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nopefun · 3 years

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Interview #494: Ryan Frigillana

Ryan Frigillana is a Philippine-born lens-based artist living and working in New York. His work focuses on the fluidity of memory, intimacy, family identity, and visual culture, largely filtered through the lens of race and immigration. Embracing its plasticity, Frigillana explores photography’s relationship to context as a catalyst for thematic dialogue.

His first monograph, Visions of Eden, was published as two editions in 2020, and is held in the library collections of the MoMA, Getty Research Institute, and Smithsonian among others.

We spoke to find out more about Visions of Eden, his love for photobooks, and photography as a medium for introspection.

Lee Chang Ming Ryan Frigillana

Thanks for agreeing to do this! As we’ve just arrived into the new year, I want to start by asking: how did you arrive at photography and how has your practice evolved so far? Your earlier work was anything from still life to street photography, but your recent work seems to deal with more personal themes.

It’s my pleasure; thank you for having this conversation with me! Wow, looking back at how I’ve arrived at this point makes me feel so grateful for this medium, and excited to think of where it will lead me from here. I came to photography somewhat late. I was initially studying to become a nurse and was set to start a career in that field, but I found myself unhappy with where I was going. My mother was a nurse and I know what goes into being one; it’s not an easy job, and I respect those who do it, but my heart wasn’t in it. I found photography as a creative outlet during that stage of my life, and I’ve clung onto it ever since.

My first exposure to photography (no pun intended) came in the form of street and photojournalism. I would borrow books from the library a lot, consuming works by Magnum and other photographers working in that tradition. At the time, it was all I knew so that’s what I tried to emulate. Even early on in my undergrad career, these modes of creation were reinforced by curriculum and by what I saw from my own peers. My still-life work branches off of that same sentiment: the only names that were ever thrown around by professors were Penn and Mapplethorpe, so that’s who I studied. Thankfully over the years, I’ve been able to broaden that perspective through my own research. Though I don’t necessarily pursue street or constructed still-lifes anymore for my personal work, I’d like to think my technical skills (in regard to timing, composition, light) owe a debt to those past experiences.

I suppose now I’m starting to explore how photography can be used as language, to communicate ideas and internal conflicts. I’m thinking more about the power of imagery, its authorship, its implications, and how photographs have shaped, and continue to shape, our reality. That’s where my work is headed at the moment.

I liked how you mentioned photography as a language, which calls into question who we are speaking to when we make images and what kind of narrative we construct by putting photographs together.

In your work “Visions of Eden”, you trace your family’s journey as first-generation Filipino immigrants in America. I was quite struck by how you managed to link together original photography, archived materials and video stills. To me, with the original photography there was a sense of calm and clarity, perhaps in the composition. But with the archived material it was like peering through tinted glass, and the video stills felt like an unsteady memory. What was the editing process like for you and how did you decide what to include or exclude?

For me, editing is the hardest part about photography. Shooting is the enjoyable part of course because it can feel so cathartic. Sometimes when I shoot it feels almost like muscle memory in the sense that you see the world and you just react to it in a trained way. But with editing, it’s more of a cerebral exercise. More thought is involved when you have to deal with visual relationships, sequence, rhythm, and spacing, etc. The real creation of my work takes place in the editing process. That’s where the ingredients come together to form an identity.

When creating this identity, I not only have to think about what I want to say, but also how I want to say it. It’s like speaking; there are numerous ways you can communicate a single sentence. How are images placed in relation to one another? How large are they printed, or how much white space surrounds it? Are the images repeated? What’s on the following page? The preceding page? Is there text? How are they positioned on the spread? All of these little choices impact the tone of your work. And that’s not even mentioning tactile factors like paper stock or cover material. I think that’s why I have such a deep love for photobooks because 1) they’re physical objects and 2) someone has obsessed over every aspect of that object.

I’m aware that my photographs lately have a quiet, detached, somewhat stripped-down quality to them. I think that’s just a subconscious rejection of my earlier days shooting a lot of street where I was constantly seeking crowded frames and complexity in my compositions. As I’ve grown older, I realize less is more and if I can do more by saying less, that’s even better. Now, the complexity I seek lies in the work as a whole and how all these little parts can form something fluid and layered, and not easily definable.

For Visions of Eden, I wanted the work to feel somewhat syncopated and wandering in thought. That meant finding a balance between my quiet static photographs and the movement and energy of the video stills, or balancing the coldness of the illustrations with the warmth of the family snapshots. The work needed to be cohesive but have enough ambiguity for it to take life in someone else’s imagination. Peoples’ lived experiences in regard to immigration and religion are so complex that they can’t be narrated in any one definitive way. Visions of Eden, hopefully, is a rejection of that singularity.

Yes, there’s definitely something special and intimate about flipping through a photobook! For your monograph, you recently released a second edition which is different from your first (redesigned, added images, etc.). Why did you decide to make it different? Was the editing mainly a solitary process?

The first edition was a partially hand-made object. Illustrations were printed on translucent vellum paper and then tipped into the gutter of the book. When you flip through the pages, those vellum sheets would overlap over certain images, creating a collage-like effect. That was my original concept for this book. Doing this, however, was so laborious and time consuming, and not to mention expensive! Regretfully, I wound up making only twenty copies of that first edition. I wanted the work shared with a wider audience so that’s why I decided to publish a second run.

The latest edition is more of a straight-forward production without the vellum paper. With this change in design, I had to reconfigure the layout. I took liberties in swapping out some images or adding new ones altogether. Also, a beautiful afterword was contributed by my friend, artist, writer, and curator Efrem Zelony-Mindell. I still feel so fortunate and grateful to have had my work seen and elevated by their words in my book.

For the most part, yes editing is quite a solitary process for me. But there does come a point when I feel it’s ready, where I share the work with a few trusted people. It’s always nice to have that outer support system. Much of Visions of Eden was created during my time in undergrad school so I had all sorts of feedback from peers and professors which I’m grateful for. But in the end, as the author, you ultimately have the final say in your work.

Given that Eden is a starting point and metaphor in the work, I was thinking about ideas of gardens, (forbidden) fruit, and movement of people.

How do you view yourself in relation to your place of birth? In your series, I see the most direct links in the letters, old photos where tropical foliage is present in the background, and the photo of the jackfruit (perhaps the only tropical fruit in this series).

I came to America when I was very young, about five years old. For my family and for many other families still living in the Philippines, America is seen as a sort of ideological Eden: a land of milk and honey, of wealth and excess. We all know that’s far from the truth. Every Eden has a caveat, a forbidden tree. Which leads me to ask: as an immigrant living in this country, what fruits were never intended for me?

I honestly don’t remember much about my childhood in the Philippines aside from fleeting memories of my relatives, the sounds of animals, the smell of rain and earth, the taste of my grandmother’s cooking. The identity that I carry with me now as a Filipino is not so much tied to the physical geography of a place but rather it is derived from a way of life, from shared stories, in the values we hold dear, passed on from generation to generation. This is a warm flame that lives on in me to this day as I write these words thousands of miles away from where I came.

Photographs have a way of shaping our memory and our relationship to the past, which in turn affects how we engage with the present. The family photographs and letters used in my book act as anchors in a meandering journey. They serve as landmarks that I can return to whenever I feel lost or need assurance so far away from “home”. They give me the comfort and affirmation that I need to navigate a space where I never really felt I belonged. The spread in my book that you mentioned—the jackfruit on one side, and the Saran-wrapped apple on the preceding page—was a reference to my duality as both Filipino and American. It’s a reminder and an acknowledgment that I am a sum of many things, of many people who have shaped me. If I flourish in life, it’s because my roots were nourished by love.

I like how you mentioned photos as anchors or landmarks. Isn’t that why we create and photograph? To mark certain points in our lives and to envision possible futures, like a cartographer mapping an inner journey. Do you feel like you and your relationships with those you photographed changed through the process of making your works?

When my parents took pictures of our family, it wasn’t done solely in the name of remembrance; it also served as an affirmation of ourselves and our journey—a celebration. Every birthday, vacation, school ceremony, or even the seemingly insignificant events of daily life were all photographed or video-taped as a way of saying to ourselves, “Here we are. Look how far we’ve come. Look at the life we’ve made. And here’s the proof”.

Now, holding a camera and photographing my family through my own lens still carries all of that celebratory joy, but with so much more possibility. Before I really took photography seriously, I never realized its potential as a medium for introspection, but that’s ultimately what it has become for me. In taking pictures of my family, I not only clarify my own feelings about them, but the act of photography itself informs and builds on my relationship with each person. The camera is not a mere recording device, but a tool for understanding, processing, and even expressing love...or resentment. Though I may not be visible in my pictures, my presence is there: in my proximity, my gaze, my focus.

Does all of this impact my relationships? Absolutely. Photographing another person willingly always demands some degree of trust and vulnerability from both sides. There’s a silent dialogue that occurs which feels like an exchange of secrets. I think that’s why I often don’t feel comfortable photographing other people unless we’re very close. Usually my family is open enough to reveal themselves to me, other times what they give can feel quite guarded. That’s a constant negotiation. After the photograph is made though, nobody ever emerges the same person because each of us has relinquished something, no matter how small.

Being self-reflexive in photography is so important. I agree it should be a constant negotiation, but it’s something that bothers me these days – the power dynamic between the photographer and photograph, particularly for personal and documentary projects. More significantly, after the photograph has been made, who is really benefiting. But I guess if we are sensitive to that then perhaps we can navigate that tricky path and find a balance.

Right, finding that balance is key and sometimes there are no clear-cut answers. That power dynamic is something I always have to be mindful of. As the photographer, you are exercising a certain role and position. At the end of the day, you’re the one essentially “taking” what you need and walking away. There’s an inherent violence or aggression in the act of taking someone’s picture, no matter how well-intended it may be. This aggression carries even greater weight when working, as you say, in a genre like documentary where representation is everything.

I remember an undergrad professor of mine, Nadia Sablin, introducing me to the work of Shelby Lee Adams—particularly his Appalachian Legacy series. Adams spent twenty-five years documenting the disadvantaged Appalachian communities in his home state of Kentucky, visiting the same families over a long period of time. Though the photographs are beautifully crafted, they pose many questions in regard to exploitation, representation, and the aestheticization of suffering. He is or was, after all, an artist thriving and profiting off of these photographs. Salgado is another that comes to mind. This was the first time I really stopped to think about the ethics of image-making. Who is benefitting from it all?

I think the search for this balance is something each photographer has to reckon with personally. Though each situation may vary with different factors that have to be weighed, and context that must be applied, you can always ask yourself these same ever-pertinent questions: am I representing people in a dignified way, and what are my intentions with these images? Communication (listening), building relationships, acknowledging your power, and respecting the people you photograph are all foundational things to consider when exercising your privilege with the camera.

Well said! The process of making photographs can be tricky to navigate yet rewarding. Any upcoming projects or ideas? What’s keeping you busy these days?

Oh, let’s just say I’m constantly juggling 3-4 ideas in my head at any given time, but ninety percent of the time they don’t ever lead to anything finished haha. This past year has been tough on everyone I’m sure. I’ve been dealing a lot with personal loss and grief and the compounded isolation brought on by the pandemic, so for months I’ve been making photographs organically as a subconscious response to these internal struggles. It’s more of an exploration of grief itself as a natural phenomenon and force—like time or gravity. Grief is something everyone will experience in life and each of us deals with it differently, but in the end we have to let it run its course. I see these photographs as a potential body of work that could materialize as a zine or book one day, so we’ll see where that goes.

Other than that, I’ve been working on an upcoming collaboration project with Cumulus Photo. Speaking of which, I saw your photograph featured in their latest zine, running to the edge of the world. Congrats on that! It’s beautiful. But yeah, just trying my best to keep busy and sane, and improving myself any way I can.

Thanks! Looking forward to your upcoming projects! Last question: any music to recommend?

I feel like my answer to this question can vary by the week. I go through phases where I exhaust whole albums on repeat until I get tired of them. So I’ll leave you with the two currently on my rotation: Angles by The Strokes, and Screamadelica by Primal Scream.

Thank you for your time!

Thank you for a lovely discourse. I had a lot of fun!

his website and Instagram.

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#Ryan Frigillana #nope fun #new york #photographer interview #artist interview #Contemporary Photography #Visions of Eden #PhotoBook

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castielle-deanna · 3 years

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Destiel fanfic masterlist

My Destiel fanfics in decreasing word count order:

Hold me tight or don't (Explicit, words: 37,677)

Tags: Canon Compliant up to 15x13 // First Kiss // Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker // Conversations in the Impala // falling!Castiel // New Relationship // First Time // Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent // Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love //Art Embedded //soundtrack

Summary: With Jack’s soul now back, the four inhabitants of the Bunker are working on establishing a new routine. Between hunts, God’s wrath hanging over their heads and Castiel’s dwindling grace, the angel is not particularly eager to mention his deal to the Winchesters. With everything that’s going on, allowing himself to be happy sounds impossible anyway, right? Wrong…

With art by the fantastic @lizleeships

“Why now?” The angel asked quietly, taking a small step back.

Dean's fingers tightened on the tie he'd been holding onto as if it was a lifeline. “You said we were real. I want to believe it.”

“Even if it ends in pain?”

“Cas, everything I do ends there, eventually. There is always a bigger, heavier, smellier shoe waiting to drop. Holding back in fear of it doesn't make it any smaller, lighter or... or... “

“Less odoriferous?” Cas offered.

“Is that even a real word?”

“It is, indeed.”

“Sometimes you sound like you eat dictionaries and Victorian novels for breakfast,” Dean shook his head, grinning.

My unintended (Explicit, words:10,202)

Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending // Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On // FUCK CANON! // Saving Dean Winchester - Retconning the finale - The fangirl business // Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss // Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time Having Sex // Slow and Romantic Sex // Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester

Summary: At first, Castiel is ready to honour his part of the deal with the Empty, but then Jack shows up with distressing news...

With art by the fantastic @jeanne-de-valois

Cas heaves Dean into a bridal carry, struggling under his weight, but still he shifts slightly when Sam moves closer to help. He knows he needs to stop keeping Sam away, because it’s not fair, and it’s not what Dean wants anyway, but Sam accepts it and simply hangs back with a nod before he speaks again.

“I also know it’s not my business, but… do you think you could talk to Dean once he’s up for it? I’m not blind, or stupid. You two have to stop only holding each other like that when one of you is hurt or dead.”

Love me right (Explicit, words: 2,436)

Tags: Established Castiel/Dean Winchester // Porn with Feelings // Dean Winchester Wears Panties // Light Bondage // Panty Kink // Wing Kink // Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester // Light Dom/sub // Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester // Light BDSM // Dean and Castiel watch porn then recreate it

Summary: Dean asks to be tied up - who's Cas to say no to that? Written for a prompt by @winchester-reload on Patreon: "Thee Pink Panties"

“I want you to tie me up,” Dean blurts out one morning, closer to being asleep than awake still. He has no idea if Cas is even in the bedroom with him - for once, the angel is not curled around Dean with his whole body, their limbs entwined to the point where they can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins, cliché as it is.

There’s no reply, so Dean lifts his head and blinks the grogginess away to look around. Cas is in the room, sitting cross-legged on the green couch by the wall with an open book in his lap but he’s staring at Dean with eyes so comically wide Dean would think it humanly impossible if he wasn’t seeing it with his own eyes.

“For fun,” Dean adds in hopes that Cas catches his meaning. The angel looks slightly less taken aback at that, but he still appears confused and tilts his head as if a slightly different angle would help with unraveling the mystery of Dean's words. “During sex, Cas.”

Rewind the exit (Teen And Up Audiences, words: 2,408)

Tags: Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair // Fix-It // Grief/Mourning // Angst with a Happy Ending // Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love // Grieving Dean Winchester // Grieving Sam Winchester

Summary: "Rewinding the exit wound, I'm holding on to you 'Cause I need words like anyone, and I need love like everyone With those words I'm strong enough, and I need love like everyone." (Rewind the exit by Volbeat) Obligatory 15x18 fix-it.

The Bunker is haunted. It's haunted by two faint apparitions of humanity who mostly pass each other by in the corridors like ships in the night, silent and distant.

Dean prays. Every morning, every evening, and most waking hours between the two, he prays. He doesn't know if Cas can hear him, but the faith that he can is all Dean has, so it has to be enough.

It's not enough. Yet Dean clings to it, because if he doesn't have that, he doesn't have anything.

Bite me (Mature, words: 1,407)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence // Vampire Dean Winchester // Mild Blood!Kink (comes with the territory) // Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss

Summary: After Dean gets turned into a vampire during S06E05 - Live Free or Twi-hard, instead of going to Lisa's, he prays to Cas. Written for a prompt by winchester-reload on Patreon: "Vampire!Dean having a Cas snack"

“I can get you through this, and then we’ll burn any other bridges as we get to them,” Cas says earnestly.

“That’s not how the saying… you know what, never mind. I don’t want to get through this! I told you to kill me!” Dean pushes Cas away, but the angel holds onto both of his shoulders to stabilise him until Dean shakes him off in defiance. “Fucking stubborn angel, why can’t you just do as you’re told?”

“Because I’ve decided to disregard stupid orders!” Cas shoots back, and his previous stoicism is gone entirely. His eyes flare faintly with the light of his grace as he shrugs off his trenchcoat and goes to work on loosening his tie.

I wanna get you back again (Mature, words: 1,176)

Tags: Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair // Canon Divergence // Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss

Summary: Dean breaks into the Empty to save Cas. Written for a prompt by winchester-reload on Patreon: "Come on and lay it down/I've always been with you/Here and now/Give all that's within you/Be my Savior"

“Am I wrong in assuming that our friend who has the fashion sense of a flasher wasn’t the only one in love?” Balthazar smirked.

“Huh?”

Balthazar rolled his eyes. “Bit slow on the uptake, aren’t we? You know what, don’t answer that,” he shrugged, rolling right over Dean’s indignant splutter. “I’m talking about Castiel.”

“I know!”

“So which part of my question was confusing then?”

“Fuck you, Feather Boa, the Empty is trying to push me out and you want to chat?” Dean scoffed, trying to stomp his way past him.

“Your trenchcoated boyfriend is that way,” Balthazar said dryly, pointing to his left.

Forward is just the way ahead (General Audiences, words: 1,091)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor // Baby Jack Kline // Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent // Tattoo Artist Dean Winchester // Single Parent Castiel

Summary: Tattoo artist Dean falls for client. Written for a prompt by winchester-reload on Patreon: "Cas getting tattooed by Dean (or the other way around)"

“So,” Dean began, “It’s a simple black design, correct? Four rows of symbols?”

“Yes. It’s actually a warding-slash-protection spell in Enochian, the language of Biblical angels. There’s… well, there’s a story to it,” Cas chuckled.

“Is part of that story that you were named after an angel?”

Cas’ chuckle changed into full-blown laughter. “Yes. I have to say I wasn’t expecting you to know that. In fact, all my siblings have angel names, except for Luke, but only because they wouldn’t allow my parents to officially name him Lucifer…”

Waffles or kisses (Mature, words:1,026)

Tags: Domestic Fluff // Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester // Established Castiel/Dean Winchester // Domesticity in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural)

Summary: Cas tries to make breakfast for Dean - it doesn't quite work out... Written for a prompt by winchester-reload on Patreon: "Great British Bake Off contestants with fewer clothes and lots of flour!" I have nefariously tweaked the prompt to allow me to play in the canon!verse.

“You look like one of the Great British Bake Off contestants, but with fewer clothes... and lots of flour, what the hell are you even doing?” Dean guffaws.

“Is that Dean?” A slightly tinny female voice comes from somewhere underneath the bowls, and it takes a moment for Dean to recognise it.

“Hi Jody!”

“Am I on speaker?”

“Yes,” Cas says, rolling his eyes. Dean finds that his behaviour is not unlike Miracle’s after the dog got caught chewing Sam’s 3rd pair of slippers to shreds, and the comparison draws another laugh out of him.

“Hi, Dean,” Jody says warmly. “Nice to hear your voice, though it would be even nicer if you were the one calling, rather than hijacking a conversation between Cas and I…”

Dean ducks his head as Jody’s “mom voice” tries to work its magic on him. “I’m not hijacking anything! Can someone explain why my kitchen and my… Cas are head-to-toe covered in flour?”

“I was trying to make waffles for breakfast,” Cas replies barely audibly, looking down, shoulders drooping.

With those words I'm strong enough (Mature, words: 703)

Tags: Dean Winchester Deserves to be Happy // Dean Winchester's Birthday // Established Castiel/Dean Winchester // Non-Explicit Sex // Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love // Dean Winchester Says "I Love You" // Pillow Talk // Dean Winchester Lives // fuck 15x20

Summary: It's Dean's birthday and Castiel doesn't waste a single second to wish him a happy one (Utter finale denial and slight sap below.)

“Where did you go, my love?” Cas asks, ruffling Dean’s hair, curling a longer-than-usual strand of it around his index finger.

“Thinking.”

“Uh-oh, that’s never a good thing,” Cas deadpans and Dean whacks his upper arm with very little force. “Ow.”

