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aesir-alchemist · 6 months

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A Kiss With a Fist is Better than None (Gender Fluid Loki x Original Female Character) Chapter 1

Summary: The Chief of Vanir is has declared his thousand-year challenge. A contest of strength and cunning and endurance that promises a life-changing sum of money to its victor.

It's Loki's challenge to win it. Not for the money, of course, but for the glory. The glory and his father's favor.

And then there's Gin, a down-on-her-luck pilot with only the Tonic, her rusted out bucket of bolts spaceship to call her own. She could care less about glory... but the prize money? Now that would mean a lot.

Our two heroes find themselves at odds fighting for the same prize, but the Vanaheim challenge brings them together as much as it pushes them apart... and both have more tricks up their sleeves than the other realizes.

This galaxy-spanning adventure takes place before the events of Thor, and expands the scope of the Nine Realms. Knives will be crossed, words will be said, and (redacted) will be (redacted). So buckle up, and come along for the ride.

Author's notes: This is a departure from my Loki x reader fics, but I hope long time followers will still enjoy it.

This is not beta'd and only lightly edited, so please excuse all typos. I've taken a break from fics to write an unrelated novel (!!!) but Fanfic is life, and I need to get this story out of my system. Length will end up being similar to According to Plan, but it will be released at a slightly slower cadence.

As a disclaimer: I am queer, but I am not gender fluid! I am trying my best to be respectful and educated in writing this version of Loki. This characterization is influenced by my interpretation of Marvel's characterization of Loki in the films, show, and comics, as well as my experiences with gender-fluid members of my community, and my experiences as a queen person. With that in mind, I am very open to respectful feedback on this quality of the character from gender-fluid readers. It is my job to educate myself, but also, I relish first hand testimony if offered freely. That being said, I want to manage expectations by saying that throughout, Loki exhibits themself as male in this story more often than female because that's just how it's shaking out. It's a lot of Tom rattling around up in the ol' noggin what can I say.

Pairing: Loki (Marvel) x Original Female Character

Content Warning: 18+ smut ahead - just not in this chapter...

Word Count: 3,048

A summons for a formal audience with Odin was never a good thing. A sense of dread and forbidding gripped Loki’s stomach while he waited outside of the great gilded doors of the throne room for his audience with the Allfather.

There was a time, Loki remembered, when he was permitted more casual chats with Odin. There was still, of course, the occasional family meal, but so often now, the group was far-flung across the Nine Realms, or too preoccupied with their own interests to participate in casual familial discussions.

It wasn’t that Loki didn’t long for the closeness that others had, it was just that distance often made things easier in the Asgardian royal family. Playing things close to the chest was not only expected, it was a rather necessary preservation tactic. His mother was the only one who even got close to knowing the truth inside of Loki’s head - inside of any of them in the palace, he suspected. Frigga was the glue that kept the family together - even if it wasn’t much more than a shimmering facade.

Gleaming guards opened the doors to the great chamber and Loki readied himself. This could be another of Odin’s famous lectures or it could be…. Well, Loki wasn’t exactly sure what else this little meeting could be about. His father had offered him very little aside from chastisement since childhood, and what good news or approval that he had doled out was done rather causally and without much pomp or circumstance.

Loki kneeled before the Allfather, his chest clenched and bile rising in his stomach.

“You called for me, father?”

“Yes, my son. I have a matter for you to attend to. A matter of great importance to Asgard.”

Loki rose, curiosity in his countenance and on his face, “What is it? I am eager and honored to do my duty to you, and to the Nine Realms,” it was a rare opportunity for Loki to be asked to test his mettle in an official capacity. He was thrilled to be so openly offered the chance - he prayed he didn’t sound too desperate.

“As you are aware, another sun soon turns upon Vanaheim. As it is his custom, the chief of the Vanir is set to hold his annual hunt. I think it would be a show of good will in our protectorate for a prince of Asgard to participate in this year’s challenge.

“But there is another reason… I fear that in light of their recent prosperity, the Vanir have forgotten why they are a dominion of Asgard. I believe it is time for a gentle show of strength. Of domination. Let us remind them of their place in the Nine Realms.

“I need you, Loki, in no uncertain terms, to enter the contest and win it. Asgard depends on it, and I will be gravely disappointed if you do not.”

And there it was. Odin needed his second son to act as his barking dog and put the Vanir back in their place.

Loki was aware of the pleasant misconception that the Vanir were more than happy to be a peaceful and supplicant protectorate of Asgard - but he was equally aware of the truth that had been lost to time, the way so many difficult facts often were. The truth was that the war between the Aesir and the Vanir was heavy and heated and brutal, and lad left Vanaheim with almost nothing - a shadow of their former empire. The Vanir were reliant on the good graces of the Aesir after that, and a reliant protectorate, as Loki and Odin both knew, was an obedient one.

“Why not Thor? Why not your more gleaming son?” The question came out with more heat than Loki intended. He should be thankful to play a meaningful part in maintaining Asgard’s vast dominion, he knew. He just wished that it wasn’t so belittling.

“Loki, my child, Thor was built for combat, but you were built for strategy. I would not challenge you to this if I did not think you were up to the task,” Odin knew his flattery would always work. Maybe that was his reason for holding back casual affection. Odin’s grand gestures would always taste sweet if there was little else to compare them to.

“Alright father. If it means so much, of course I’ll participate. I’ll do you proud.”

“Of course you will my son, for Asgard! I have no doubt.”

And with a wave of Odin’s hand, Loki was dismissed without another word on the matter.

