair found himself in a situation he could never have foreseen. Keeping silent vigil over Bells as she painted the sunrise in honor of parents he would never meet. He was her silent companion. It had been a long time since he’d been so relaxed and watching her paint smooth brushstrokes was soothing.

“Thank you, Crosshair.” She smiled at him, red hair rimmed in a halo of sunlight.

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