“Sarcastic asshole in one moment, drama queen the next,” Dean grumbles, and he fully intends to kiss it better, but before he could get around to it, he’s pushed onto his back and there’s a former angel of the Lord straddling him with a grin on his face.

Domestic (General Audiences, words: 462)

Tags: Domestic Fluff // Established Castiel/Dean Winchester // Fallen Angel Castiel // Suptober 2020

Summary: Middle-of-the-night Destiel chat. Just a lightning-quick ficlet as my first and possibly only entry to Suptober 2020. The prompt was 'domestic'

“Of all the human things, the constant need to urinate is the worst,” Castiel complained as he slid under the covers with a yawn.

“The worst?” Dean huffed in sleepy amusement. “Being shot is worse. Broken bones. A toothache…”

“They are worse, but they are temporary. Urinating is permanent. I will have to put up with it for the rest of my life.”

#Destiel #Destiel fanfic #DeanCas fanfic #creativecaviar #fanfic masterlist #destiel masterlist #Destiel fic #DeanCas fic

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marshmallow-phd · 4 years

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Catching Rain

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Minseok x Reader

Summary: You were more than satisfied with your life. You attended a nice college, had nice friends, a nice boyfriend. That’s what your life was: nice. You weren’t looking for anything more, so what were you to do when this seemingly harmless boy walked into your life and turned your nice little world into one much more dangerous?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I Epilogue

The theatre was loud, opposite of its normally hushed nature. People were yelling back and forth, saws and drills screeching as they tore through wood. In the background, sewing machines could be heard, along with the occasional curse as the needle got stuck in the fabric. One person, however, was quiet, focused. The paintbrush in his hand was small. The hairs tightly pressed together in order to create the perfect details on the backdrop. Erik was hunched over, sitting cross-legged on the stage floor as he squinted at the distant forest he was perfecting. Setting your bag down in the second row, you headed up the stage stairs.

“Hey,” you said softly in order not to scare him.

Blinking, he turned around. His glasses were on the very tip of his nose, having slipped from the slight bit of sweat that had conjured on his face from the glaring stage lights. With a green speckled finger, he pushed the frame back up to its proper position. “Hey! I thought you had a project?”

You shrugged. “I did, but… I kind of hit a wall and needed to give my brain a rest. I’m sorry, I guess I should have gotten lunch with you anyway.”

“That’s alright. If you want, I still have half of my sandwich left.”

Smiling, you ruffled his hair. “Thanks, I’m not really hungry.” Minseok’s dismissive response had ruined the idea of food for you. Later you knew you would be starving, but right now food sounded like a great way to churn your stomach and see what it had been brewing all morning. “I’m just going to go hang out in the seats, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “No one will bother you or question it. Not that anyone would notice in the first place.”

“It’s pretty crazy around here, isn’t it?”

“You missed the big explosion when Dorothy couldn’t find the armchair for the second act. Turns out, someone just leaned a piece of wood for the set against it and hid it from view. Still took us half an hour to find it.”

You snorted. “Wow. I’m actually kind of sad I missed that.” You kissed his cheek, careful to avoid a smear that you were sure he had no clue about. That stupid guilt knocked once again.

The seat was only slightly comfortable, the cushion long ago worn down from a thousand performances. You stewed there in the second row. Though it wasn’t appropriate during shows, you didn’t think anyone would care if you set your feet on the seat in front of you. Folding nearly in half, you hid your face from those who might look your way as you cranked the handle to get the gears in your head to turn.

Confusion seemed like too weak a word to describe what was going on in your head. You were angry, frustrated, sad, relieved. There had to be some language in the world that tied those emotions all together. You just didn’t know it. Perhaps that one word could be the pill you needed to no longer feel this way. If you could shove all of that into a single box, you would be fine. But is it ever that simple? When you closed your eyes and tried not to think of anything in particular, Minseok’s face faded into view. You’d shake your head to drive the image away. It came back anyway.

You felt powerless against this unseen pull, this innate desire to see him again, even after what had just happened in the courtyard. Your mind made excuses, told you that if you simply asked him to explain then he would. Looking up at Erik, you sighed.

There was no comparison because they were two different people. Erik was the sensitive artist, the kind who went to coffee shops on Friday nights to hear a mediocre guitar player sing his “poetry” because he believed everyone deserved an audience. Minseok, on the other hand, was a strange combination of math lab nerd and soccer team captain. He was goofy and dorky, easily amused by corny jokes, but also had the physique of someone who ran five miles in the A.M. for the fun of it. What you couldn’t figure out was what drew you to him in the first place. In any normal, not-already-dating-someone situation, you wouldn’t have been interested in his type. Yet, it was almost… effortless, being around him. Even after all these years, you sometimes had to force yourself into conversation with Erik. Comfortable silences didn’t exactly exist in your relationship, but you always chalked that up to your own personality. Now you wondered if those moments would be better with Minseok.

Was this a normal thing? You heard stories of college sweethearts all the time and for the last few years, you thought you and Erik would join that club. You hadn’t thought about marriage, per se, but you hadn’t seen an end either. The idea of coming to a fork in the road had never occurred to you. While logic and third party advice you’d casually picked up over your life told you to stick to the left, you were being drawn to the right. One road you could easily see where it led, signs, clear pastures, and everything. The other way wasn’t as clear, disappearing into thick woods that were both inviting and foreboding. You didn’t know if there was another side for the road to come out to. The only way you would ever find out would be to follow it.

You were able to sit there in that second row seat for a few hours, surprisingly, with your phone and the internet as your companion. Only occasionally would you contemplate that fork again. Left, right, left, right. Easy, hard, easy, hard. In the end, you decided you needed to see Minseok again to really decide.

The stage manager called it quits late in the afternoon. Erik washed up his brushes and came to meet you. “Hungry yet?” You nodded, more for something else to do before you were alone again. “Good. I’m starving.” Taking your bag like the gentleman that he was, he waited for you to stand up and then walked you out of the theatre.

Dinner ended up being a small burger joint that Erik had been craving all day. You gave no complaints as you started salivating at the thought of their fries. Surely they had to have some sort of secret, addictive ingredient to make fried potato sticks so incredibly delicious. The two of you ended up splitting a large basket of the side. It stayed equally in the middle of the table so no one could say that the other was hogging. Yes. Safe. Easy. Seeable.

Erik offered a follow up to dinner, but you feigned exhaustion (though there might not have been any faking truthfully, as your mind was tired from constantly running throughout the day). He walked you all the way to the door of your room. As usual, he told you goodnight and leaned in for a kiss. But unlike your normal anticipation, you flinched back to avoid his lips. He stared at you in confusion. Clearing your throat, you made it up to him by kissing his cheek before running for cover in your dorm. From the light of the hallway, you could see that Erik stood on the other side for a few seconds, hesitating to understand what had just happened, before finally walking away.

Teeth clenched down on your bottom lip, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket. Thankfully, Willa was still out so you were alone. The glare of your phone burned in the darkness. You squinted as you moved your thumb across the screen, unlocking it before opening the contacts. The number you wanted was easy enough to find. The pad of your thumb hovered over the little green phone. It accepted the slightest touch and switched over to calling mode. You placed the speaker to your ear.

Rrriiinggg. Rrriiinnngggg.

“Hello?”

You sucked in air. He’d answered. You didn’t have a plan for this. You didn’t have any sort of plan after pressing call. You’d hoped that he was one of those people who didn’t have a voicemail set up.

“Hello? (y/n)?”

You hung up.

Minseok watched you stalk off in the exact direction he wished you hadn’t. Anywhere else; he would have been fine with you going anywhere besides the theatre where your boyfriend was. His wolf growled and clawed with jealousy. Why was he so stupid? Since when was keeping his mate a secret more important than being with you? Of course he wanted to eat lunch with you, to see how you got along with his brothers. But the idea of Baekhyun figuring it out had caused him to panic. As obnoxious as Baekhyun could be, he wasn’t stupid. At some point during the meal, Minseok would have done something a little overprotective and Baekhyun would have started to connect the dots. Unfortunately, he’d already picked up on something.

“Oooo, breaking the rules, are we?” The brat even had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows at the eldest wolf.

Not holding back, Minseok swung, hitting a good target on the upper arm.

“Ow!”

“First, it's not a rule,” Minseok grumbled. “Junmyeon simply suggested that we don’t date. Besides, you’re one to talk. How’s Daisy?”

Baekhyun was hardly phased. He sported a cheeky grin. “She’s great.”

Bored, Sehun asked, “Can we just go eat now? Who cares who Minseok was flirting with?”

“I wasn’t flirting with her!” Minseok shouted. He explained in a lower voice, “She’s having trouble in her math class so I’m doing Sungkyu a favor and helping her out so she can pass. That’s it.”

“So why didn’t you want her to eat with us, then?” Jongin asked innocently.

Minseok flinched. Jongin was more observant than anyone would give him credit for. Not that Minseok was subtle in any sense of the word. “I didn’t say that I didn’t want her to eat with us. Knowing you all, you would have let something slip about what we are.”

“Minseok, we all caught that she was willing to join us,” Chanyeol said.

Huffing, Minseok grumbled, “Are we going to go eat or should I just go by myself?”

Shrugging off the odd behavior, Baekhyun turned and headed for the parking lot. Minseok was quick to follow, feeling smaller than normal surrounded by his pack members. In his head, he pictured himself running back towards the theatre, bursting through the doors, and - in true dramatic fashion - declaring you his.

That would be a complete disaster. He should only do that if he wanted you to never talk to him ever again.

Minseok hardly paid attention as Chanyeol drove them to his favorite pizza place. He was in a trance as the others took control of what to order. Physically, he sat in the booth next to Sehun with Baekhyun on the other side. His shoulder was pressed into the chipped wooden guard rail that ran along the wall but he hardly noticed the uncomfortable poke in his skin. His mind was still back at the campus. He was driving himself crazy trying to figure out how he was going to make this up to you, how he was going to explain his bizarre switch up to you. He hardly ate, which was fine since the others were more than happy to devour the three large pizzas with varying toppings. The others weren’t bothered by his quietness since it was nothing new. Minseok was always more of an observer than a participant. In a time like this, it worked to his advantage.

There was no consulting Minseok when the lunch was through. They all simply piled back into the car and headed out of town towards the woods. Vague mentions of going for a run were tossed around. Minseok didn’t voice any sort of agreement. He wasn’t in the mood. Ha. A wolf not in the mood to run wild among the trees? He really was turned upside down because of you. While the younger ones headed straight for the trees, Minseok headed up the porch and through the front living room until he came to the kitchen. Oh, thank god. There were still beers in the fridge. He grabbed one and immediately opened it, still chugging as he walked over to the breakfast booth.

“Did you have fun?”

Junmyeon slid into the booth across from him. Minseok put the can down. “Yeah. At first. We had fun with the project. It was when the others showed up that things… went bad.”

“What do you mean?” Junmyeon asked with a frown.

“I… panicked. The others invited her to join us and I….” Minseok shrugged.

“Worried that the others would figure it out?” Junmyeon guessed. The response was a nod.

“Figure what out?”

Shit.

Baekhyun stood in the entryway, looking back and forth between the eldest and the alpha. Minseok gulped. He thought that all four of them had gone out on a run and he hadn’t heard anyone else in the house. Stepping further into the kitchen, Baekhyun asked again, “Figure what out?”

Minseok looked to Junmyeon for help. None was to be found.

“You should probably tell them.”

“I’m not going to tell just Baekhyun so he can go running and tell the others and exaggerate.”

“I can always call a family meeting.”

“I don’t want to make that big of a deal out of it.”

“Too late on that. Besides, that’s the best way to get everyone here. Get it out of the way.”

“Or to get none of them here.”

“I’m still standing here,” Baekhyun scoffed.

Minseok looked at him. “I know.”

Junmyeon sighed. “Baekhyun, will you go get the others? Tell them it's important?”

He nodded. “Sure. Be back in a flash.” He left, already shedding the hoodie over his head.

Slumping down in the booth, Minseok felt defeated. Junmyeon sensed this immediately. “It really won’t be that bad. And they need to be prepared.”

“Prepared?”

“Yes. Once a pack member finds the first mate, the others will slowly start to find their own. It won’t be immediate. It could take years, really. But it’s like a domino effect. They should be aware that it's their turn next.”

It made sense. The pack was always connected, both in mind and in instinct. But it had been just them for so long, the idea of bringing in mates to the fold was odd. Minseok wasn’t sure how the others would react. Fists clenched on the table, he leaned his head down. It took almost half an hour before the rest of the pack came back. Yixing had arrived first, coming back from a lab he was making up from earlier in the week. The rest came into the kitchen ten minutes later. They were knocking into each other as they yanked on shirts and pants.

“Okay, Junmyeon, what’s the emergency?” Jongdae asked, very prepared to be his usual sarcastic, troll self.

But Junmyeon didn’t reply, letting Minseok take the reins instead. Minseok didn't want to do this. He wanted to run, to keep his secret a little while longer while he figured this whole thing out. But Junmyeon was right. It was time.

“(y/n) - the girl that some of you met today… she’s my mate.”

It was pure silence in the kitchen. It was unnatural in this household. The only time it was ever this quiet was when the house was empty.

“I’m sorry,” Jongdae said. “You said… mate? Right?” Minseok nodded. He growled. “Fantastic.”

“You really found your mate, Minseok?” Yixing was more enthusiastic about the news. He looked elated, even. A small smile was creeping up.

Despite the stunned silence, Minseok found Yixing’s energy infectious. “Yeah. I did.”

“Have you told her yet?” Chanyeol asked.

“She has a boyfriend,” Jongin reminded him.

“Oh. Right.”

“I’m working on it,” Minseok said. “I just-” His phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, his eyes widened at the name popping up on the screen. With sixteen eyes on him, he answered, frantic. “Hello?” A gasp on the other end. “Hello? (y/n)?” You didn’t answer. Two seconds ticked by and you ended the call. He stared at his now black screen in shock. Then his brain started again. “I got to go.”

“Was it her?” Junmyeon asked.

“Wait, I have more questions!” Baekhyun whined. Minseok was out of the kitchen in a heartbeat, jumping into his car and flying down the road. He didn’t know if you were hurt or in trouble. Why had you called him? Why didn’t you say anything? He was determined to find out. There was only one problem.

He didn’t know your dorm number.

You’d briefly mentioned the shared campus housing with your best friend, but that was all the information he had. Looks like he would have to find it the old fashion way.

Asking.

As soon as he parked, he headed towards the dorms, thankful at least that the two large housing buildings were close in proximity. He headed for the smaller cafeteria located in the lobby of the first building. The kitchen was closed but there were still students taking advantage of the open seating. Okay. Here it goes.

The first few groups that Minseok asked had never heard of you. He was starting to berate himself on what a stupid idea this was. He should have called you back and asked you to call him when you were ready because it most certainly would have gone to voicemail. But his luck soon turned around. He approached a group of three girls sitting in a corner. One of them had a camera.

“Excuse me?” They looked up. Minseok cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to find (y/n) (l/n)’s room. Do you happen to know her?”

One girl narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

Minseok swallowed. “I… I have her notebook. She’d left it behind earlier at study group. She really needs it for class on Monday but I can’t get a hold of her.” Please believe his stupid lie.

The girl who’d spoken made eye contact with her two friends. “She’s in room twenty-three-nineteen. If she doesn’t answer, just slide the notebook under the door.”

He could almost jump from elated joy. “Thank you!”

Taking off, he headed for the stairs. Your dorm room was only on the second floor so it didn’t take long to follow the signs until he was right outside your door. Only now did the possibility that your roommate would be the one to answer cross his mind. What lie would he have to come up with then? He had to take the chance.

After knocking, he waited, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to release the nervous energy surging through his body. The door swung open.

It was you. Thank goodness.

You were not the same level of relieved. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Crap. He probably should have thought of that. “You called me.”

You looked back over your shoulder before stepping out into the hallway, letting the door shut behind you. “So? That doesn’t mean you can just show up here!”

“I need to talk to you.”

You licked your lips. No, please don’t do that. It’s too tempting already to grab your face and kiss you against the door. Without speaking, you went back into your room. Well, that was a bust. But before he could walk away with slumped shoulders, you came back, this time with shoes on and your bag. “Let’s go.”

He gave no protest as you led him out of the dorm and into the dark. He had no idea where the two of you were headed, but he planned on embracing whatever came his way. The two of you were going to talk. His heart was thumping hard against his sternum. He was getting more alone time with you. Who knew what would end up flying out of his mouth in these next few hours. Would this be the night of truths and revelations?

#exo #exo wolf au #exo wolf!au #minseok x reader #kim minseok #xiumin #exo werewolf au #exo werewolf!au #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #exo supernatural au #exo series #The Untamed Universe #Catching Rain

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spookyspaghettisundae · 3 years

Text

A Spark To Ignite the Dead Wood

Cold, angular, gray. One door in, same door out.

A sleek reflective window, in which Jericho Kane could stare into his own sad mug, complete with all the ugly scars. His vision blurred as his mind wandered to what the window might be hiding on the other side of the interrogation room. A little camera on a stand with a blinking red light to indicate it was recording? A person, or two, waiting for some cop to enter the room and grill him for answers?

A thin chain connected his handcuffed wrists to a small metal hook on the table in front of him. The chain’s links rattled and ribbed against the hook whenever he budged, which he had to do every now and then, his fidgeting owed to the hard chair that made his sore butt cheeks ache, and a backrest designed to offer neither comfort nor invitation to lean back and relax. Everything here was perfectly engineered to make a stay as unpleasant as humanly possible.

Even the air in here was cold. A tiny little grate in one high corner of the room, big enough to fit two fists inside, took care of ventilation. Though it probably relied on air conditioning, he had to wonder if it was not allowing the cold wintry air to leak into this dreadful little room.

Following the sound of a key turning in a lock, a chunky clank heralded the door to the room opening. Jericho craned his head and spied the face of the person entering. Unfortunately, he recognized him. That recognition coaxed a groan to growl right out of Jericho’s throat.

It had been years, yet Jericho knew that unkempt beard, those horn-rimmed glasses on a flat nose, the receding hairline that framed a short mane of curly hair turning silvery, and that familiar face—now marked with days of sleep deprivation and wrinkled in what had to be disdain.

Using a hand that already gripped a thick manila folder while he carried a cheap plastic cup of steaming coffee in the other, Detective Augustus Shaw averted his gaze and slammed the door shut behind himself. He approached the table, plopped down the items from his hands, causing some coffee droplets to splash onto the surface, and pulled out the chair with an annoying sound of metal grinding against synthetic floor tiles.

Jericho shot a glance at the cup of coffee but tried not to let his thirsty gaze linger there. Neither would the cheap bitter swill help at all against the unpleasantly fluffy feeling of cottonmouth that plagued him right now, nor did he want to give Shaw any conversation material to work with. The career criminal and con man wanted to keep things short and painless. On some level, he did not want to waste the detective’s time, either.

“Jericho Kane,” Shaw said after demonstratively clearing his throat. “Long time no see. How long has it been since we’ve had the fortune of having your company around here in Maine?”

He took a sip from his cup and his forehead furrowed with crinkles counting both too many years of time on the force as well as from cringing over the coffee’s terrible aftertaste getting stuck on his tongue. Shaw shook it off and set the cup back down.

“Rap sheet tells me you’ve been pretty busy all these years, and up and down the whole East Coast, no less,” Shaw added, gently tapping the folder with his left palm. He cleared his throat again, audibly attempting to fight against the bitter film clinging to the roof of his mouth. Then he asked, “Do you want to hop right in and spill the beans, or do I need to flirt it outta ya?”

Shaw smiled at him, though no sincerity reached the crow’s feet framing the corners of his eyes. The detective hated being here as much as Jericho did, even though he could have walked out of the interrogation room anytime.

“Are we burying the lead here? How’s about you just tell me what business you had in any of the places you were trespassing in all week, and we both get to leave sooner? I know both of—”

“I’m not saying anything without my lawyer,” Jericho interrupted him sharply. He swallowed and stared at the place where the chain and hook on the table met, between the coffee stain and the pointless pile of papers and photographs jammed into the overflowing folder.

He could practically hear Shaw’s frown when a stifled sigh made the detective’s nostrils flare, and the seconds of silence that followed only underlined that air of disappointment.

“Okay,” Shaw said, taking another sip from his coffee and the smacking his lips indicating instant regret. “Alright. Fast-trackin’ this, then we both get to leave sooner. You work for the group that runs drugs across the northern border?”

“When’s the lawyer getting here?”

“Sources tell me you’ve worked for two crime syndicates—at least. One in NYC and the other all the way down in Miami. Any others send you onto an errand in our neck of the woods?”

“Not saying anything without a lawyer, man.”

“You went from being a two-bit drifter and con artist, constantly getting evicted from really terrible apartments, to your parole officer in Rhode Island refusing to offer any statement and looking like he had seen a ghost after you got out of the slammer.”

Jericho just kept his mouth shut. He jutted his jaw out and his lips curled inward, turning into a hard-pressed, thin, white line.

“Listen, man, I know you’re not a terrible person. Probably still got debt to pay off to some heavy hitters, right?”

Nothing.

“Some people in my position would mistake this monstrous pile of paper for proof that you’re a monstrous person, but I know better. Most people in your position got your reasons, constantly wonder if they’re bad people themselves, and deep down somewhere, buried underneath all the rotten things you experienced and any crimes you committed, you’re just—just a human being.”

Jericho deeply disagreed and looked up at the detective, locking eyes with him. He silently mouthed “lawyer” at him. Shaw ignored that and continued.

“You’re always down on your luck ‘cause people like us don’t get to win the lottery. We get dealt a bad hand in life, and we roll with whatever we’ve got.”

Shaw cradled the plastic cup, balancing it on an edge as his fingers idly circled it in his hand.

“Well, today’s your lucky day for a change, Jericho. Work with me here. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll make sure you’re out of here in no time.”

Lawyer, Jericho thought, hoping that telepathy might finally work for him, one of these days.

“See, you can disappear behind bars for a while for some petty bullshit, or you can cooperate with me, because I’m really not that interested in you,” Shaw said, taking another pained sip from the cup. “No offense.”

Lawyer?

The telepathy did not seem to be working, or Shaw was blowing it off. No way to tell. Maybe this was not the best opportunity to try it out, but it was not like Jericho had anything better to do right now.

“See, I know things got weird at some point,” Shaw said. The cup plopped down onto the table’s surface and he leaned over it, closer towards Jericho.

He was playing to make their exchange feel more intimate, the crook figured. But the detective’s tone had shifted, and a strange glint flashed across his eyes. Jericho could not help but feel intrigued.

Did Shaw know more than he was letting on?

“A cigar-smoking guy in a stretch limo invites you in after a botched 'milk run’ in a meat packing plant, says he can make all your problems go away,” Shaw said.

Jericho kept his eyes locked onto the detective’s. How in the hell did he know about that?

“He offered you new work and the money he was offering was too good to turn down, so of course you took it. Who in your position wouldn’t have? Lemme guess, he had big mean-looking fellas in white suits with big mean-looking guns, and Cigar Man’s speech was a monologue with you for an audience.”

Frighteningly on point. Shaw had arrested Jericho’s full attention. Not a single thought trailed off, not a single word formed inside his head. He still wanted a lawyer before he admitted to anything, but the eerie accuracy of Shaw’s description rendered Jericho’s attention rapt.

“But the guy in the packing plant made your mouth melt shut and you had some voodoo man in New Orleans get that fixed. And there was that crumpled bag from the golden arches that provided a happy meal and a poisoned apple every day. Or a serial killer priest who ritually crucified himself after mass and could turn into the Incredible fucking Hulk before you and some of Cigar Man’s boys put him down like a dog and several dozen rounds of point-fifty caliber ammo,” Shaw said.

Jericho’s heart skipped a beat. Though Shaw was only scratching at the surface of all the unreal things he had witnessed in his recent years working for the “club"—the detective somehow knew. Knew of what Jericho liked to call "the weird shit.”

Shaw shot a glance at the mirrored window and said in a hushed murmur, “There’s nobody over there, Kane. No camera, nothing. I know better than to let anybody else in on this. I know how weird and un-fucking-believable all of this is. Hell, I question my own sanity just saying any of this out loud, but I have seen some shit myself. And—listen—I’m here to hear you out. I just want to—I wanna know the truth.”

Jericho swallowed the big empty wad of nothing that suddenly lodged itself inside this throat, yet it refused to go down no matter how many times he repeated the useless motion. That ball of anxiety stayed stuck right there, a slimy void only adding to the rest of his discomfort. He leaned back in his chair despite how painful the metal bars bracing the backrest felt.

“Look, I know of the Carcosa Casino job you were part of, down in Atlantic City. What did they call the 'package’ you were supposed to take from those thugs? 'Lightweight ghosts?’ What in God’s name is that, anyway?”

Jericho shook his head, croaked out a clipped, “Dunno.”

“You didn’t ask questions. Can’t say I blame you,” Shaw said, shaking his head in unison. “Probably woulda done the same in your shoes.”

He broke eye contact and shoved the folder in between the two of them. Flipped it open. Papers rustled; glossy prints of pictures glided from the main pile onto the discard pile he started right next to it.

Jericho recognized the Heavenly Night bar from one of the big photos even though this image depicted it as charred black and burnt down—from that one time when he had set it on fire with a thought. From that one time when he had discovered what unnatural abilities he possessed.

Another picture portrayed Jericho in a black raincoat with a green surgical mask on his face and sunglasses concealing his eyes, toting a silenced pistol in one hand—but he easily identified the distinct shape of his own head despite the stubble left behind after shaving it.

His typical “job attire” whenever he worked for Cigar Man.

“You usually get self-deleting messages with simple, straightforward instructions and are left to figure out the rest. You’re pretty good at that, right?” Shaw asked.

More pictures. Incident reports. A timeline of all the weirdness that Jericho had lived through. Hints at the world hidden behind the world, a world of human monsters that could alter reality on a whim as soon as they figured out the cosmic cheat codes. Most people do their damnedest to rationalize the weird to the best of their ability, but at some point, it gets hard to deny it all. Shaw must have gotten there on his own.

“The four-digit numbers just kept piling up in your bank account and everything stayed untraceable. Shit, Jericho, one of the guys at Homeland Security admitted to me that they didn’t just fail to trace anything—they couldn’t. Every data trail just vanishes into thin fuckin’ air. Like the hand of God reached through every computer and wiped every record clean.”

Jericho had gotten a message from Cigar Man just last week, so his mind went there. The new job. He dispelled the thoughts, focusing on trying to get a read on the seasoned detective. What was his deal? Was he on the payroll of the other syndicate? The douchebags over in Europe?

“And I get it, man. You never ever stopped to question this, because it’s both too good to be true—and too scary to fuck with,” Shaw droned on.

His sympathy was grating on his Jericho’s nerves but clearly genuine. The crook sensed it. The detective felt that same spark he had felt himself, all those years ago.

That time when he still struggled to understand it all. When he felt ambition, wanting to know how the secret world worked. How things like magick functioned, and trying to understand what, if any, difference existed between ghosts and demons.

That spark always struck dry wood, igniting the debris that rested, dead and dormant at the back of one’s mind, bursting into flames and feeding roaring fires of burning curiosity.

Shaw finally fell silent and stopped shuffling through the papers and photos. He let his gaze wander back upwards, scanning Jericho’s face for a reaction until they locked eyes again. That glint in his eyes—it reflected the hungry fires, consuming any knowledge it could get.

“C'mon. I know you wanna talk to me. You wanna talk to somebody, anybody. I’m not your enemy, Jericho. I’m not like him. I’m not—”

Jericho’s heart began to race in that instance and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, knowing in advance what name Shaw was about to utter. A horrid premonition during which time almost slowed to a complete halt and his eyes went wide.

“No!” Jericho suddenly shouted. “Don’t say—”

Shaw’s brow furrowed but he continued anyway, oblivious to the trigger he was pulling, “I’m not The Way King.”

Jericho’s heart skipped a beat and his blood curdled. The harsh white light from the neon tube overhead in the interrogation room flickered in response to that name being spoken.

“Fuuuuuck,” Jericho hissed, elongating the vowel in agonized defeat.

“Something wrong with me saying that? The Way King?” Shaw asked, continuing to shoot his mouth off, oblivious to the smoking gun he unwittingly kept firing every time he flapped his gums.

“Shut the fuck up! Stop saying his fucking name!”

The lights flickered again. The background noise—that constant buzz of chatter and drawers and metal doors and shoes tapping against hard floors and someone shouting and some chuckling and people on the phones and—all the life in the police station, muffled through the steel door, it all went dead. All at once.

Jericho lurched forward, causing Shaw to shift back in his seat, startled. But the surprise written across the detective’s visage mirrored the dread that must have taken hold of Jericho’s own face. Jericho showed him his empty palms in surrender.

“I will tell you whatever the fuck you wanna know. But you gotta—you have to fucking unlock me, right now. We need to get out of here,” Jericho whispered at him, enunciating every syllable with sharp endings and harsh gravity punctuating every stop.

Shaw stared at him, slack jawed. Now it was the detective’s turn to swallow a big lump of nothing that had gotten lodged in his throat. He bit his lip for a second and his hand went for his pocket. Crammed his fist right in there and dug around to look for the key.

Then the detective started shaking, wracked with spasms like he was being seized by an epileptic attack. His mouth started to foam while he gurgled.

The chain ribbed and rattled as Jericho leaned back as far as he could, trying to gain as much distance as possible, until he felt the tug of cold metal keeping him locked in place, and he heard the crunch of the chain accompany his bondage bringing him to a helpless stop.

Shaw’s eyes rolled back so far into his head that they looked only white and bloodshot. Then a hideous grin shaped across his face, clearly not his own. Drool dribbled down from the curve of his lip, forming pearls on the way down Shaw’s beard until the saliva dripped down onto his lap.

“There you are,” the Way King spoke through Shaw’s mouth, stealing his voice but spewing it out in a different cadence and tone. “Told you, boy. I will always find you, no matter where you go.”

Blood rushed in Jericho’s ears, his heart pounded like one of those huge Japanese drums; just thundering away and drowning out everything, leaving him deaf to the rest of the world and mesmerized by the spiderweb of crimson in Shaw’s white eyes, knowing that the Way King now stared at him through the powerless borrowed vessel.

“Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

The handcuffs sprung open without anybody manipulating them. Jericho froze. Did not dare budge.

There was no point in running.

He was going to have to hear this demonic dickhead out now.

His deals always sucked.

—Submitted by Wratts

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girlsbtrs · 3 years

Text

Patriarchy and Pop Punk

Written by Theresa Cambe. Graphic by James N Grey

Yes, misogyny exists in almost every genre of music. Rap and country are usually at the forefront of this conversation, however, today we’re going to dive into the misogyny in pop punk. Lets face it, the misogyny is just covered up with layers of nice-guy, sad boy introspection but deserves the criticism just like everyone else. Just because a man holding a guitar gets vulnerable for a second, it doesn’t mean he is exempt from possessing misogynistic tendencies.

Despite the sexism built into this genre, I am more than guilty of partaking in my fair share of pop punk music. I would try to be at every State Champs, Neck Deep, Real Friends, The Story So Far, and every band of the sorts in between, concerts in Southern California between the ages of 14-16. I finger pointed and yelled those angsty lyrics right back at the bands while crowd surfing towards the stage in whatever sweaty venue in LA they happened to be playing at the time. I bought the merch, I hung their posters up in my room, I reblogged their concert pictures on Tumblr, I was about it. And trust me, “No Good” by Knuckle Puck could come on shuffle again and have me passionately screaming the lyrics while driving alone in my car around my god forsaken hometown (but I love my hometown, contrary to the popular sentiment). However now, I am more conscious of its problems.

I think this is the case for many other non-male enjoyers of this music when they also recognize its misogyny. Of course, there is nothing wrong with enjoying pop punk nor do I think enjoying this music makes you a bad person or inherently anti-feminist. A good portion of the demographic for these bands are women. With this large and important part of the fan base, we should start considering the safety of the environments and attitudes they create.

The attitude of misogyny and objectification is built into the foundation of pop punk. It is apparent in whichever “wave” of pop punk you want to point to. Early Blink 182 and All Time Low music videos had women in them to be silent sexual objects parading around the rock star band. There’s Weezer’s infamous sexist, nerd-rock anthems. “Thank God for Girls” sings “Called upon to employ your testosterone / In a battle for supremacy and access to females glued to the TV”. In a Genius lyric annotation of the song, lead singer of the band, Rivers Cuomo himself wrote “I’m so jealous of the hooker-uppers. Seems like it’s so easy to get laid now. All these good looking athletic guys are getting so much free sex. It kills me. Such a bummer. Such a bummer. To be evaluated by women. To be graded. To be rated. Where do I stand? How big? How strong? How enduring? How energetic? How inventive? So sad that it comes to this. So sad. It IS a competition and I AM being compared”. It is really quite ironic that Cuomo writes this but in the same breath has lyrics “The thing I finally found with these other girls in town / She got hot, and they did not” from the song “The Girl Got Hot” and also “You come like a dog when I ring your bell / I got the money and I got the fame / You got the hots to ride on my plane” from the song “The Greatest Man That Ever Lived”. Then there’s also every song on the album Pinkerton that we don’t have time to get into. Even if this self-deprecating behavior is no surprise from Cuomo, it’s concerning and rooted in some serious hate. If you want to argue that it's all satire, they’re still weird thoughts to have.

I can go on about these recurring lyrical themes. For example, there is The Story So Far’s song “Roam” with the lyrics “I know where you’ve been, you’re ruining men, never again will I let someone in”. And the classic from “Mt Diablo” that sings “Do you look at yourself straight in the eyes and think about who you let between your thighs?”. Then there’s FIDLAR’s song “Whore” which as we can expect from the title, says “Why did you go betray me? / You’re such a whore”. Then there’s the mess of “Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis'' by the band Brand New, which writes “I got desperate desires and unadmirable plans / My tongue will taste of gin and malicious intent / Bring you back to the bar / Get you out of the cold / My sober straight face gets you out of your clothes.” Look into any corner of pop punk and you’ll find these questionable attitudes, but I digress.

These men play the nice guys and aim at making you believe he is the protagonist in every situation. The commonality between all these artists is that they obsess and fantasize over a girl then turn completely sour once rejects them or leaves a relationship. They want a “cool girl” to listen to underground music and really comfort their sad, misunderstood selves but won’t allow them to make a decision outside of his own benefit. Because god forbid these women have their own thoughts and exercise their own actions! Their fantasy is essentially a manic pixie dream girl that doesn’t speak or act out against anything. These men beg to be at the center, and get aggressive when they aren’t.

This is not to be confused with writing a sad song after you got broken up with or hurt by someone in a relationship. This is also not to say that all women are exempt from having toxic behaviors or from being written about. The guise of the patriarchy also harms those it seeks to benefit and therefore enforces rules of masculinity that restricts men from expressing their frustrations and emotions. I believe that writing music about unrequited love or difficult feelings is a healthy way to combat these roles. However, there is a major difference between processing rejection and hating women for rejecting you, which is an area many of these men seem to blur together.

I still have love for these bands and this genre. I can still go to their shows and have the time of my life, easily. But it wasn’t until I got a little older and more realized with my femininity did I revisit these songs and wake up to the fact that it might have not always been in my favor . I was probably too young to notice or care and was distracted by the catchy, yelly tone and how fun it was to jump around to that I never really sat with what some of the lyrics really meant. It was a major factor in my own internalized misogyny back when I was in the throes of it all. I didn’t want to be like those awful girls that these pop punk dudes kept singing about. They were always described in such a terrible way, that all they do is betray and backstab people. They wanted a “cool girl” to understand them and not be like them. So I rejected femininity and disliked other girls as if I’m in this sort of competition for the sad band dude’s attention. I was idolizing these men whose music mainly centered around their disdain for the women they had experiences with so much that it stuck in my brain that I shouldn’t be like them, that I should be appeasing these people I look up to. But I’ve grown to realize that I was only hearing one side of the story. It was a straight white man’s voice constantly, no one else. This one sided narrative created a false perception of reality, one rooted in a sad boy victim complex, that women are the enemy that shouldn’t be trusted because they couldn’t fit the weird male fantasy these dudes possess. Rarely are women represented in this music except through the lens of a man, which as we saw is almost always disdainful or as a character rather than a fully realized and autonomous person. Women are portrayed as commodities to obtain. It alters our perception of reality.

But with most things you love, you want to see them get better. This music has a fond place in my heart and signifies a really fun time in my life where I found my love for music and concerts. But the genre and the spaces it creates has its own set of problems that I want to see improve.

We have to realize that music has a greater impact on culture. The attitudes that create the genre of pop punk affects the audience that consumes it. The one-sided narrative they build implants harmful ideas about relationships and dynamics into their young fans, as it did to me. Regardless if you want to say lyrics are just lyrics and are meant not to be taken so seriously, artists have so much influence on their fans. They are perpetuating the nice guy narrative that men are owed something from women. And sometimes we unfortunately see this point of view reflected in these band member’s actions. The accusations against them for sexual assault, grooming, and manipulation of young girls runs rampant in these spaces and remains to do so. They abuse their positions of power and influence. Using self-pity in songs does not excuse the shitty things you do.

#Theresa Cambe

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omnifalls-10 · 3 years

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Omni Falls Chapter 4: The Lil Psycho

It's a peaceful weekend at the Mystery Shack. As Grunkle Stan swindles tips from the tourists outside, Dipper, Mabel, and Soos sit at the table, discussing Dipper's mysterious watch and how he found it as the young Pine drinks a soda while his sister knits a sweater.

"So you found that watch in a mysterious ball?", Soos summarizes. "And after that you fought a giant gnome monster by turning a rock alien?"

"Diamond alien.", Dipper corrects.

"So does this mean you morph into aliens now?", Soos questions.

"It seems so.", Dipper replies.

"Cool dude. So what aliens can you turn into?". Soos probes, curious on what aliens he can morph as.

"So far he's morphed into the diamond alien, the red one that can shoot water, the speedy one, and the plant that can shoot fire but smells like a dumpster.", Mabel tallies off as she continues to knit herself a new sweater.

Dipper rubs his chin in thought. "Hm. But there could be potentially more than that."

Soos looks amazed by this. "Dude, that sounds awesome! Did you ever name any of them?"

"I only named Diamondhead, the crystal alien, Water Hazard, the water alien, and Swampfire, the plant one,", Dipper answers as he heads to the trash bin to throw away the soda can.

"Why Swampfire?", Soos asks.

"'Cause he smells like a flaming dumpster, when he transforms.", Mabel answers to which Dipper nods in agreement.

"Hm. Did you come up with a name for the speed alien?", Soos inquiers.

"Why, yes, Soos.", Dipper puffs his chest, priding himself on a cool name. "Blitz." Such a cool name, he thinks. Unfortunately, Mabel and Soos don't agree with this.

"Boooooooo!", Mabel and Soos jeers.

"What? You guys got anything better?", Dipper scoffs as he sits at the table, reading the Journal.

"Oh, I got one.", Mabel answers, dropping her sweater she's knitting to flail her arms dramatically. "Speedy!".

"That sounds like a cartoon character.", Dipper clarifies.

"Speedster?", Soos tries a name.

"That sounds even more bland than Blitz."

"Quicksilver!"

"The name's taken. Plus the alien is more blue and black than silver."

"Flash?"

"Taken."

"Zoom Zoom?"

"That sounds like a jingle for a commercial."

Mabel stops and thinks for a moment before she gets an idea, smiling. "How about XLR8?!"

"Awesome name, little dude.", Soos is impressed as he holds his hand out for Mabel to high five. Dipper just shrugs, he honestly doesn't mind because it would be nice to make names for the aliens that he would turn into. It would help for him to have an alias to turn towards in case someone would know about the aliens he would have.

But the chances of that happening are slim to none. As they start conversing on other random topics, the TV transitions into a commercial Soos recognizes.

"Hey, look. It's that commercial I was telling you guys about.", Soos points to the screen showing an actor crying.

"Are you completely miserable?", the announcer asks, to which the actor says "YES!". The announcer continues, "Then you need to meet..." before a lady's voice comes in with a silhouette in the background. "Gideon."

"Gideon?", Dipper asks, looking at the screen, curiously.

"What makes him so special?", Mabel inquires, wanting to know more about this mysterious figure.

"He's a psychic.", the announcer answers, intriguing the Pine Twins even more. "So don't waste your time with another so-called 'man of mystery'." The screen shows a clip of Stan coming out of an outhouse and is stamped with the word "FRAUD". "Learn about tomorrow tonight at Gideon's Tent of Telepathy."

"Wow, I'm getting all curiousy inside...", Mabel admits.

"Well, don't get too curiousy.", Stan answers with an annoyed expression on his face as he enters the room and flips up his eyepatch and hangs his suit jacket on his racket. "Ever since that monster Gideon rolled into town, I've had nothin' but trouble."

"But, is he really psychic?", Dipper asks his grunkle.

"I think we should go and find out.", Mabel suggests, wanting to see this psychic for herself.

"Never! You're forbidden from patronizing the competition!", Grunkle Stan exclaims in anger. "No one that lives under my roof is allowed under that Gideon's roof!" That said, the conman walks away to count his earnings, grumbling.

"Do tents have roofs?", Dipper wonders out loud since Stan left the room.

"I think we just found our loophole... literally!", Mabel proudly declares as she holds a string with a loophole, making her, Dipper, and Soos laugh at the cheesy joke, causing them to miss the announcer's words in the end.

"So come down soon, folks. Gideon is expecting you."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

As the evening air is crisp as Dipper, Mabel, and Soos arrive at the Tent of Telepathy. At first glance, it looks like the Mystery Shack but in reverse, even down to Bud Gleeful standing at the entrance with a sack for customers to put money in.

"Whoa, this is like a bizarro version of the Mystery Shack.", Dipper admits as he looks around. "They even have their own Soos." He points to a maintenance worker who looks very similar to Soos, named Deuce, to which he glares at him.

"Sshh!", Mabel shushes her brother. "It's starting!"

"Let's see what this monster looks like.", Dipper murmurs skeptically. The crowd is holding their breath as a large silhouette comes forward on the stage, but starts to shrink with each step until it is in the center. The curtains pull back to reveal a short child younger than the Pines donning a large pompadour and wearing a baby blue business suit, complete with large shoulder pads, a jade bolo tie, and a flashy cape.

"Hello America!", the Gideon greets the audience, his smile being warm. "My name is Li'l Gideon." He claps and doves fly out of his hair, causing the crowd to cheer.

"That's Stan's mortal enemy?", Dipper asks, confused by how this child could be the rival to their grunkle.

"But he's so wittle.", Mabel adds, smiling at how cute the little guy is.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is such a gift to have you here tonight!", Gideon announces to the crowd. "Such a gift. I have a vision. I predict that you will soon all say, 'aww.'" Gideon makes a cute pose and the crowd immediately gushes.

"It came true.", Mabel speaks in awe, holding her cheeks in admiration.

"What?", Dipper rolls his eyes. "I'm not impressed."

"You're impressed!", Mabel teases.

"Hit it, Dad!" Gideon calls his father, Bud Gleeful. He starts playing the piano and the young psychic starts dancing as he sings."Oh, I can see what others can't see. It ain't some sideshow trick, it's innate ability. Where others are blind, I am futurely inclined. And you too could see, if you was widdle ol' me!"

"Come on, everybody, rise up! I want y'all to keep it going!" Gideon calls out to the crowd. They, including Soos and the twins, rise, seemingly unintentionally, and they start to clap along with the beat. This confuses Dipper as this happens.

"Wha—? How did he—?", Dipper stammers in bewilderment as he looks at the young psychic.

"Keep it going!", Gideon calls to the audience before pointing to an elderly woman in the crowd. "You wish your son would call you more."

"I'm leaving everything to my cats!", the old woman yells, with her cat on her lap affirming her.

"I sense that you've been here before.", Gideon predicts as he points at Sheriff Blubs, who is wearing a shirt with Gideon's face on it and holding various other Li'l Gideon merchandise.

"Oh, what gave it away?", he gushes.

"Come on.", Dipper scoffs at this psychic's pitiful predictions. In an instant, Gideon appears beside the Pine Twins, continuing his song. "I'll read your mind if I'm able."

"Something tells me you're named Mabel", Gideon predicts before heading back to the stage.

"How'd he do that?", Mabel asks herself in amazement, she isn't even wearing her name on her sweater.

"So welcome all ye... to the Tent of Telepathy. And thanks for visiting... widdle ol' me!", Gideon finishes his dance as the song ends. The crowd cheers wildly as the young psychic catches his breath.

"Thank you! You people are the real miracles!", Gideon thanks the crowd as he drinks a bottle of water. The crowd leaves, very pleased with the performance that occurred in the Tent of Telepathy. Except for the cynical Dipper.

"Woo! Yeah!", Mabel cheers in excitement. "That was amazing!"

"No wonder our uncle's jealous." Dipper smirks, knowing that despite being fraudulent about being a psychic, Gideon is at least more entertaining than Stan. "That kid's an even bigger fraud than Stan!"

"Oh, come on.", Mabel encourages. "His dance moves were adorable! And did you see his hair? It was like, whoosh!"

"You're too easily impressed.", Dipper remarks, knowing that it doesn't take much to make his sister go starry-eyed.

"Yeah, yeah!", Mabel laughs, giving Dipper a playful shove as he starts laughing with her. What they don't know is that they are a pair of eyes watching them leave in intrigue and obsession.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

In the quiet morning, Dipper browses through the journal psychic related. He remembers what Gideon did to the audience by raising up unanimously like they were under his command, even Dipper himself, who never intended to get up. He wants to know if there is something that could do what the young psychic did to the audience because Dipper doesn't believe that Gideon is inherently psychic, mind you, but he's aware that he's able to control individuals somehow. So far he's found nothing.

His focus is deterred by his bubbly sister. "Check it out, Dipper! I successfully bedazzled my face!", Mabel exclaims as she blinks some of the sequins from her eyelids. "Ow."

"Um...Is that permanent?", Dipper asks, not sure how he's supposed to react to something like this.

"I'm unappreciated in my time…", She laments, disappointed that her brother can't appreciate her artistic ability. The doorbell rings.

"Somebody answer that door!", Grunkle Stan yells from upstairs.

"I'll get it!", Mabel answers as she wipes the sequins off her face as she heads to the door. She opens it up and finds a bashful Gideon on the other side.

"Howdy.", the young psychic warmly greets her.

"It's 'wittle ol' you!", Mabel gasps in surprise.

"Yeah, my song's quite catchy.", He laughs nervously before he gets to the point, rubbing his arm. "Now, I know we haven't formally met, but after yesterday's performance, I just couldn't get your laugh out of my head."

"You mean this one?", the bubbly Pine asks before doing her signature laugh, much to Gideon's delight.

"Oh, what a delight!", Gideon smiles brightly. "Now, when I saw you in the audience, I said to myself, 'Now there's a kindred spirit! Someone who appreciates the sparkly things in life.'"

"That's totally me!", Mabel laughs before coughing up some sequins that land on Gideon's suit, bedazzling it. This amazes the young psychic.

"Enchanting.", Gideon whsipers. "Utterly enchanting."

"Who's at the door?!", Grunkle yells from inside.

"No one, Grunkle Stan!", Mabel yells back in response.

"I appreciate your discretion." Gideon thanks. "Stan's no fan of mine. I don't know how a lemon so sour could be related to a peach so sweet."

"Aww, you're just saying that.", Mabel giggles at the compliment.

"Oh, I mean it with all sincerity.", Gideon ensures her. "Now, what do you say we step away from here, and chat a bit more. Perhaps in my dressing room?"

"Oh! Makeovers!" Mabel exclaims in delight. "Yahoo!" She pokes Gideon in his stomach a little too hard.

Gideon laughs before holding his gut in pain, mumbling "...Ow."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Mabel returns to the Mystery Shack with her makeover: her hair is curled and held in place an absurd amount of hairspray, overmanucured nails, and excessive amount of makeup. She sees her brother at the same chair from earlier, deeply engrossed into his journal. "Hey Dipper. What's goin' oooon?", she asks as she dangles manicured fingernails over Dipper's head.

He looks up from the journal to see her fingernails and slaps them away in surprise. "Whoa, where have you been? And what's going on with those fingernails, you look like a wolverine." He really doesn't like this much makeup on his sister. It's making her look even more bizarre than the sequins she had on her face.

"I know, right?", she answers, playfully growling and scratching the air. "I was hanging out with my new pal, Gideon. He is one dapper little man."

Dipper sighs. "Mabel, I wouldn't trust anyone whose hair is bigger than their head."

"Oh, leave him alone!", Mabel defends her new pal. "You never want to do girly stuff with me! You and Soos get to do boy stuff all the time." Anything girly she wanted to do, Dipper would opt out and do boy stuff with Soos. Gideon's a breath of fresh air to share the same interests she has.

"What do you mean?", Dipper asks, only for Soos to come in the room, excited.

"Hey dude, you ready to blow up these hot dogs in the microwave one by one?!", the handyman asks, holding the hot dog pack in his face.

"Am I!", Dipper answers, equally excited as they run into the kitchen to pop the dogs in the microwave, laughing. Mabel sighs, rolling her eyes as Dipper proves her point.

The next day arrives and Gideon takes Mabel to the roof of his factory. They are able to see the whole town of Gravity Falls.

"Whoa, the view from your family's factory is nuts!", Mabel exclaims at the view from up top. "Good thing we both bought our….."

"Opera glasses!", she and Gideon cheer, bringing them before pointing them at each other, laughing.

"Mabel, when I'm up here lookin' down on all those little ol' people, I feel like I'm king of all I survey." Gideon explains, whispering the last part ominously. He turns to her, smiling. "I guess that makes you my queen!"

"You are being so nice to me right now, quit it!" Mabel laughs, smacks him in the stomach, playfully.

"I can't quit it. I am speaking from the heart." Gideon admits, holding his heart.

"From the where-now?". Mabel is confused by where the young psychic is going.

"Mabel, I've never felt this close with anyone. So, so close." Gideon explains, stroking his crush's hair, giggling.

"Look Gideon, um…", Mabel tries to explain as she pushes his hand away, uncomfortable. "I like you a lot, but let's just be friends."

"At least just give me a chance." Gideon insists. "Mabel, will you do me the honor of going on a date with me?"

"A play date?", Mabel helplessly asks.

"Uh-uh."

"A shopping date?"

"Nope. It'll just be one li'l ol' date, I swear on my lucky bolo tie." Gideon swears, holding his bolo tie. Mabel looks at the smitten psychic’s green eye, uncertain. She knows that Gideon means well and it would be cruel of her to leave him up on his offer. After all, he promises for one date and he seems to be a man of his word.

"Ummm. Okay, then... I guess…", Mabel answers, still feeling weary about it internally.

"Mabel Pines, you have made me the happiest boy in the world!", Gideon laughs, giving her a big hug. She doesn't feel fully comfortable with it until she realizes something.

"Are you sniffing my hair?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"It's not a date-date, it's just, you know, I didn't want to hurt his feelings and so I figured I'd throw him a bone.", she explains her dating situation as she and her brother play some video games in the living room.

"Mabel, guys don't work that way.", Dipper refutes, his focus never faltering from the game. "You give them an inch, they'll take a mile. At some point, he's gonna fall in love with you."

"Yeah right. I'm not that lovable.", she scoffs, before executing Dipper in the game, cheering in victory. "Yes!"

"Okay, we agree on something here." he grouses and drops the controller. The doorbell rings outside, causing Mabel to stand up and get it.

"I'll go get it", Mabel goes to answer the door, only for a white stallion horse to burst through, neighing. This causes her to scream in surprise and take a few steps back. She looks up from the horse to see Gideon donning cowboy attire, extending her hand out towards her.

"A night of enchantment awaits, m'lady!", he says.

"Oh boy.", she mumbles, to herself. After the horse ride towards their destination, an aquatic themed restaurant which is one of the expensive and finest restaurants in Gravity Falls, they're able to get their own private booth. Even Gideon's stallion is allowed in as it drinks from the fountain.

"I can't believe they let us bring a horse in here.", Mabel says awkwardly. Honestly, the extravagance of this place is not something she's used to being in. Even the menu options when she first checked looked very expensive, even though Gideon said he would pay for it.

"Well, people have a hard time saying no to me.", Gideon winks at her, putting his feet up on the table. As he does this, a waiter arrives to refill their glasses with crystal water, smiling.

"Ah, Monsieur Gideon! Ze feet on ze table! An excellent choice!", the waiter compliments.

"Jean Luc, what did we discuss about eye contact?", Gideon asks, not even glancing at the garcon, frowning.

"Yes, yes, very good.", the waiter adheres, walking back and keeping his eyes away from the young psychic.

Mabel actually looks down at her plate to see various forks, "I've never seen so many forks.", she mentions in amazement. "And water with bubbles in it? Ooh lala, oui, oui."

"Oh! Parlez vous francais?", Gideon asks her.

"...I have no idea what you're saying.", She admits. This makes the young psychic chuckle as their orders arrive, a live lobster for Mabel and a steak with mash potatoes for Gideon.

"I gotta say Mabel", Gideon speaks. "I've been to this restaurant many times but tonight, it feels very special."

"Yeah…", she says as spokes at the lobster on her plate which it pinches her fork in return.

"And tomorrow's date promises to top this one in every way!", Gideon promises.

This causes her to jolt up in realization at what he just said. "Whoa whoa, you said just one date, and this was it."

"Hark! What a surprise!", Gideon says, seemingly ignoring what Mabel is saying. "A red crested South American rainbow macaw!" As he said that, a giant macaw lands on Gideon's forearm. He silently counts to three before the macaw talks.

"MABEL! WILL YOU- ACCOMPANY- GIDEON- TO- THE BALLROOM DANCE- THIS THURBDAY-", Gideon shakes the bird briefly. "THURSDAY?!" The macaw coughs up a letter and flies away. After that declaration, many of the patrons started gushing at Gideon's display of affection to the point crowd near the booth in excitement on Mabel's decision.

"They're expectin' us. Please say you'll go.", Gideon asks her, holding up the letter and unaware of the pressure he's putting on her.

"Oh, Gideon, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to say-", Mabel starts before looking back at the patrons and to Gideon, who are waiting for her to say yes. She's been promised only one date and that's all she wanted, but the pressure from saying no to someone who went out their way to do this seems too steep. She doesn't want to disappoint anyone, especially Gideon. After a deep breath, she makes her decision.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

At the Mystery Shack, Stan arrives in front, looking miffed as he holds a newspaper article showing a picture of Gideon and Mabel together with Dipper, Wendy, and Soos. "Hey, hey! What the jackal is Mabel doing in the paper next to that crazy pickpocket Gideon?!" Stan specifically told to not hang around the little gremlin. Why don't they listen?

"Oh, yeah, it's like a big deal.", Wendy explains, looking up from her magazine. "Everybody's talking about Gideon and Mabel's big date tonight."

"WHAT?! That little shyster is dating my great niece!?", Stan yells.

"I wonder what the new name will be for the power couple. Mabideon? Gideabel?", Soos brainstorms before gasping."Magidbeleon!" Stan turns towards a nervous Dipper.

"You knew anything about this, kid?", he interrogates him.

"I didn't!', Dipper answers. "I didn't hear about it and plus, I told her not to do it anyway." After hearing this, Stan grumbles before re-entering, wearing his suit.

"Yeah, well it ends tonight.", Stan declares, heading towards the door. "I'm going right down to that little skunk's house; this is gonna stop RIGHT now!" He slams the door and heads to the car, driving to the Gleeful residence. Stan's car skids to a halt in front of Gideon's house. He gets out of the car and marches towards the front lawn and starts knocking on the door, loudly.

"Gideon, you little punk! Open up!", Stan yells before reading a sign on the door that says 'Please Pardon This Garden', before slamming the sign towards the ground. "I will pardon NOTHING!" Gideon doesn't answer the door, rather, his father, Bud Gleeful answers it with a balmy smile.

"Why, Stanford Pines! What a delight!", Bud greets the conman.

"Out of the way Bud, I'm looking for Gideon!", Stan answers, pushing past the patriarch to find the little twerp.

"Well, I haven't seen the boy around.", Bud informs, his smile never leaving. "But since you're here, you simply must come in for coffee!" He gently pulls Stan inside.

"But-but I came-", Stan stutters, trying to get back to his task.

"Ah, ah, ah. It's imported.", Bud explains. "All the way from Colombia." They walk as the tea starts to get made.

"Wow... I went to jail there once." Stan remembers fondly. He allows himself to enjoy the interior design of the house, whistling. "Some digs you got here.", he compliments before eyes focus on a clown painting. "Oh, this. This is beautiful." Bud and Stan sit down and enjoy some freshly brewed coffee.

"Now, I hear that your niece and my Gideon are, well, they're singin' in harmony lately so to speak.", Bud recalls, seemingly happy for son's blooming romance with his beau.

"Uh, yeah, and I'm against it!", Stan declares, pushing a couch cushion to prove a point.

"No no no. I see it as a fantastic business opportunity.", Bud explains to Stan as they pass across the family photo in which there was Bud, Mrs. Gleeful, and their two children: a younger Gideon and a blonde haired teen with a bored expression. "We've been at each other's throats for far too long, yes we have. This is our big chance to set aside our rivalry and pool our collective profit, you see."

Stan closes the register. "I'm listening."

While Stan and Bud are talking about financial profiting, Mabel returns to the Shack after an emotionally draining date with the lobster still on her. She walks in to see Dipper relaxing at the table as he's reading his from the Journal.

He looks up to see his sister come in. "Hey. How'd it go?"

"I don't know.", Mabel answers, putting the crustacean in the fish tank. "...I have a lobster now."

"Well, at least it's over and you'll never have to go out with him again.", Dipper proclaims before going back to reading. He realizes his sister hasn't said anything, onliy tapping on the glass of the fish tank. "Mabel? It's over, right? Right?"

She turns around and exclaims frustratingly, flailing her arms. "He asked me out again and I didn't know how to say no!"

"Mabel, it's not that hard. All you have to do is say no."

"It's not that simple, Dipper.", Mabel says. "I do like Gideon, as a friend slash little sister, so I didn't want to hurt his feelings! I just need to get things back to where they used to be. You know, friends."

Easier said than done. Dipper thinks to himself, shaking his head. Mabel has always been the one that tried to make everyone else feel joyous. Disappointing them is something she hates doing.

True to Dipper's thought process, Mabel tried to say how she really felt about dating Gideon, only for her to backtrack and just go dancing with him on the ballroom floor. She tried again when they were getting some food, but she got nervous as people were gushing at the "couple". Even now, as they're boat riding down the stream with Old Man McGucket paddling, she's mentally trying to push herself into telling Gideon the truth.

"Hah, you know I thought dancing was gonna be the end of the evening, right?", Mabel recalls, nervously as Gideon said that they were just going dancing. Gideon holds her hands, lovingly.

"Don't you want this evenin' to last, my sweet?", the young psychic asks.

She instinctively jolts away. "NO!", she answers quickly before backtracking and trying to be more passive towards the clingy Gleeful. "I mean yes. I mean I'm always happy to hang out with a friend, buddy, pal, chum, other word for friend…"

"Pal?", McGucket chimes in.

"I already said pal.", Mabel answers before coming up with another word. "Mate?"

"How about soulmate?", Gideon asks, lovingly. As he said, fireworks appear with a heart and Mabel's name inside of it. She looks distraught, she wanted to just to let Gideon off easy but he's basically put her in a situation that she can't say no to.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Dipper walks downstairs, humming. Once gets closer down the stairs, he hears his sister talking towards herself.

"...I mean, he's so nice, but.. I can't keep doing this. But I can't break his heart. I have no way out!", Mabel rants towards, walking around in a circle, trying to find a way out of this.

Dipper walks in. "What in the heck happened on that date?", he asks her.

"I don't know!", Mabel admits, holding her head in frustration. "I was in the friend zone, and then before I knew what was happening, he pulled me into the romance zone. It was like quick sand! Chubby quicksand!"

Dipper shakes his head and puts a consoling hand on shoulder. "Mabel, come on. It's not like you're gonna have to marry Gideon.", he comforts her. Unfortunately, Stan doesn't get the memo as he walks in with a Team Gideon T-Shirt.

"Great news, Mabel. You have to marry Gideon!", Stan informs, much to her distress.

Mabel is distraught. "Wh-what?!"

"Yep. It's all part of my long term deal with Buddy Gleeful. There's a lot of cash tied up in this thing.", the conman explains, pointing to his T-Shirt. "Plus I got this shirt. Ugh, I am fat." Mabel runs out of the living room, screaming.

"Bodies change, kid!", Stan yells to her, missing the point as to why she ran. "Bodies change…." Dipper just sighs and walks into the attic to see Mabel hiding in her sweater. It's getting that bad.

"Oh no. Mabel?", Dipper asks.

She's cradling her head in her sweater and rocking back and forth. ,"Mabel's not here. She's in sweater town."

He crouches near her with a sympathetic look on her face. "Are you gonna come out of sweater town?", he asks her, only for a whimper to be her response. "Alright, enough is enough. If you can't break up with Gideon, I'll do it for you."

She pops her head out with a hopeful expression. "You will?" He nods his head in response and she gives him the biggest hug that she can. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

True to his word, Dipper took a long trip across Gravity Falls flying as a new alien he found in the watch until he reached his destination: The Club, another restaurant known for its extravagance. He reverts back to his human form and takes a big breath before reaching inside to see Gideon sitting in a booth awaiting Mabel. Dipper heads to the booth and clears his throat.

"Oh. Dipper Pines, how are you?", Gideon greets the young Pine with simulated delight. "You look good, you look good."

"Thanks, you uh…", Dipper laughs nervously. "Look, Gideon. We've got to talk. Mabel isn't joining you tonight, she uh, she doesn't want to see you anymore. She's uh….. kinda weirded out by you, no offense." After he says those words, Gideon sitz there with the same expression on his face processing those words. He stays like that for three minutes, creeping Dipper out.

"So what you're sayin' is...you've come between us.", Gideon says very slowly, his eye twitching ever so slightly.

Dipper starts to get a little nervous. "You're not gonna like, freak out or anything, are ya?"

"Of course not.", Gideon laughs, faking a smile on his face. "These things happen. Bygones, you know."

Dipper sighs, relaxing. "Oh, well that's a relief." Just as he says that, the watch twitched from red to green, beeping to signify that it's charged up. This action causes him to jolt a bit in surprise and Gideon to look at it in intrigue.

"That's an interesting watch you got there.", Gideon inquires as looks at the watch. There's something engaging about it. "Where'd you get it?", Dipper instinctively hides his hand with the watch behind his back for a moment before coming with an answer.

"Uh...", Dipper stumbles before finding an answer. "I-I bought it from…..Japan. It took alot of money to get and it was a...rare item to search for, you know."

Gideon continues to stare at the young Pine, with a smile that starts to become erie. "Fascinatin'."

Dipper looks left and right, chuckling nervously. "So. Okay. Cool. Sorry man, again but uh, hey, thumbs up, right?" He turns around to leave, unaware that Gideon still had that malicious smile on his face.

"Thumbs up indeed, my friend.", he whispers to himself.

As he reaches outside, Dipper lets out a breath that he didn't know held. "Huh, that went better than expected." He honestly expected for Gideon to flip out if anything, he sighs and heads back to Shack, ready to tell her that her Gideon situation is taken care of…..or so he thinks.

In the Gleeful Residence, Gideon is staring into his mirror, seething with rage. He usually doesn't get this angry most of the time, but there are a few things that make reach this peak. The first cause for this could be that he couldn't get what he wants and the second being siblings. Everytime, he hears anything about siblings, it always goes back to his older brother. How his father or mother would look at the pictures of him fondly, how they wouldn't have so much finance without some of his help, how he would always be respectful towards his parents, how successful he is. Him, him, him. No matter what he tries, he'll never have the power, attention, and success to the magnitude of what his older brother has.

With Dipper, he did two things wrong: him being the brother of Mabel and him taking his love away from him. "Dipper Pines, you have no idea what you've done!" He growls, grabbing his amulet tightly and a candle starts to levitate and the light bulbs on his boudoir explode. His other furniture starts levitating. "You've just made the biggest mistake of your life!" And like that, he throws the levitated objects on the ground hard enough to shake the room.

Bud Gleeful arrives into the room, shocked to see mostly everything destroyed. "Gideon Charles Gleeful, clean up your room this instant!", he scolds his son, firmly.

"I CAN BUY AND SELL YOU, OLD MAN!", the young psychic yells furiously, scowling at his father, who looks taken aback before shrugging.

"Fair enough.", Bud sighs before closing the door. Gideon turns his attention away from the door and looks down to see a picture of his love, Mabel and the wretch who angers him, Dipper. He holds his amulet and concentrates on incinerating the side with Dipper, leaving Mabel on it. He laughs with malicious intent.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After the breakup, Mabel has been feeling a whole lot better. To celebrate, Soos and the twins decide to have a simple game Soos tucks a pillow under his shirt and they try to tackle him.

"Hit me, dudes.", Soos holds his arms out, waiting for them to charge at him. They come at him in full force, laughing as they fall down. "Feels good."

"I'm so glad everything's back to normal!", Mabel sighs in content, feeling relieved that the Gideon ordeal is over.

"You said it.", Dipper agrees, chuckling. As he speaks, the phone rings from inside the Shack, causing the twins to look at each other.

"Your turn.", they both say, only for Dipper to say it later. He gets up and heads inside to answer it. "Hello?"

"Toby Determined, Gravity Falls Gossiper."

"Oh hey man. Sorry for accusing you of murder last week."

"Water under the bridge! Say, we want to interview you about whether you've seen anything unUSUAL about this here TOWN since you've arrived."

"Oh, finally! I thought nobody would ever ask! I have notes and theories! Uh huh, uh huh." He pulls out a notepad and writes the address Toby tells him. "412 Gopher Road. Tonight? Got it." He heads back out, telling Mabel and Soos where he's going and when he'll be back. After a long walk to his destination, he arrives at a factory. Dipper looks at the notepad to check and see if he has the right address, to which he realizes that he does. He opens the door to the factory.

"Hello?", Dipper calls out, hearing nothing. He looks inside to see that nobody's here and turns around to leave, only for the door to slam shut. He pushes on the door to try to open it to no avail. Suddenly, lights turn on and he turns around to see Gideon in a swivel chair, petting a doll of himself.

"Hello, friend.", the young psychic greets him, coldly.

"Ugh, Gideon.", Dipper groans, exasperatedly. Why is he bothering him?

"Dipper Pines, how long have you been living in this town?", Gideon asks the Pine, playing with his toy. "A week or two? You like it here? Enjoy the scenery?" His voice changes from veiled child-like curiosity to quiet fury at the second half of his question.

Dipper starts getting uneasy but calms himself. "What do you want from me, man?", he demands, wanting the young psychic to get to the point.

"Listen carefully, boy.", Gideon's tone becomes deathly serious. "This town has secrets you couldn't begin to understand!"

"Is this about Mabel?", Dipper asks, getting to the point. "I told you, she's not into you!"

This makes Gideon slam his arms on the swivel chair. "LIAR! YOU turned her against me!", he yells as he jumps from his chair, grabbing his amulet and marches toward Dipper. "She was my peach dumplin'!"

"Uh, you okay, man?", Dipper asks, walking back. Gideon lifts his hand up and Dipper's body is covered in an ethereal blue aura and lifted into the air. With a swipe of his hand, Dipper is thrown onto boxes hard. He pulls himself up only to see Gideon grinning at him with malice.

"Readin' minds isn't all I can do.", Gideon laughs ominously, enjoying the dread etched on Dipper's face.

"But-but you're a fake.", Dipper tries to explain.

"Oh? Then tell me, Dipper….", the sadistic child inquires, levitating various merchandise and objects. "Is this fake?" After that question, he starts throwing plates, spoons, and forks at Dipper, who dodges a good portion but gets nicked in the face, vest, and knee, much to the vengeful child's pleasure. Gideon decides to up the ante by throwing cups at constantly moving Pine.

Dipper does everything he can to avoid the merchandise Gideon telekinetically throws at him. The ruthless psychic grabs a cabinet and launches it at the Pine, who jumps out the way to avoid it but ends up hitting the back of his head in the process. He rubs it to ease the pain before he sees the malicious Gideon levitating above him, sneering.

"Grunkle Stan was right!", Dipper yells at the young psychic. "You are a monster!"

"Your sister will be mine!", Gideon declares madly, laughing as he lifts up another cabinet to launch at the young Pine, who hides behind a stack of heavy boxes. The cabinet crashes into the boxes to the wall. Dipper grunts as he realizes that his right arm is bruised, but thanks to the boxes taking most of the damage from the cabinet, he's mostly fine.

Dipper pushes himself up as much as he can to activate the watch. It beeps on and tries to find the right alien that can help. Diamondhead?, Dipper thinks. Swampfire?! Water Hazard?! XLR8?! Come on, there has to be an alien that I'm familiar with! He tries to find the aliens that he knows but to no avail. He almost stops seeing a fire alien. But could this help? He doesn't know what it can-

"Come on out, boy!", Gideon demands , levitating cutlery that are poised to skewer the shapeshifter. "I ain't finished punishing you yet!" Dipper hears this and tries to move, accidentally pressing it via moving across the boxes. As this happens, a massive green light illuminates under the boxes, temporarily blinding the vengeful psychic.

"What in tarnation?!", Gideon asks, puzzled. That green light just came from under there. How did this scoundrel create a light that bright? This might be a distraction of sorts. Gideon thinks as he starts getting impatient and levitates the boxes away. But before he can finish, a massive torrent of flames breaks out of the clutter in an explosive fashion.

Standing opposed to the malicious child is a confused charcoal man. He's composed of a brownish-red rocky texture with intense heat radiating from underneath, specifically ending out of his flaming head, hands, and feet. This shocks the young psychopath before he gets enraged.

"How?!", Gideon demands. "How did you manage to turn yourself into a Pyronite?!" His outrage causes the fiery man to jolt out of his stupor and gives a determined scowl towards the delusional psychic. So this is another flame alien like Swampfire. Maybe I should call him Hetablast, Dipper thinks before mentally sighing. Really wished I had something on this alien that….Gideon somehow knows? He shakes his head and focuses on the present.

"Stop this, Gideon.", the Pyronite demands before getting into a battle stance. "This is your first and final warning." His ultimatum provokes the sociopathic psychic more than he's already feeling at the moment. He lifts up his patented cutlery and launches them at the morphed Pine, who only raises his hand and gives a precise fireball that melts them and charges towards Gideon, pelting more fireballs at him. The crazy psychic sets up a shield as the fireballs explode and disperses on impact. The embers land on some of the boxes, to which causes them to ignite.

"You think you have the right to threaten me, boy?!", Gideon scowls, telekinetically grabbing the flaming boxes and tosses them at the flaming alien, who blasts them into nothing but ash. This gives the young psychic enough time to grab the Pyronite and throw him out through the wall.

Heatblast rubs his head, groaning in pain. "Ow...that hurt." Dipper gets up to see a levitating and apoplectic Gideon, holding up cabinets and heavy boxes. The insane psychic glares at the familiar emblem on the center of the Pyronite's chest. That design looks familiar, Gideon thinks before he realizes it. That watch! That watch is what is allowed that wretch to morph into that Pyronite. First, Dipper turns the love of his life against him and now, he has a piece of technology that can morph him into any alien he sees fit? The insane psychic doesn't know which one makes even more angrier. He decides to channel his anger into throwing his crates at his pyrokinetic opponent.

The transformed Pine dodges most of the crates and blasts the rest of them away. He looks at his fiery hands before looking at his fiery hands before looking at Gideon, who is pulling out more items from the factory as potential weaponry. The Pyro-Pine looks down, quickly trying to form a plan. He probably can't attack and defend at the same time. I can exploit that. He points both flaming hands on the ground. Let's hope Soos was right about copying that comic book character. The flames escape from Heatblast's hands and he finds himself being able to rocket up into the air via propulsion. Once he finds his balance, he flies towards Gideon at high speeds, reaching ascension and delivers a two handed fireball attack.

The vengeful Gleeful puts up his shield as Dipper delivers a massive fireball. Just at the right moment, Gideon grabs the fireball, the flames going from a raging orange to ethereal turquoise, and throws it back to the descending Pyronite. Reaching high velocities, Heatblast crashes into the grassy ground to leave a crater and upheaval of dirt, he propels him out of the crater after a moment's pass. Gideon levitates a massive assortment of lamb shears and in tow, the morphed Pine delivers an intense stream of fire that melts them onto the ground in a hot mesh.

While Dipper's attention was on melting the scissors, Gideon sneakily grabs two of his branded water gallons. After he deals with the scissors, he sets himself up and tosses them into Heatblast, the water causes the Pyronite's fire to be extinguished.

"Uh oh", Heatblast is surprised that his flames are out. What do I do?, Dipper thinks. Before coming up with an idea. If my flames are high enough to melt metal, maybe I can reignite- Heatblast is slammed by a barrage of heavy boxes courtesy of the vengeful Gideon. He finishes up his attack by grabbing one of his cabinets and lifts it up under the Dipper before slamming it down hard on top of the morphed Pine.

"What can you do now, boy?!", Gideon yells, grabbing every item in the factory, ready to finish off the transforming Pine. "That Pyronite form takes time to reignite! Now that you're weakened…." Heatblast gets up slowly, his heat coming back. Gideon tosses everything at him with devastating force. "DIE!"

The Pyronite gets himself up to deliver an equally powerful attack. "HAAA!", Heatblast screams intensely as he delivers a massive flow of flames, greater than before.

The barrage of items being thrown at high velocity and the great stream of fire causes a massive collusion. The massive collusion causes an explosion to erupt instantly, making Gideon to skid across the ground and Heatblast rolls across the grass, burning it, slamming into a tree before falling to the ground. After a few moments pass, Gideon and Heatblast get up, both looking heavily damaged. For Gideon, his blue suit is mostly covered in dirt and ripped on the sleeves and face is scrapped, there's some cuts on his arm. Despite this, he still looks very angry, panting for his breath. Heatblast's movement is slower than usual and, like Gideon, is panting, feeling exhausted.

Heatblast decides to ignite another fireball, while Gideon gets ready to counterattack. Just when he's about to launch at the Gleeful, he hears a dreadful sound. Beep-Beep-Beep. Heatblast's eyes widened. "Oh, no.", he rasps before being enveloped in a crimson light. What replaces the Pyronite is a beaten up Dipper, who's levitated by an apoplectic Gideon and slams him into the wall of the factory, knocking the wind out of him. He tries to break free but to no avail.

"Will you just give up?!", Dipper yells, glaring at the crazy child. "She's never gonna date you, man!"

"THAT'S A LIE!" Gideon screams in anger before his attention is turned towards a flaming box of lamb shears. He turns back at the restrained Pine, smiling sadistically. "And I'm gonna make sure you never lie to me again, friend." He levitates the flaming lamb shears slowly towards Dipper, who tries to move out the way but can't. The deranged psychic just keeps laughing in twisted delight as the shears get closer and closer towards cutting the Pine's face.

"Gideon! We have to talk!" Those words make Gideon freeze in surprise. He turns to see a livid Mabel with her fists clenched.

"M-Mabel. My marshmalla.", Gideon drops the shears on the ground before fixing his hair, nervous as he's caught redhanded. "What are you doin' here?"

Mabel closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry Gideon, but I can't be your marshmallow. I needed to be honest and tell you that myself."

Gideon is taken aback by what she says. She doesn't want to be his marshmallow? "I-I don't understand." he responds, squeezing the amulet that represents his broken heart, which in return, squeezes Dipper.

Dipper feels his body tightening up, uncomfortably. "Uh, Mabel!? This probably isn't the best time to be brutally honest with him!", he calls out to her. Mabel gets a brief look of concern on her face when she glances at Dipper before giving a "sincere" smile towards the distraught Gideon.

"Hey, but we can still be makeover buddies.", she offers, holding his hands gently. "Wouldn't you like that?"

"Really?", Gideon asks, hopeful as he loosens his grip on the amulet. Mabel's eyes never left the amulet and at the right moment, she takes the chance.

She snatches Gideon's amulet off and Dipper falls down."No, not really! You were attacking my brother, what the heck?!"she exclaims. Gideon is shocked by what Mabel just did and tries to get his tie.

"My tie! Give it back!", Gideon demands, only for Mabel throws the amulet to Dipper who gets up and runs after the amulet's trajectory and catches it.

"Not so powerful without this, are you?" Dipper taunts but Gideon screams and charges at Dipper with sudden speed, making him drop the amulet and knocking them both off the cliff.

"Dipper!"

Dipper and Gideon scream. Gideon punches Dipper and the two start hitting each other before they realize that they're getting closer to the ground, making them scream again. But before they splat on the ground, they're both covered in the ethereal blue aura. They look up to see Mabel, holding the mystic amulet, levitating along with them and then floats down.

"Listen Gideon, it's over. I will never, ever, date you.", she declares. With that, she drops them down and throws the amulet to the ground, breaking it. The ethereal glow howling away in the wind.

"MY POWERS! Oh this isn't over. This isn't the last you'll see of wittle... ol' me.", the crazed psychic declares, walking into the dark forest.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Stan finishes signing papers in the Gleeful's living room area. "Ah, this is livin', brother.", Stan sighs in content, leaning back on the couch.

"From now on it's all name brand foods and clown paintings.", Bud Gleeful agrees, taking a swig of his coffee. Just as he says that, a livid and beaten up Gideon bursts through the door. "Gideon? Are you—?"

Ignoring his father, Gideon stands on the coffee table, scowling at Stan, pointing his fist at him. "Stanford Pines, I rebuke thee! I rebuke thee!"

Stan is confused. "Rebuke? Is that a word."

"The entire Pines' family have invoked my wrath! You will all pay recompense for your transgressions!", Gideon declares as he points his nemesis.

"What, you got like a word-a-day calendar or something?", Stan asks, still not taking the young psychic's rage seriously.

"But-but sunshine?", Bud intervenes, laughing nervously. "What about our arrangement with Mabel and—?"

"SILENCE!", Gideon yells at his father, "The deal is off!"

Bud just sighs, before looking at the conman. "Well, I see that he's takin' to one of his rages again. Sorry Stan, but I have to side with Gideon on this one." He rips up the contract, terminating any plans for Mystery Shack and Tent of Telepathy merger.

"Okay, okay. I can see when I'm not wanted.", Stan realizes before grabbing the clown painting and starts to run.

"Stan, I'm-I'm sorry but I'm gonna need that painting back! Stan? STAN!", Bud tries to call out to the conman, only for his words to go on deaf ears.

"TRY AND CATCH ME, SUCKERS!", Stan declares, running to his car, putting the clown painting in the back, driving away. After a long ride, he arrives at the Mystery Shack, where he hangs up the clown painting. "I coulda had it all.", Stan contemplates. He turns and looks at the twins, who look exhausted physically and emotionally exhausted. "What the heck happened to you two?"

"Gideon.", The Pine Twins answer, equally tired after dealing with the crazy psychic.

"Gideon. Yeah, the little mutant 'swore vengeance' on the whole family.", Stan scoffs sitting in the recliner, mockingly raising his fist in the air imitating the angry psychic. "Ha, I guess he's gonna try to nibble my ankles or somethin'."

Dipper gets up a bit. He realizes that Gideon's powerless without his amulet. "Oh, yeah. How's he gonna destroy us now, huh? Try to guess what number we're thinking of?"

Mabel gets up, smiling at the young psychic's misfortune. "He'll never guess what number I'm thinking of.", Mabel says before laughing. "NEGATIVE EIGHT! No one would guess a negative number."

"Uh oh.", Stan gasps jokingly at the Twins. "He's plannin' on destruction right now!" He lays on top of the twins, to which they all laugh, enjoying Gideon's loss.

Meanwhile, at the Gleeful Household, in Gideon's room. He's making dolls of the Pines family, grumbling and growling to himself. He plays with the Mabel doll, looking at it lovingly as he imitates her voice. "Oh, Gideon, I still love you. If only my family weren't in the way." He picks up the Stan doll, disgusts etched on his face as he impersonates him. "Look at me. I'm old, and I'm smelly." He grabs the Dipper doll with a scowl on his face, mocking the Pine. "Hey, what are you gonna do without your precious amulet now that I got a watch that allows me to morph into aliens?"

He laughs, ominously. "Oh you'll see boy…", he closes Journal 2.

"You'll see."

#chapters #dipper pines #mabel pines #soos #stan pines #gideon gleeful #heatblast #omni falls

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aperrywilliams · 4 years

Text

A Normal Conversation Ch07 (Spencer Reid x Maxine Brenner)

Previous Chapter / Ch07 / Next Chapter

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Chapter 7: The second date

Summary: Second date for Spencer and Max

Word Count: 2332

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

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As he promised, Spencer was out of Max's school at 12:00 noon. Waiting in the same place as the last time. A few minutes later saw Max come out through the gate. Upon making eye contact they both smiled to each other. She walked over to where Spencer was.

"Hey… how are you?" said Max. “On time as ever Spencer" added.

"Hello. Yes, it's a habit on me... in case you hadn't noticed". Both grinned.

"It is a good habit I think. I admit it’s more hard for me..." Max said scratching her head.

"How have you been this morning? Are you ok?". She thought it was sweet of him asked her about it. She remembered their conversation from the night before over the phone.

“Yes, truly. I think I found myself just at a moment a bit distressing... but I'm fine now". Max said. “By the way... thanks. It helped me we could talk last night”.

"And it's what I intend us to do today" Spencer statement. “I have so many questions for you...". Max upped her eyebrows.

"Is it going to be some kind of FBI-style interrogation?" she joked. Spencer couldn't help but laugh.

"I hope not that kind of interrogation... shall we go?" he said quickly.

"Yeah, let’s go. We will walk there?”

"No, we’ll go in a cab. The place is a little further from here". After saying it, Spencer stopped a cab in front of them. He opened the door and invited her in first. Then he came in, closed the door, and the car moved when Spencer gave the driver instructions to get they were going.

Along the way Max told him the story of how she came art’s teacher at her school. Spencer thought it was reasonable she accepted the job in that circumstances.

"It was a good opportunity for you" he said.

“Yes, I needed to have my space and be independent and I think it was the best reason for me to make that decision. I had a good letter of recommendation too. That sure worked” said Max.

"But now you're not so comfy there..." said Spencer.

"I think I’m not" said Max, frowning. "And I think is because there is so much I could do with those children! But every time I propose something new I have someone at school who tells me that 'you can't', 'it's irrelevant', 'you have to worry about other things'… And so over and over again".

"Have you thought about what you would like to do, truly?" Spencer asked.

"So many times you would be surprised..." said Max. At that moment the cab stopped. They had reached their destination. Spencer paid and got off first, helping Max get off later.

They were in front of an Italian restaurant. Max looked at Spencer and couldn't help but joke.

"This time you’ll make sure you don't get hungry" They both laughed.

"Yeah, I wasn't going to take that risk again" said Spencer.

They walked towards the entrance and come into the place. It was not a big place, but it was very well decorated, very Italian style. Black and white photos of different people hung on the walls, possibly the owner's family of origin. There were checkered tablecloths on all the wooden tables. Chairs was wooden made too. A young woman approached Spencer and Max asking if they needed a table. Spencer nodded saying "for two, please". The young woman led them to one of the tables by a window, the one that faced the crowdy street. She handed them two menus and told them that the waiter would be taking their order soon.

They sat down and took the menus to see what they were going to eat. Max looked at the menu with an infinity of dishes on it and was not quite sure what to order.

"Any suggestions? So many options overwhelm me" Max asked. Spencer thought for a minute.

“If you ask me, I think the risotto at this place is fantastic. Although I traditionally choose pasta, I like it more”. At that point the waiter came to take their order. Max heeded Spencer's suggestion and chose a risotto with four cheeses sauce, while Spencer ordered his traditional pasta with putanesca sauce. To drink they asked for water and juice.

“I think I had already asked you in the cab, but now we could return to the subject. What would you like to work on?" Spencer asked.

"I've thought so many things" said Max, sighing. "From the most unlikely to very simple ideas". Spencer looked interested, waiting for her to continue talking. "For example, did you know in museums and theaters there are programs that encourage children's bond with arts as a way to integrate soft skills they cannot acquire at school?".

"I suppose it's reasonable to think of something like that given museums and theaters aren't going to survive long in this digital era otherwise" Spencer said.

"Sure, it may be a business plan for them, but despite it I think this kind of measures can help expand children's minds and connect them with things more sensitive than math’s... I would love to do something like that...". Saying it Max paused for a second. "Of course... no offense" finished saying. Spencer smiled at the last sentence.

"Are you saying it because I like math?... Ok, I think I can forgive you that" he said jokingly. Max smiled.

"I've also had crazy ideas like going to Los Angeles for artistic painting on the shore of the beach, smoking weed, like I did when I was younger...". Spencer stared at her trying to know if what she was saying the truth or teasing him. She noticed it and decided to challenge him. "Okay, Dr. Reid, Mr. Profiler... those I just said, is it true or a lie?". Spencer accepting the challenge scrutinized her eyes and body language. He watched her carefully and silently for a few minutes. Max couldn't help but blush feeling his eyes so meticulously look on her.

"It is… true!" Spencer sentenced, surprised himself by his finding. Max smiled sheepishly.

"Clearly there are things I did in my youth I'm not very proud of today ..."

"I am not going to judge you. I have no moral for it. I've also done things I'm not proud of…”said Spencer. At which he quickly regretted saying it. Max was about to question him when the waiter arrived with their order. "Our dishes!" Spencer said quickly "…Now you’ll tell me if my recommendation was good for you or not"

Max didn’t want to do her own questionnaire on him. She was hungry and preferred to focus on food. Apparently Max's plate had been a good recommendation, since he was enjoying it with great need. Spencer was also concentrated on his own plate. From moments to time he looked up to see how Max was enjoying her food.

"I owe you one. It was an excellent suggestion” said Max taking a sip of the juice that had been brought while they was eating.

"I’m happy you liked it" said Spencer pleased. After she wiped her lips with the napkin. Max started to speak again.

"Well then... FBI. And you travel a lot you told me. Do you like it?"

"My job? Too much. I love it. Travel is something you get used to… or at least you should get used to” said Spencer.

"And if you do profiles to catch murderers... isn't that like 'playing' at being them and thinking like them?"

"In fact, that's what we do". Spencer noticed Max frowning. "I know... it could be heard as very morbid thing... but the truth is... being difficult and unpleasant as it could be... sometimes... I think someone has to do it".

"I am not going to question it. I think it as a very dedicated job and it is good there are people like you who do it…”. Spencer looked at her knowing there was a ‘but’.

"But…?" Spencer asked.

"The thing is... how can you deal with it?... I mean, in your daily life". Spencer thought about it a few seconds before answering.

"I don't know... I guess trying not to think about it too much. At least I try… ” Spencer said.

"But you have those dreams..." said Max. ‘Touché…’ thought Spencer.

"Eh… yes. I think sometimes it just beats you... a little...". Spencer lowered his head and thoughtfully for a few moments. Max knew had struck a tough matter so she wanted to change the subject.

"Okay. I think we shouldn’t have to talk about work" She looked at him and gave him a smile. He smiled too. "What do you like to do when you are not traveling?"

"Wow... ok. I love to read, a lot. I have a small and interesting collection in my apartment”

"I can imagine it... and I bet it's bigger than you say, since I think it couldn't be any other way" said Max.

"One of these days I’ll invite you to my apartment and you’ll realize I’m not underestimating my collection...". Spencer paused for a few seconds, hoping it didn't sound like an overly explicit invitation. Apparently Max took it very naturally.

"It would be nice to see that, although I could bet you do have a giant collection..." Max laughed. "Well, what else…?"

“Uhm… I like to watch old movies sitting on my couch eating popcorn. I also like listening classical music on an old record player I have… sometimes I write little case reports for my classes…” said Spencer.

"No offense, I think I'm beginning to understand why your therapist told you to go out more..." Max said with some caution to try not to make Spencer feel bad. He just laughed out loud.

"The truth is… I like my place. I think it has everything I need for when I'm not at work. Even though…"

"Even though …?"

"Even though I think walking in the park and talking with you could also be one of my new favorite activities...". Max couldn't help but blush, knowing perfectly well what he was referring to.

Spencer couldn't help saying it either and though it might seem like he was flirting but he really was convinced of how good a practice like that had done to him. Gratitude perhaps? He thought was clear it could be more than that. Her eyes captivated him. When she speak… the passion was clear in her words. She looked secure, defined in life... he, in other hand, being the genius he was, felt he lacked. "Had she suffered much in her life?" he wondered. He hoped not. He inadvertently felt a need to protect her but he was not sure why, because it was clear that she didn’t need any man to protect her.

Time had gone by too quickly for both of them. When Max saw the clock on her phone realized if she did not leave at that moment would be late for class.

"I have to go now, the next class is in 20 minutes" said Max. Spencer gestured for the waiter to bring over the check. "Thank you so much for lunch" she said while was getting up from the chair. Spencer rushed to stop her.

"Wait, I'll go with you…"

"Spencer, it is not necessary, I can take a cab outside…".

“Let me go with you. I brought you here. At least let me take you back” said Spencer.

"I'm not going to get lost, if that's what worries you…" Max said jokingly. The waiter had brought the check and Spencer was paying with his credit card.

"I know you're not going to get lost... it's just that...". The waiter finished processing the payment and left. "Let me go with you".

Max didn’t understand why so much insistence by him. Under normal conditions she would believe this excess courtesy was a typical tactic of male conquest, but in Spencer it’s looks like very natural. There was no way he was faking politeness.

She finally agreed to have Spencer's company in a cab. The funny thing is throughout the trip none of them spoke. They only gave each other furtive glances hoping the other didn't notice. Despite that the trip wasn't awkward. Apparently they liked having that kind of company even if they was silent. Max felt in comfort with his company even though they knew each other so little. She wondered if he would feel something similar.

When they got back to school it was almost 3:00 p.m. They both got out of the taxi. Max was in a bit of a rush, but she didn't want to be rude, so she let Spencer walked with her to the entrance. They stood looking at each other for a few seconds.

"Thanks for the lunch. I had a great time with you today… and the risotto was totally worth it” said Max smiling.

"No problem. Thanks to you for stand me all these hours…” Spencer said jokingly. Max couldn't help but patting his arm.

"Hey! Don't say that. You don't seem to be torture after all”. Max laughed.

"Good to know it... Ok, I'm leaving so you can go to your class”. Spencer moved closer so he could kiss her on the cheek. He hesitated a few seconds, but when he saw that she was approaching him, he decide to do it. It was a short but very warm and pleasant kiss.

Goodbye Spencer. Take care” Max said before turning and come into the school. It was just time to start her class.

"You too..." Spencer managed to say, although in a voice so soft and low that hardly she heard it. Then, with his hands in his pockets, he began his walk in search of a cab to return to work.

--------------------

#spencer reid #maxcer #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #dr. spencer reid #maxine brenner

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captain-aralias · 4 years

Note

8, 15, 17, 28 for the writer meme, if you didn’t already get any of those

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

i just answered this, but since it’s you, i’ll go for some blake ;) hm....

i must say, i think i have written some pretty great dialogue for blake’s 7 in my time. here’s one of my favourite bits -

“It’s a quality operation,” Vila said. “They wouldn’t skimp on a thing like that. You want a boyfriend, Blake – and I want to go to Del Ten. Give me your promise that we can spend a week there once we find Docholli and I’m your man.”

“Vila, once we’ve found Docholli, we will have the key to finding Star One,” Blake pointed out.

“Are there any dancing girls on Star One?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Then I’d still rather go to Del Ten,” Vila said.

“Couldn’t you wait?” Blake suggested. “Until after we blow up Star One?”

“After you blow up the Federation’s weather control systems, you mean?” Vila said. “And throw the civilised world into chaos? Right, I’m sure that would be a lovely time to take a holiday. Got any more suggestions like that, Blake? Perhaps I should invest in the stock market at the same time.”

“Two days,” Blake said. “I could give you two days on Del Ten.”

“A week!” Vila repeated.

Blake shut his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He willed himself to find the strength to complete this conversation and make the right choices.

“Oh, Blake,” Vila said kindly. “You really need this, don’t you?”

Blake felt a hand rest on his shoulder and looked up into Vila’s sympathetic eyes. “Yes,” he said with relief. “I’m sorry, Vila. I don’t want to put you in this position. But I really do need this.”

“You’re going to have to give in then,” Vila told him in the same kindly tone as before. “Unless,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “that is, you want to ask Avon to be your boyfriend...”

i could have quoted this entire scene - even this is a lot. i love writing blake and avon, i love writing avon and vila, but i really really love writing blake and vila together because there are some lovely moments in canon to draw on. they’re two characters who have very little in common except that they’re both smart. this conversation is about how blake - who almost always gets his own way - now needs something he can’t just demand that vila does, and that gives vila the upper hand repeatedly throughout this conversation. blake, even though he knows this is an awkward conversation and really should be better prepared.

i also like the different lengths of the dialogue - it has a good patter.

it’s also funny, and funny because it’s cruel to someone (in this case blake, not usually), which is very blake’s 7. also also - it ends with vila insinuating what is essentially the plot - i.e. that avon will have to pretend to be blake’s boyfriend by the end of the story - and this is a trick that i always enjoy for a section end. the audience is like - oh ho, wouldn’t that be simply TERRIBLE? ;) ;)

good times.

15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?

hm - not sure. maybe right now ... ‘Hang the Moon’? it’s got a lot of good action that would translate well to film, and i have a very clear idea of how most of the scenes look.

it would be kind of weird, though, right to have a film of a ‘carry on’ fanfic before we have a ‘carry on’ film. so i’m finding it quite hard to visualise.

i would have loved to have written some dialogue for blake’s 7 people to actually say (assuming they remembered how to do the voices properly, paul darrow). i would be so embarrassed to present paul darrow with my porn, though (although ‘An Apple Cleft in Two’ would be so great, though, as it’s practically a bodyswap - i love the idea of seeing the real stephen pacey pretending to be blake, and paul darrow just being so angry), so it would have to be some sort of gen.

ok - i think i choose ‘Showdown’ because it basically is ‘Duel’, so I know the Beeb could have staged it. it’s got some mega emotion that gareth would have done beautifully, too -

Blake extracted his hand slowly from Avon’s. He pressed his fingers against Avon’s wrist and waited, but there was no pulse. He let the hand drop and tried the artery in Avon’s neck, but he knew he was just prolonging the inevitable. Avon was dead.

He forced himself to look back at the man who had been his friend.

Avon looked peaceful. The blood spattered on his face was not his – it was Travis’s and had fallen from Blake’s cheeks like tears. Blake screwed his eyes shut again in an attempt to stop it, and in the darkness Sinofar’s voice said,

“So – the battle is over.”

17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

i almost always write in order. when i think of a scene that is in the future, i will usually write some notes about it, but try not to write it because i very much build on (in my head? i dont know how much comes through in what gets written) what i wrote before in terms of how people think and feel/i do a lot of dialogue call-backs.

there are a few occasions where i go ahead and write something that happens later, but then i feel like i really screw myself when i try and go back and write the missing piece. i have to re-write everything i wrote previously to make it make sense... ‘Greener Grass’ actually is an example where i didn’t write out of order on purpose, but i thought i’d start with simon’s section which introduces all the bodyswap stuff fine, but it was too heavy with the bodyswap plot AND the introduction of the agatha-isn’t-here/get simon’s magic back stuff. there was just too much going on.

so then i had to write an intro section for baz, which i thin is good - it frames the story as baz’s story, which i know is what rainbow would want, and gives us calm before the storm ... as well as giving me an opportunity to write the exposition i needed.

but i had to go back an edit the next section a LOT to make room for it. which i hated.

28. Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

i’ll do two batches.

blake’s 7:

x_los is my girlfriend, but i knew her first as an amazing writer. i wouldn’t have written half the things i did for b7 if she hadn’t started writing these epic, involved political stories, and she writes great porn. i really am not interested in david copperfield/uriah heep, but she thinks baz is a cat killer who does not deserve the time of day, so there you go. we’re in different fandoms now.

elviaprose is not only a great writer (the foot fettish fic is incredible, given that neither she nor i have a foot fettish as far as i know), she’s also really engaged with other people’s writing and i love that. it’s really good fun.

judith proctor - i wanted to put in a second generation fan, and i was tempted to go for willa shakespeare (so good, so plotty, so porny) or nova (such pain!), but i have to go for judith. judith taught us all how incredible blake is. her love for this character, and the way that she always writes him as smart but flawed, and attractive to avon because he is smart and principled, rather than for any other reason, is fundamental to any of us reclaiming him for the future. (it’s probably not a surprise that the authors i like really influence me as a writer, but worth calling it out - i am very much saying that as well). Touching Life! so good.

carry on:

we have some amazing writers, thank you fandom <3 three of my very very predictable favourites (the same three, i think, who wrote my favourite fics of last year) are:

@basic-banshee - what can i say? (insert long pause while i think of what to say.) i mean, we all know Ban is a great writer. it’s a pleasure when the most popular writer in the fandom is also a genius. i love all her secondary characters and that she spends so much time with them. she writes the way i want to - lots of good tropey stuff, great fun AUs, and plotty plotty good plot stuff. also - she always writes the most perfect endings that just make you feel GOOD.

@sharkmartini - i think we share a lot of the same ideas about what we like in fics i.e. we like the same tropes, we like that baz is a vampire, we think the same things are hot and romantic. i love the way sharkmartini plots this and she always writes great dialogue. also, i do think we owe snowbaz smut to her - maybe it wasn’t the first-first, but ‘Monster Under the Bed’ (which is SO good, honestly still one of my absolute favourite things) seems to have influenced so much of what came after it.

@krisrix - also an amazing artist, but for me an even better writer. the smut is amazing and sexy while also at the same time being really tender. kris also writes beautiful, long amazing kisses - and again, endings that are so beautiful and tender. also - let us talk about the plotty things! i love writers who mix plot and romance (or even dare i say - smut) because i love to have all the things in one fic. What Stays and What Fades Away is so smart and interesting. and, of course, kris has written my all time most favourite trope - fake relationship.

#my content #carry on

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blind-rats · 4 years

Link

The ability of fans to shape and change the art they enjoy is nothing new. In 1893, the reaction to Arthur Conan Doyle killing off Sherlock Holmes was so intense that he eventually resurrected him ten years later. Historian Greg Jenner, the author of the forthcoming book Dead Famous (a study of the history of fame), has even tracked the characteristics of modern fandom back to the 1700s when rival supporters of English theatre actresses would compete for dominance like Team Aniston or Team Jolie.

And to the 1920s, where fan groups would write thousands of letters to movie studios demanding their favorite actor be given better roles. “It was the same thing,” he says, “as Sonic the Hedgehog having weird teeth and people going, ‘No, that’s not the game I played as a kid, you need to fix it or I am not giving you any money.’”

The last decade or so has witnessed huge changes in the awareness, perception, and tools of fandom. In terms of television and film, the enormous successes of Game of Thrones and the Marvel Cinematic Universe have introduced geek culture – and its brand of participatory fandom – to the mainstream. At the same time, the internet – and more specifically social media – has amplified fans’ voices, while also breaking down the boundaries between them and the artists they love/hate.

Yet the extent to which the internet has changed the very nature of fandom is debatable. According to leading media scholar Henry Jenkins, whose 1992 book Textual Poachers is considered the founding text of fan studies, it has merely “increased the scope and scale of the fan community, allowed for ongoing interactions amongst fans, and made the entertainment industry more aware of the kind of fan responses which have been occurring all along”.

Case in point: in 1968, Star Trek fans – a group who essentially invented the framework of modern fandom – orchestrated a huge and successful letter-writing campaign to save the show from cancellation. Then, in subsequent years, they also popularised fan fiction as we now know it, publishing stories for each other in zines, and pioneering the homoerotic literary sub-genre of slash fiction (the term ‘slash’ literally derives from the punctuation between Kirk / Spock).

Now fans weaponize hashtags and online petitions to revive shows like The Expanse and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, or to take showrunners to task with criticisms of their blind spots and choices. One notable example is the teen show The 100, which sparked ire in 2016 after killing off one of the show’s prominent gay characters; an act that was seen by many to perpetuate the ‘bury your gays’ trope that has been prevalent in TV and film. And as for fan fiction? There is, most famously, E L James’ Fifty Shades of Grey series, which was inspired by Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight and originally posted on a fan website. But, beyond that, there is also the platform Archive of Our Own, which in 2019 won a Hugo award for its archive of more than 4.7 million fan-written stories.

“Fans engaging actively with the materials of their culture has improved our world in countless ways,” says Jenkins. “Television, as it exists today, is largely a response to modes of engagement that fans have modeled over the past several decades – [a form] where more attention is paid to backstories and secondary characters, where there is a greater degree of serialization and the core mythology is sustained across multiple media platforms, and which builds in space for exploration and speculation. And now, which seeks to be more diverse and inclusive in whose stories get told… Many of today’s critical darlings are following practices that were modeled first in fan fiction.”

Perhaps one of the most profound changes of the last 10 years is the extent to which the entertainment industry has begun to exploit the passion of fanbases for their own commercial ends. “The industry needs fans more than ever before,” explains academic Suzanne Scott, author of Fake Geek Girls, a study of the gender politics of fandom. “They need fans to ensure big opening weekends at the box office, they need them as promotional labor to create more ‘authentic’ excitement around a media object, or to distinguish one text from the glut of content that we are constantly choosing between as consumers.” Just take the techniques employed by Netflix, who have become masters of facilitating ‘organic’ conversation around their output.

On the more extreme end of the spectrum, they even rely on them as investors. A famous example being the 2014 big-screen revival of cult TV detective drama Veronica Mars, a sequel made possible only by the crowdfunding efforts of fans, and which subsequently led to a 2019 TV return on streaming service Hulu.

With the latter series, this equal partnership dynamic started to become complicated, however, with fans recoiling in horror when creator Rob Thomas killed off love interest Logan.

To quote journalist Constance Grady, writing for Vox: “Thomas, they said, had taken advantage of their desire to see Veronica and Logan together, using their investment as shippers to leverage not just their time and attention, but the literal dollars out of their pockets. In that case, didn’t he owe them something?”

Jenkins thinks it’s a fair question. “The sense of ownership reflects the way humans have always engaged with stories,” he says. “We use stories to make sense of who we are. We use stories to debate our values, fears, and aspirations. We display our attachment to stories in various ways and we define ourselves through which stories mean the most to us. There’s nothing odd about this. What is odd is the idea that corporations want to claim a monopoly over the storytelling process, resist input from their audience, and lockdown stories from further circulation and elaboration.”

CLICK THE LINK FOR THE FULL ARTICLE

#Veronica Mars #Fandom #Fanbase #Sonic The Hedgehog #Star Trek

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wilwywaylan · 4 years

Text

Hey Jude

Fandom : les Misérables

Present for @youknewyouwerelost for the @lesmisholidayexchange

Modern AU, Enjolras x Grantaire, 2575 words

Happy belated holidays! I'm sorry it's so late, but I hope you'll like this anyway, just some good fluff with our two dorks and Jude the cat being cute!

Also on AO3!

Hey Jude

Don't make it bad

Take a sad song and make it better....

Grantaire held out his hand, tried to reach his phone and smash that alarm away. Of course, the damn thing had taken advantage of the mess on his nightstand to hide under half-read books and a pair of socks that had bothered him too much when he had crashed in his bed. No phone, and the music wasn't stopping. He pat the ground, trying to find the thing. Papers, a handful of brushes, more papers, coffee cups.... phone. He grabbed it, dropped it on the mattress near his head, and squinted at the screen. 3:45 AM. What the fuck ? Why had his alarm started ringing at such an ungodly hour ? Was it finally the rise of the machines ? Where they trying to exhaust him so he wouldn't resist ?

Wait a second. That wasn't his alarm ringing. The screen was back to its usual, innocent black. No blaring lights right in his face, it was as peaceful as a phone should be in the middle of the night. And now that he was a little more awake, he noticed that the sound wasn't coming from his phone at all. And even more, the person singing certainly was no Beatle. Then again, at 3:45 - now 3:50 -, Grantaire probably have been at the peak of his singing abilities either.

He clambered out of bed, trying to avoid the landfill of paint tubes and other implements trying to stab his feet, and made his way to the window. The singing became a little clearer when he opened it, and a bit better too. The culprit was standing just under Grantaire's flat, looking upwards.

Grantaire's heart missed a beat. Then twenty.

The man - boy ? - standing under his window was.... gorgeous. More than gorgeous. The kind of man you could only see in a few specific works of art, the kind carved in marble by very, very skilled artists, with sharp cheekbones, a high forehead barely touched by curly strands of hair, and eyes so big, so clear they seemed to hold the whole sky in them. All this, assembled into a face that would belong in museums. Said face was surrounded by hair turned golden by the light just above him, barely restrained behind his head. The man was wearing a dark sweater looking a bit too thin for the weather, and either very tight jeans or body paint. And he was still singing, looking expectantly at Grantaire. Grantaire, who, of course, didn't have the slightest idea of who he was and what he was doing there.

He leaned out of the window, mentally cursing the cold, and called :

- Not that I don't like being serenaded by a pretty boy, but at this hour, isn't it a little bold ?

The man jumped at least a feet in the air, as if he hadn't noticed until now he had an audience. Granted, it was kind of hard to notice a dark-haired man against the black background of the window, but still.

- I'm not.... This is not a serenade, the man answered.

Of course. Of course it wasn't. Pretty boys didn't just decide to stand under windows and sing. Especially not under people like Grantaire's.

- So what do I owe the pleasure to hear you not-serenading me ?

The man's expression turned to one of embarrassment.

- My cat, he said simply.

- Your what ?

The man pointed at something a little on Grantaire's left. There was something white on the ledge, something that looked a lot like a white cat.

- Oh. Is that your cat ? Because it's been gallivanting around for weeks.

- He (the man stressed the "he") tends to wander a little. I'm trying to get him home.

- By singing ?

- He likes that song.

Grantaire looked at the cat.

- Is that true ? You like the Beatles ?

He couldn't have been sure in the dim light, but the cat seemed to enjoy it, or at least the attention. Grantaire held out his hand.

- Here, kitty. Let's not worry your master longer.

The cat stepped forwards to smell his fingers, scoffing a little at the lingering scent of paint thinner. Then decided to just use him as a bridge, stepped along his arm, on his shoulder, and jumped in the flat. Under them, the man made something that sounded like a noise of distress.

- Don't fret, Grantaire called. I'll buzz you in.

The man raced to the door. Grantaire let him in the hall, unlocked the front door, then went looking for the cat, who had taken residence on his hoodie in the living room and was kneading it, looking very pleased with himself. Good, no need to search further. Grantaire looked around, suddenly very embarrassed with the state of his living room. It wasn't very dirty, no, but he had been busy non stop this week, and well, cleaning had always been very low on his priorities. But now, with less that ten seconds left, he felt suddenly very self-conscious. He barely had time to hide a few bottles and two pizza boxes under the couch, before the blond man barged into the flat, barely taking time to knock before. He made a beeline to the cat, who just looked at him adoringly, scooped him in his arms and held him close, muttering what probably was very sweet nonsense.

Leaving Grantaire all the time in the world to admire him. If in the street, the man had seemed gorgeous, he was stunning under a better light. As Grantaire had guessed, he had very blue eyes, lined with long eyelashes. Some shadows under them, almost... delicate. His mouth itself was a work of art, in a bow to rival Cupid's himself. The lips were chapped, but that didn't deter from their grace. The nose was a little longer than he would have thought, and pointy, but it fit in his face. And his hair... Golden, as he had thought, perfectly framing the face in little ringlets, and in long curls tied together, falling.... oh no, at least to the small of his back in a cascade of gold, pooling in the hood of his sweater. Red, not black, stretched around the wrists like Grantaire's. He was wearing pants, jeans, and yes, they were as tight as they had seemed, hugging everything and.... he had to lower his eyes for a moment. Converse, red, of course. Bigger than his, looking old. The perfect high point.

Indifferent to Grantaire's predicament, the man was still petting the cat, who was nuzzling his neck, purring like a tiny motor. He finally seemed to realize that he was still in someone else's flat and had an audience, and turned to face Grantaire.

- Thank you for your help, he said simply.

Grantaire snapped out of his trance.

- Don't mention it. Does he run away often ?

- Sometimes. He usually comes home after an hour. He didn’t, this time, so I decided to look for him.

- Have you been looking for long ?

- Three hours now. Maybe a bit longer.

- Oh gods, you must be freezing. Do you want some coffee ?

The man seemed to ponder the offer. Please stay, please stay, Grantaire thought, mentally crossing his fingers.

- I don't want to deprive you of your sleep. You already...

- Don't worry. I mean, I can sleep whenever I want. I mean, he hastily added when the man frowned, I'm an artist. I make my own schedule.

- An artist ? What do you do ?

- I paint, mostly. I try some other medias sometimes, but it's my favourite.

While talking, Grantaire lead the man and the cat to the kitchen. He quickly freed a chair, and put himself to work. He leaned against the counter, trying not to show that his brain cells were blinking like Christmas lights.

- By the way, what's your name ? I mean, we have a common acquaintance, we're not total strangers any more.

The man smiled - smiled ! -, sending a jolt in Grantaire's chest.

- And I'm sitting in your kitchen. I'm Enjolras.

He held out a hand over the table. Grantaire rushed to shake it, surprised to find it rough. The knuckles had been scrapped raw recently.

- A fall ? Grantaire asked casually.

Enjolras looked at his hands for a second. His smsile faltered, and Grantaire cursed himself.

- A protest that went wrong.

- A protest ?

Grantaire poured them two mugs of coffee and sat down at the table.

- You went to a protest ?

- I organized it, Enjolras answered with a hint of pride in his voice.

- What were you protesting ?

- We're opposing the reform of our retirement system. This new law, should it pass, would cause huge prejudice for a large part of the population, greatly reduce their retirement earnings and buying power. All this for a problem that could be solved with a few minor tweaks and a better understanding of demography and its evolution. But....

Grantaire had leaned back, letting the words flow over him. Enjolras had straightened his back, his eyes were shining with determination, and he looked ready to take on the government this instant should he get the opportunity. Enjolras was shining with a blinding idealism ; it wouldn't have taken much for a halo to appear on his head. He was almost.... blinding. Such a burning passion... that was starting to tickle Grantaire. He'd seen enough of those movements to know that they would just fizzle away after a time, when the general public would start to get fed up with strikes and stop supporting them. They didn't amount at anything except the indignation value before people start being distracted by something else, and nothing ever changed, except for the worse. Grantaire didn't expect anything to ever help. All the opposite of Enjolras, it seemed.

- So ? Enjolras pressed. What is your opinion ?

- My what ?

- Your opinion. On the situation.

- I don't really care.

Enjolras' smile disappeared and Grantaire almost took back his words in hope of seeing it back. Almost.

- You don't really care.

- No. Striking doesn't work.

- Strikes are a right we won, and we need to use it.

- For what ? Grantaire retorted. It doesn't work. The people you're impeding aren't the people you want to pressure.

- I don't want to... that's not the point !

- Yes it is. You want to pressure them, that's the word. But by striking and making other people's lives so complicated, you don't get their support, you get their aggravation. And the ones you want to convince - if you want - count on this, they count on the people to turn on them. Divide to better conquer. You know that one ?

Enjolras' face had taken on an interesting shade of red, almost as vivid as his hoodie, and if his eyes had the power to kill, Grantaire would have been dead for at least a minute. Which was hilarious, but not at satisfying as needling an idealist young boy should have been.

- Okay, okay, he finally said, raising his hands in apology. Sorry, I can't resist...

- You can't resist mocking me and my ideals, Enjolras said in an icy tone.

- I'm not... okay I am, a little, but I can't help it. I'm an asshole. Sorry.

Enjolras' expression softened a little. A very little.

- You don't believe in what we're doing.

- Not really. As I said, I've seen it fail several times. People get distracted, they become interested in something else, and the law passes. That's why they often decide to vote them just before the end of the year, so people tire out.

- Well we won't. We're going to fight and prevent that law.

Back to full fury mode again, and Grantaire's heart was beating faster than ever. This wasn't good for him, not at all. Should he pursue a relationship with Enjolras, they would probably fight day and night about everything. On the other hand, it would do him good to have someone challenging him about his ideals. Then again, why would Enjolras want a relationship with an ass whose first reaction was to needle him ? And why would he want one ? Except that Enjolras was beautiful, and enthusiastic, and even a little convincing. Not that Grantaire would join his crusade, but he felt a little less defeatist listening to him. He raised his mug.

- I’ll drink to that.

Enjolras did the same, clinking the cups together.

- Will you join us ? At least to see ?

- I may. It may not concern me, as an artist, but I must say, it intrigues me. Maybe I should check it out.

Ah, the smile was back. That was the right thing to say. Enjolras grabbed one of the numerous pencils strewn around, a piece of paper, and scribbled on it.

- Here, that's my number. And the next protest. We'd be happy to get some support.

Grantaire took the paper, nodded.

- I may come. Just to see.

Enjolras gave him another smile, then gathered his cat in his arms. Well, end of the date. Grantaire walked him to the door with a pinch of regret. Well, at least Enjolras didn't throw his coffee at his head ; that one generally hurt. But he didn't seem too enthusiastic.

They stopped at the door, and Enjolras turned to face him. Grantaire only noticed how small he was ; the top of his curls barely reached Grantaire's chin. He vaguely wondered how he would look, wearing one of his oversized shirts, then kicked the thought out of his mind ; this was really not the time.

- So... he started.

- Thank you for helping Jude, Enjolras cut.

- Jude ?

Enjolras lifted the cat a little higher.

- That's him.

- Oh. Hello Jude, Grantaire said solemnly, patting the cat on the head.

- He seems to like you.

- That's the Grantaire effect. It works on cats, dogs and little grannies.

- Not just on them.

... What ? What was that ? Was he starting to hear things ? But Enjolras was pointedly not looking at him, and his ears were an interesting shade of pink.

- Well, Grantaire said casually, I don't want to hold your revolution back. See you around ?

- If Jude runs away again, I will certainly.

- I'll keep my window open, then. See you, Jude !

And with that, they were gone. Grantaire retreated back to his room, dropped on his bed and shoved his head in his pillow. It was way too early or too late to try and wrap his brain around what had just happened. Pretty boys, lost cats, serenades.... that was too much for him right now. But Enjolras.... Enjolras had dropped into his life, that was a present from Lady Luck with a shiny bow on top, and he wasn't going to let it escape him. Even if it meant going to protests and listen to all those happy students with eyes shining with idealism talk about how things would work if only the world was perfect. He'd have to tone down his cynicism and make an effort, but he could at least try. Carefully, he extracted the paper Enjolras gave him and put it on the nightstand. What was the best time to wait for before calling, if it was for a protest ? Oh, he'll see tomorrow. And maybe it would turn out well.

(It almost didn't. Who would have guessed that someone as pretty as Enjolras would write so badly ?)

#les miserables #grantaire #enjolras #enjoltaire #Jude the cat #Fluffiness #With a hint of actual politics #But mostly meet cute

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princess-of-france · 4 years

Note

i would love to hear abt your rococo lll

Oh my gosh, you lovely human, settle in. This production is my Ultimate Theater Pipe Dream and I apologize in advance for how little chill I’m going to have as I explain it.

Are you ready?

I want to start with my standard disclaimer: I am a theater artist, not a literary critic or a historian. When I’m directing a play, I extract fragments of lit crit and historical fact as I need them and leave the rest on the buffet line. This LLL in particular requires me to play fast and loose with history, so be prepared for a truckload of anachronisms. They make the vision work!

So, with that…

The sad Catch-22 of my Rococo LLL is that no theater will ever put it up: a smaller, indie, risk-taking theater wouldn’t be able to afford the astronomical production costs of casting the 20 actors I need, to say nothing of building opulent sets and period-accurate costumes that imitate the royal courts of the late 18th century; conversely, a large, well-funded, regional theater wouldn’t be able to justify funding a 2.5-hour Shakespeare retelling that turns one of his most sparkling comedies into a dark, violent allegory about the French Revolution and casts young, privileged, light-skinned European elites as the tragic heroes brought low by proletariat Jacobean reform. Even as I type these words, I realize how irresponsible an investment that would be. My Rococo LLL is not the kind of classical theater we need in America right now. It is retrograde in terms of diversity, equity, accessibility, and social justice. It probably says something terrible about me that I even dreamt it up in the first place.

And yet.

I want to direct this production so badly it feels like I’ve swallowed a piece of the sun. If I had all the proper resources (time, money, venue, artists, designers, marketing, etc.), I would do it tomorrow. It’s my baby.

Here’s a blurb that kind of nutshells it all together:

July 1789. King Charles VI of Navarre has died, leaving his son, young Ferdinand III, to take the throne. On a tide of Enlightenment idealism, King Ferdinand commissions his three best friends to join him for a period of ascetic study at the court of Navarre. The rules are simple: no luxuries, no alcohol, and no women. For three long years.

The boys’ oath is immediately put to the test when four young ladies arrive in Navarre on a diplomatic mission from Versailles. Led by the spirited Duchess d’Albret, the Frenchwomen and their mile-high coiffures prove irresistible to the King and his companions. With the help of a motley band of scholars and servants, they set out to woo the Duchess and her friends. But when sober news arrives from Paris, will young love be enough to rewrite history?

Set against the glittering backdrop of the last golden days of the ancien regime, this bold reimagining of Shakespeare’s beloved comedy invites us to look at the most famous revolution in Western history through the eyes of the young elites who learned the truth about privilege just a moment too late.

Of all the radical things I want to do with this production, the thing that would probably cause the most controversy (and earn me a reputation for being a narcissistic, pessimistic, Shakespeare-desecrating hack) is my addition of a prologue set in Paris in June 1793. I could try to sum it up here, but honestly I think it would be a lot more effective and comprehensive just to post the excerpt from my script:

…etc.

So basically, half my audience will vomit due to the unexpected onslaught of blood, gore, and violence…and the other half will vomit from the sheer anti-progressivism of the show’s politics. And I don’t blame anyone who finds fault with this production concept. On a political level, I find fault with it. Arguably the last thing our society needs right now is a Shakespeare production that paints young, pale, overprivileged trust fund babies as the poor, helpless victims of a liberal-led revolution for social equality.

But at the same time, I can’t help but think that the entire point of Love’s Labour’s Lost is to make us look hard at our own privilege and ego, and weigh those things that seem sooo valuable against the true gifts of love, empathy, friendship, generosity, and kindness.

“This is not generous, not gentle, not humble!” Holofernes cries as the Crazy Eight—high on adrenaline and their own cruel wit—jeer him off the stage during his performance as Judas Maccabeus in 5.2. More than any other, this moment epitomizes the value of setting LLL in a sex-charged, champagne-fueled, pastry-laden, cream-filled, lace-drenched, satin-covered, feather-topped, Rococo landscape. There’s no way in hell the audience is meant to sympathize with the insult-flinging prep school Kens and Barbies when they humiliate Holofernes to the point of tears. Shakespeare is way too smart for that. In the final whimsical moments before the messenger Marcadé comes onstage, laden with the news that is going to change the entire genre of the play, the Bard turns a critical spotlight on the young people we’ve been rooting for since Act One, Scene One and invites us to view them—for the first time, really—through the lens of the hardworking, lesser-privileged plebs of Navarre. The portrait is revolting. However witty, cultured, and elegant the courtiers might seem, they clearly have a lot more homework to do. Marcadé’s arrival a few short lines later is the final test of their youthful ego. Is being clever worth the price of experiencing love? Is love worth the price of responsibility? Is she brave enough to admit that she’s scared to take up the mantle? Is he brave enough to give up the one person who matters for the sake of the people he once mocked, the people he now must lead?

I don’t believe the Navarre Nerds and Les Filles have survived the centuries because they end the play as sharp-tongued, entitled, and self-absorbed as they behave at the start. We wouldn’t still be making and remaking this play if the protagonists were so static. I think the young people of LLL resonate with us—or, at least, they resonate with me—because in the course of Shakespeare’s plotless little play they grow up right before our eyes. King Ferdinand learns that he can’t bury his head in his books and ignore the responsibility of ruling when he watches the love of his life choose duty to her country over the desires of her own heart. The Princess learns that the cost of being the cleverest person is human connection when she finds herself laughing alongside Ferdinand at the antics of the Nine Worthies and somehow feels happier than she ever did when she was mocking him into the earth. Berowne learns that love wins every argument: against wit, against intellect, against bachelorhood, against willpower itself. Rosaline learns that love is strength, not weakness, and that she is stronger when she allows herself to feel. Dumaine learns that love demands vulnerability. Katherine learns that love is not a game. Longaville learns that love thrives on honesty. Maria learns that love takes courage. When the Crazy Eight say their heartbreaking goodbyes at the end of 5.2, they no longer care about sounding smart or superior; in fact, they speak against their own intelligence. The erudite Ferdinand trips over his words, the cynical Berowne invokes romantic idealism, the boastful Dumaine speaks with humility, the shy Longaville puts all his cards on the table. The women are no less altered. I don’t want to fall into the trap of ascribing an easy, one-size-fits-all moral maxim to LLL, but what else are we supposed to take away from this play if not the fact that we fucking owe it to ourselves as a species to set aside our stupid pride and say, “I love you,” when we feel it because we never know when time is going to run out? What else are we supposed to feel if not pride in these young people for choosing to step up and take responsibility when they hear news that the world outside is ending? That there may be no world left? Les Filles go with their Queen. The Nerds rally around their King. They choose fidelity to their respective kingdoms over the indulgence of love. But they also learn to value love for what it is, and to call it by name…even if that love can only last for a few fleeting seconds:

“If this or more than this I would deny,To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,The sudden hand of death close up mine eye.Hence ever, then, my heart is in thy breast.”

(King Ferdinand, V.ii)

As the Crazy Eight grapple in real time with the consequences of Marcadé’s message and what it means for their role as leaders in society, Rosaline gives Berowne a task to complete in their year apart that practically hums with poetic intelligence. Her lines are so iconic, we still quote them colloquially today:

BEROWNETo move wild laughter in the throat of death?It cannot be, it is impossible.Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

ROSALINEWhy, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,Whose influence is begot of that loose graceWhich shallow laughing hearers give to fools.A jest’s prosperity lies in the earOf him that hears it, never in the tongueOf him that makes it. Then, if sickly ears,Deafed with the clamors of their own dear groans,Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,And I will have you and that fault withal.But if they will not, throw away that spiritAnd I shall find you empty of that fault,Right joyful of your reformation.

(V.ii)

I think this is the moment when I would start crying if I ever watched my Rococo LLL performed live. Because of all les Filles, I think Rosaline is the only one who knows that by choosing to accompany the Duchess back to Versailles at the end of LLL, she is effectively signing her death warrant. The Jacobeans and sans-cullottes are not going to want young, eligible, Catholic Rococo princesses wafting around their new, secular state. The guillotine may not yet exist in the summer of 1789, but the there is a thirst for blood and Rosaline can smell it. And now Bastille has fallen. Paris is on fire. King Louis XVI has months to live. The world will never be the same. Rosaline’s once-ordered, once-gilded country is careening into a bloody nightmare of soured ideals and ruthless social weeding, and even though she can’t see the future, she can read men like books. Even Berowne. Even the charismatic nihilist who earned a bachelor’s degree in bachelorhood and tried to hide his heart under a bushel. She can read him and she can save him. They can’t kill her husband if she doesn’t have one.

Rococo LLL? I don’t know. It’s a pipe dream.

But can’t you picture it?

Tagging my girls @harry-leroy @suits-of-woe @lizbennett2013 @dedraconesilet @exeunt-pursued-by-a-bear @henriadical in case anyone is interested :)

Thanks a million for one of my favorite asks ever! Happy holidays, friend!!

xx Claire

#does anyone wanna hear about my Rococo LLL?#asks

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speaknowslut13 · 4 years

Text

An Open Letter for Mr. Braun

Mr. Scooter Braun,

Thank you, for whatever went on behind the scenes, that allowed Taylor Swift to perform her songs at the 2019 American Music Awards. I know you, and Scott Borchetta, have claimed numerous times that you cannot legally stop her from performing her songs live. However, this is hard to fathom as the entire truth because each time there is a claim made, the evidence is shady and a deflection from what the real issue is. I decided to let Taylor’s AMA accolade take the spotlight. Now that she’s had her victory, I need to continue to speak up on this matter.

Let’s not forget though that the real problem is much bigger than a he-said-she-said “social media war”, to quote you. The heart here is that there is a massive flaw in the music industry involving artists and their right to own the art they create. This is bigger than Taylor Swift not owning her masters. It’s even bigger than you, someone she takes issue with, having bought them. I want to draw your attention, and anyone who reads this, to that point. There has been too much emphasis on the so called ‘drama’ surrounding this ethical dilemma that you seem to have found yourself in. This is not to diminish the pain and betrayal Ms. Swift felt upon learning about your purchase but to deflect from name calling and pointing of fingers. I do comprehend how frightening it must be to come home to death threats levied against (of all people) your children and wife. I do not want to also trivialize your fear as I continue either. I know that Taylor Swift wouldn’t want that because she has spoken out against cancel culture herself. I wouldn’t want to find myself in your shoes.

I want to impress that the reason this letter is addressed to you, Mr. Braun, is that you have been given a beautiful opportunity to be a real voice for change. But what is a voice without action backing it up? So, I am calling on you to use your leverage, resources, and status to create the change so desperately needed in the music industry.

As an artist, who is married to an artist, I can attest how horrifying and angering it would be to have created something only to have it be held hostage as a bargaining chip. I am not naive, and I do understand that labels must have something that keeps them going long after the artist has quit producing music or even has moved on to a new label. I just think that it’s long overdue for a change of procedure. If we look back at The Artist Formally Known as Prince, The Beatles, and many more this has been an issue for a long time. I hope you can agree with me when I say that all these artists should have had the opportunity to own their masters at some point without having to fight and claw for them. Prince had to fight legal battles, eventually leading to a performance with the word “Slave” written on his face. The Beatles catalog went into a bidding war that eventually was won out by Michael Jackson even though Paul McCartney was offering to purchase them. So, when we see that Taylor Swift wasn’t even given the opportunity to offer up a sum to purchase her catalog, it’s frustrating. It’s hard, as a woman, to see that and not think that this is based off sexism in the industry. Instead, Big Machine offered her a renew of a contract that would allow for her albums to be handed over, but she’d have to commit to an equal set of new albums created. What a cruel and manipulative offer to keep Ms. Swift imprisoned to a label that Scott Borchetta wouldn’t even continue to own. A fact that was silently present. Taylor Swift was there from the beginning of this label and she should have been given the courtesy to buy her masters out right from Big Machine.

I want you to understand what you bought into because now, whether it was intentional or not, you are part of the problem. You can also be part of the solution. You even said you would be willing to do anything to resolve this but the most obvious would be to start with offering Taylor an opportunity to purchase her catalog and allow her access to whatever footage she needs for her upcoming Netflix documentary without condition. It doesn’t stop there though. You need to address the ongoing issues in the music industry and start creating change. If you really support and value the talent you work with daily, then start showing it. Your words will continue to be meaningless without action. Taylor Swift owes you no conversations and any lawyer with half a brain would tell her not to openly address the alleged threats levied against your family because that would be admitting fault. There is no fault there. All words are impactful. Including yours. Sometimes the most impactful words are the ones that are not spoken. Your silence on this matter has done you no favors. For whatever reason, Taylor clearly feels strongly about sharing an audience with you and I feel that you need to respect that. There are still so many ways to right these wrongs. Unfortunately, you are now responsible for Big Machine and their relationship with Taylor and her catalog.

Her “narrative” is about the rights of all artists. This is not a “narrative” that she has created. Change your tactics and you just might succeed. Ignore it and I can promise you your business will end up suffering. Eventually more and more people will tire of the “narrative” of big bad label men picking on the weaker kids. Learn from the mistakes of your predecessors and change the industry. It’s Taylor today but it may be one of your artists in the future.

My best regards and prayers for your family’s safety.

“If you don’t own your masters, your master owns you.” – The Artist Formally Known As ‘Prince’

#scooter braun #scott borchetta #art belongs to the artist #Swifties #taylor swift #taylor nation #freetaylor #i stand with taylor #westandwithtaylor #reblog

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afinepricklypear · 4 years

Text

I’m writing this largely in response to angel-rhetenor’s replies on my recent reblog with comments of the post “Why is the BSD fandom so terrible about leaving comments?” The replies I received from this person and the OP were understandably emotional responses but also problematic because they made claims of there being some hidden meaning behind my statements that wasn’t there and accused me of attacking OP, which I didn’t. I’m not posting to defend my statements or place blame, I stand by what I wrote and encourage people to read it, rather than the replies it was given, to decide for themselves. Unfortunately, I know that most people won’t. It is long and it’s easier to see the responses, and because those individual’s posed arguments that are easy to agree with (yes, it is wrong to call someone stupid or to say that their work is low quality when you haven’t read it, and, yes, it’s equally wrong to suggest that writing shorter stories, shorter chapters, one-shots, and/or rare-pairs makes your writing bad – btw, a ludicrous assertion to claim I said, not least of all, because I do and have written all of these things).

As well there were issues that these individuals claim I either ignored or did not speak to, which was simply because the primary intent behind my comments was to discuss analytics, how they work, how to interpret them, and how to use them to improve your own work.

Quick side note, I also briefly want to acknowledge remarks made about my comments being “well-researched” – I deleted the credentials from my original comment, I didn’t think it lent anything to it, but I’ll add them here: I have a BA in Anthropology, I’m two semesters from a BS in Computer Science, and I work as an Analyst for a public utility company. Data, data analysis, and interpreting data as it relates to population behavior, not to mention, research is all, kind of, my thing.

There were a number of issues that were raised by these individuals, and some points made in their replies that I’d love to address, but there is one I really need to talk about that was brought up in angel-rhetenor’s reply: reposting fanwork. This is a big issue in regards to any kind of intellectual property, and angel-rhetenor posed it as being analogous of the issues regarding feedback and whether people “owe” fanfiction writers or, really, any content creators compensation (in the form of likes, feedback, comments, etc.) for enjoying their work when it is provided free of access. This person concluded their statements with the bold, and yes, true assertion that artists and writers deserve recognition for their work.

So, if this conclusion is true, what can I have to say about it, right? This person must’ve really proved me wrong.

Well, the biggest problem I have with this argument is that, as presented, it is a false equivalency. Meaning, the issues behind reposting and giving feedback are not the same. In fact, the issues behind reposting and giving recognition, as this person indicated, are not even the same.

To be clear: The issues behind reposting are not about feedback, not about showing appreciation/gratitude to content creators, and not about recognition.

Now, before you run to your keyboard to react to this statement, let me explain.

These may seem on the surface to be the same thing, they may even feel related to one another, they certainly feel like they derive from the same place in the audience, but it’s important to understand the distinctions between them if you are posting your work online especially because reposting someone’s work, unlike the other issues discussed, can be a legal matter. If find yourself in the situation where your work has been stolen, you need to understand the difference between these issues and why. Although some of the concepts behind these other issues do inform legal problems in the real world, it is not in the way that you may think.

Feedback

One of the things that really set me off about the post that started all of this was OP’s comments to another individual reply on this post that Kudos/Likes are not showing gratitude, that she doesn’t even look at them, and they aren’t real feedback. To an extent, she isn’t wrong. Feedback/Comments and Kudos are not exactly the same. Kudos/Likes are a form of positive feedback only, they do show gratitude for the work, they do indicate that the work was liked and appreciated – that is their entire meaning exactly. An author may decide that they want more than kudos from the readers, but it is up to the author to determine what they are looking for in return from posting their work online and then finding the appropriate forum to get that return – in which case, if you don’t want Kudos, AO3 is probably not the place for your work.

If all you want is praise for your work, that’s what Kudos are, but feedback in general isn’t always given because someone liked your work. In fact, feedback in an open forum is often given by people who just felt strongly about your work one way or another. That is unless you’ve directly asked someone to read and give you feedback – in which case, these kinds of obligatory transactions need to be arranged with the individual up front rather than after the fact, otherwise you are getting into ethical issues of scamming, conning, and manipulation ß this is actually the basis behind “Unordered Merchandise” complaints, which you can read about more on the FTC website. There are ways to encourage people to give feedback that don’t include any of these sticky problems, such as, starting the conversation for them (via the notes section of your story) by asking questions or making your own comments about the work, or simply being clear about what kind of feedback you’re looking for from the readers. Some good examples might be:

· Making speculations about the plotline, “I wonder what this character is really up to…”

· Highlighting parts of your writing you really want people to notice, “Feeling proud of that dialogue, really hope you guys agree…”

· Or calling attention to areas of the writing you feel shaky on, “Not really happy with how that action scene went, felt clunky…let me know what you guys think?”

Additionally, if what you are looking for is feedback to improve as a writer, I might mention that the fanfiction community is probably not the best place to go for it. I love the readers, I’ve been highly impressed by the quality of comments I’ve received on AO3 over the comments I’ve gotten on FF.net, but many of the readers are younger, not writer’s themselves, and, while they can tell whether something is “good” or “bad”, they can’t necessarily tell you why or give you the constructive criticism necessary to develop better writing skills. Additionally, readers tend to be more generous in their feedback because they have received the content for free, in which case, you’re not getting the most honest feedback. Feedback is better received by joining/starting a writing group, teaming up with beta-readers, or hiring an editor. But I don’t want to turn this into a discussion about how to get feedback or use it to improve, that’s not the point of this post.

Given this definition, I hope you can better see how feedback and reposting are not the same thing. While reposting poses the issue of diverting feedback from the creator, there is a vast ethical difference between whether I should be required to give you my opinion on your work or not and me posting your work elsewhere.

Appreciation/Gratitude

Many arguments presented by the OP of the “Why is the BSD fandom so awful at leaving comments” post and angel-rhetenor are predicated on the idea that everyone who read or looked at your work liked it, they were entertained by it, and, thus, should show appreciation or gratitude to you for it. Of course, this is the understood socially accepted behavior, isn’t it? I’ve given you this ‘gift’, and now you tell me “thank you”. As I’ve already argued, this is what Kudos are designed to do. However, beyond gratitude and appreciation, Likes/Kudos also serve as forms of endorsement. It means, I’ve read this and I approve of it. Now, this type of endorsement is stronger in social media systems like Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr, where the newsfeed algorithm is going to push to me those posts that people I follow (read as: opinions I trust) are liking and, therefore, helping to grow that person’s audience. In AO3, public bookmarks are actually a better form of an endorsement in this sense. That said, if I’m trying to decide if something is worth my time to read, I might jump to the Kudos to see who else liked it, furthermore, if a story has a large number of Kudos, that means that a larger number of people endorsed it and stamped it with their seal of approval. You might feel that Kudos is meaningless to you, but that is someone giving you a show of support that serves as a visual indicator to other potential readers that your work is worth reading.

Of course, this also touches on the concern raised by angel-rhetenor of audience entitlement. The issue as stated was that audience members feel entitled to a creator’s time and that they are allowed to demand that a creator makes work or delivers new works for free.

The thing is, they are allowed to make those kinds of demands of a creator, at least, until that creator blocks them on social media. In the same vein, you are perfectly allowed to demand people leave comments on your fanwork that you’ve posted to AO3. But just as readers are not obligated to leave you feedback, creators are not obligated to provide free content. You can scream into the wind as loud as you want: GIVE ME FEEDBACK! GIVE ME CONTENT! No one has to listen to you or deliver on it. There’s nothing obligating them to do so. That said, if they like your work and want to see more of it, then yes, they should understand that showing support is going to be the way to ensure new work appears without shaming or guilting or emotionally blackmailing them into it. As I said in my last post, if I have one reader that likes my work, I’m going to write for them. If I don’t have any readers liking my work, I’m less likely to continue that story, I’ll probably just keep writing and posting until I lose interest. But that’s fine. Yes, once again, I get that it can be frustrating especially when you see other works that you, maybe feel aren’t as good as your own, getting more attention because they hit the nail on the head of what their audience was looking for. But you can’t force or obligate the readers to give you that feedback, especially if they, maybe, aren’t interested in supporting your work even if they did enjoy reading it.

As for the comments regarding monetization, and the attitude that “because this is provided free, why should I pay for it from you”…uh…they’re not wrong. This is ECON-101, supply and demand, and, despite popular belief, it is NOT exclusive to fanwork. Every business has to overcome this problem. What are you offering consumers that goes beyond what they can get elsewhere and is worth them spending their money on to get from you?

angel-rhetenor also accused my comments of promoting, rather than discouraging, what they feel is an erroneous and harmful thought process, that “Everyone can make fanwork”. Here’s the thing, everyone can make fanwork. Everyone out there in the fandom is capable of it, that’s what makes it great and accessible to people that want to create. You have to figure out how to set your fanwork apart and how to effectively sell that. It might help to pose this in real world terms: Microsoft Office is a relatively expensive word processing software. Microsoft Wordpad is also a word processing software that comes free with your Windows operating system. So why do people spend money on Office, when Wordpad accomplishes the same thing without additional expense?

You set the value of your own work, you determine how much your time is worth, but the harsh reality is that just because you’ve decided that this is how much you want for your work, that doesn’t mean everyone, or anyone for that matter, is going to agree to pay that much for it, especially not if they can go to someone else and get what they’re asking free. Does that mean that those people are right and you need to start giving your work away for free? No. It means you need to figure out what it is that you’re selling that they should want to pay for, market yourself. Is it higher quality, is it a cleaner more polished work, do you have a better vision or take on the characters, is it a better display of skill. Are you selling them Microsoft Office or are you charging them for Wordpad when it’s a free software? You’ll still have people that are willing to settle for less, Wordpad is still around for a reason, but there are those who will pay you for your work because they want your work.

However, if no one wants your work for the price you’re asking, you need to revisit your business model, and that might mean that you need to improve what you are trying to sell. In terms of artists, there are decidedly better artists out there than others who are posting and sharing their work. Now I may hit the ‘Like’ buttons for a beginner artists’ shared artwork to show them support and encourage them to keep trying, but I’m not going to buy their artwork until they have developed their skill. A slightly better artist, I might pay for their work, but I’m not going to pay as much as I would for artwork from a master artist. This isn’t to say that the beginning artist sucks and didn’t work hard on their artwork, but to claim that they should receive the same return on their product than a more experienced artist who has spent many more years developing their skill is unfair to those artists that have put in the hours to develop their craft, and actually does more to harm people who are trying to monetize their work than helps by belittling and devaluing what it takes to develop a skill and build a following around their work.

Now I know where people are going to go: doesn’t saying it’s okay for people to share their work free with no obligations support the idea that people can also just take your work if they want it? You can go ahead and jump to the Reposting section to get the full answer on this, but in the meantime, consider this example: Imagine you’re shopping for a couch. You go to the store and decide its way more than you’re willing to pay, decide to shop around some. On your way home, you come across someone dragging their couch out to the curb, you go to speak to them, turns out it’s brand new, past return date but too big for their place so they’ getting rid of it and yes, you can take it if you want. Does that mean I can now go back to the store and just take the couch they had on sell there for free? No. The idea that because someone else is giving their work away for free, doesn’t then justify you taking someone else’s work for free.

Posed like this, I hope it’s obvious to see why demanding endorsement (in the form of Likes/Kudos) is, once again, not the same issue as reposting someone’s work, and, a bit of how these concepts relate to monetized works. In fact, many people who are reposting works when confronted with this perspective would easily counterargue that they are showing appreciation/gratitude by reposting someone else’s work. They see it as a sincere form of endorsement and support to that creator. They say “imitation is the highest form of flattery”, right, so outright copying must be the height of love? Which brings us naturally to recognition.

Recognition

It is a true statement that artists should be recognized for their work. Recognition is not feedback nor is it appreciation or gratitude. Recognition is just saying, “This person created that”. This is the most flummoxing part of angel-rhetenor’s argument regarding reposting because in terms of reposting, it is not enough to say that the artist needs to be given credit, and giving credit is not the issue regarding reposting. Someone can repost my story on Wattpad, complete with name on the byline, a link to my AO3 profile or email so that readers can contact me and ensure that feedback comes to me, and then they could even leave a comment praising my work and telling me that they’ve posted it on Wattpad for me, “You’re welcome!”.

So, what’s the problem here, huh? They’ve given me feedback, they’ve given their readers a method to forward me feedback, they even let me know that it was posted there, made sure proper credit was in place, and I can’t think of a higher form of endorsement, or show of gratitude/appreciation, than going to the trouble of reposting my work elsewhere for me in an effort to help give my work attention and grow my audience. Gosh, aren’t they nice? Isn’t this wonderful of them? They seem like they did all the right things.

Except, I don’t want my work on Wattpad. That’s why I don’t post it there.

Reposting

It is easy to get confused on what the real issue is in regards to reposting someone else’s work, especially because there are so many other concerns that get lumped in with regards to it that, reposting may affect, but those issues don’t have any relevance to the ethical reasoning behind reposting. I hope I made it pretty obvious in my last example, that there are ways that reposting work can look, on the surface and, in some instances maybe even truly, be beneficial to the creator. The reposter can seem to do all the right things in terms of addressing those issues, but it’s still wrong. At this point, many of you are probably thinking, “Well they needed permission before doing all of that, duh!”

But permission isn’t the issue either. The issue is ownership.

It is incredibly important for a content creator to understand the concept of ownership in terms of intellectual property, because this is the way it will be argued in terms of the law, and this is the information you need to gather before you post your work online (what are you agreeing to in terms of your ownership of your work when you post to a platform) or make claims of theft. It’s also important not to conflate this issue with things like recognition, showing appreciation/gratitude, or giving comments/feedback, because those are strawman arguments that are easy to counter. They don’t actually support the notion that you shouldn’t repost another’s work even though they may all represent reasons that a creator doesn’t want someone else reposting their work.

When I post my work to AO3, I am only granting people access to read my work for free through AO3, I grant AO3 permissions to distribute my work through its various networks, and while a reader is able to download my work from AO3 for their own individual use, no one else is allowed to distribute it. This is the explicit contractual agreement that authors and readers make when using AO3, and in that sense, exactly as I have stated, no one owes you anything for reading and enjoying your work, because you are giving them that access to it for free. Arguing that they are then obligated to give you feedback after the fact falls into the same realm as ‘Unsolicited Merchandise’.

However, you are not giving anyone ownership of your work just because you have made it available for them to read or view. Retaining ownership of my work means that I get to dictate where and how it is distributed and displayed. For a real-world example, let’s take into consideration holiday decorations. I might decide to decorate my door with a Holiday Wreath, it is free for people to see, they are not required to come to my door and thank me for the decoration, but they also cannot take my wreath and move it to my window or to their own door or to the door of a neighbor down the street. Depending on what they do with my wreath, it can be classified as vandalization or theft.

This is a problem that just about everyone that shares their creative content online is going to run into, and it is difficult – in many instances, impossible – to fight against. This is not a widespread issue, as angel-rhetenor suggests, in the sense that the majority of people are purposely doing it despite knowing the reasons for why they shouldn’t. Most people actually want to do the right thing, they just don’t know what the right thing is, and when you confuse all of these elements and complaints within the fandom, it can be difficult to determine what is right. You will see people reposting artwork asking who the creator is, unintentionally contributing to the problem and if they don’t know who the source is or what the permissions are for sharing that work, they should not be reposting it. You’ll see people remarking to a reposter that they need to give credit to an artwork, when, no, unless they can prove they have permission to post it, they need to take it down. These people are not trying to do wrong in most of these cases; they just may not recognize that this is a problem at all. Some might even misunderstand and argue that “because it was posted in a public place, it is now public property”, but the flaw with that argument is that it was not posted in a public place. It was posted to a private platform for the use and purposes of that private organization that owns that private platform as contractually detailed in that private platform’s Terms of Service, which you agree to when using that private platform’s services. AO3, Tumblr, Twitter, etc., all have written into their ToS that their content providers retain ownership of the content they share via these platforms. When you repost someone’s work from AO3 or Tumblr or Twitter or…so on and so forth, you are not just stealing someone’s property, you are in violation of that platform’s Terms of Service.

Does that mean that there aren’t individuals in the community that do it knowing full well that they shouldn’t, and having been given the reasons why? Absolutely not. Criminals exist. They are a thing. The question is, how many of these people fall into that category? Not as many as you think, most are willing to take it down when they understand why it is wrong, but it is made more difficult that many people don’t understand IP to be property owned by someone, IP Theft is often considered to be a victimless crime, and the fact that when you post something on the internet it becomes difficult to control where it is spread.

Unfortunately, if your work is not monetized, damages are hard to prove over IP Theft and usually take more effort/resources to combat than what you’ll get out of winning the fight, you may not have much in the way of a copyright claim unless someone has commercialized your freely distributed work. In other words, if someone stole a story, I wrote to share with people free on AO3, and posted it to their website which is monetized through advertisement, they are now profiting off my work and I have grounds to sue them. People who do monetize their work have a bit more of a leg to stand on in terms of copyright claims, because they can demonstrate financial damage caused by the theft or plagiarism of their work. But it is still an arduous process that causes more than just emotional distress over “nobody likes my work”.

So here is the bottomline: If you are posting your fanwork on free-to-access platforms, no one is obligated to give you feedback and no one is obligated to Like/Kudos your work. That is endorsement and support that goes above and beyond what you’ve agreed upon by posting on that platform. It is a nice thing to do and does help to ensure that your favorite content creators continue to create work. They will most assuredly stop if you do not give them encouragement. That said, content creators should not be telling their audience that they need to or they are required to give feedback or comments on works they’ve read/enjoyed, or to shame those who do not, on the grounds that they are “not being grateful or appreciative”, because that is emotionally manipulative and, overall, unethical. If you want feedback on your work, that needs to be arranged and agreed upon before sharing it.

Reposting someone’s work without their explicit consent isn’t just morally wrong, it is a crime. Equating it to asking for feedback or showing appreciation trivializes the severity of the issue. These are not equivalent, and while not giving someone feedback on their work may hurt their ego or lead to them feeling discouraged from continuing to create, reposting someone’s work can have real world economic consequences for the creator and cause tangible damages.

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