But of course Loki did have doubts. He had doubts about his father’s flattery, about his father’s motives, and about his own abilities in tackling the task at hand.

Loki had not acquiesced to Odin’s mission in ignorance. He knew all about the famed and fabled Vanir challenge. Each year that the chief of the Vanir turned older he hid his most prized possession in a new location in the universe, setting up a complex and often deadly series of clues to challenge those brave enough, or foolish enough, to attempt to find it. The one who found the object was declared champion and could exchange the object for a literal king’s ransom - an amount to turn the tides of someone’s destiny and make even the most satiated men drool with desire. Or at least that’s what the stories said. It was an opportunity that no adventurer could refuse.

But since the stars spin more slowly around Vanaheim, and years are catalogued rather differently in the protectorate, there hadn’t been a challenge held since Loki and and his brother were but infants - almost 1000 Asgardian years ago. Most of the reliable sources of information on the event were long dead, or their memories had quite moved on to more important matters. It was hard to discern what was sensationalized and what was true. It’s not that Loki wasn’t intrigued or excited by the prospect - he was young, full of vim and vigor, and eager to to prove himself - it’s just that the whole prospect rather reeked of a trap.

Loki stalked the gold-columned hallways of the palace looking for his brother. When they were growing up the two of them often had elaborate play-fights, pretending that they were battling for the prize of Vanaheim. They would have a handmaid hide a trinket somewhere in the castle and race to find it first. The idea of it captured their imaginations so completely that nary a chair or bush or delicate vase could stand in the way of their conquest. They’d gotten into so much trouble for ruining the castle grounds in those days, which only made the taste of victory that much more sweet.

Yes, Loki thought, If anyone would understand it would be Thor.

It was in his private chambers that Loki finally found Thor, alone, thankfully, and indulging in a small private meal. It was the strange for the younger son to see his brother without his coterie of war-hearty companions.

“And where are Lady Sif and the Warriors Three this evening?” Loki asked, a passing wonder at the likelihood of a conversation with Hogun - Thor’s Vanir compatriot.

“I’m not feeling up to their company tonight brother - tell me, have you spoken yet with father?

“What do you know of that?”

“I know that he asked you to partake in the Vanir challenge. I know that he asked you to win.”

“So you’ve already spoken to him?” A different kind of picture was beginning to form in Loki’s head

“I proposed the idea. I proposed that I enter the contest myself.”

So Odin denied Thor’s opportunity for glory, and suggested his youngest son enter the fray instead. What was the Allfather playing at? Loki’s suspicions were not being put at rest.

“Well, I daresay you would have been the better son for it. You’re much more the type to be deemed a champion,” what Loki didn’t say was that he was beginning to think that maybe Odin didn’t want his youngest son to make it out alive.

“Loki, you disparage yourself! You are every bit the fighter that I am. And far more cunning. I do not begrudge you this opportunity - My only regret is that I shall not be at your side when you claim the victory!”

at least Loki found it reassuring to know that Thor still thought of him as a brother-at-arms and not just a mewling tag along to risky adventures.

“You’re right, as always brother. And I think it’ll be good for me, to do this on my own. And… this way I’ll secure all of the glory for myself,” he finished with a wink and a nudge, the joke sitting easier on his tongue than the truer emotions.

Thor indulged Loki with a tight smile and a pleasant, if awkward moment of silence. Neither brother wanted to walk away, but neither were willing to burst the lingering bubble of all the things they truly needed to share.

“Are you nervous Loki?” Asked Thor after a while. It was the tip of the more serious question looming beneath it.

“Whatever has the God of Mischief to be worried about?” A cowardly deflection, Loki knew, but this was a familiar mode for them.

“You’ve heard the stories… the legends, the rumors. Great hungry monsters, perilous traps. Clues that brutally test both the body and the mind - Mighty heroes laid waist by the smallest of missteps. Surely it sets you on edge. We were brought up on the same tales. It must grip your imagination as much as it does mine.”

“My imagination, sure. But Thor. They are but stories, distorted by sensation and time. I’m excited, actually. If the legends are even half true, it should all be great fun,” Loki wouldn’t drop his bravado enough let his brother see how anxious he really was. He couldn’t falter in his resolve now. He did it for his own sake, but also for Thor’s. If an accident were to befall Loki in the contest, he couldn’t let Thor live with the guilt of thinking there was anything he could have said to stop it.

And there wasn’t, really. Odin had made up his mind for everyone.

——————————————————————

A serpent before a frog was never a good thing. A sense of fear and anxiety gripped Gin’s stomach while while she watched the last of the ivory dice roll across the textured canvas laid out on the makeshift table.

Another serpent. The tiniest exhale. A draw and a new round. Not all was lost yet. Gin let her chest ease slightly as she rolled one of the worn dice in her fingers. Bear, bear, bear, she prayed. It was her only chance now at taking home the pot. And she needed that money if she was ever going to get off this Godforsaken rock…

Bear.

“YES!” She screamed, almost forgetting herself. It didn’t behoove her situation to appear as anything but hard and nonplussed. Emotion betrayed motive, and motive could be exploited. Gin quickly shut her mouth and reached for the pile of coins and paper cash stacked on the corner of the table.

“Wait,” the rather large, rather rough, rather scarred hand of her opponent landed on top of hers, stopping her from claiming the prize, “How’d you do it? Magic?”

“Buddy, it’s a dice game. It’s all up chance,” magic? She thought, what was this guy talking about? If Gin had magic, she wouldn’t need to be in this hellhole scraping by, betting on loose change.

“So you rigged the dice then?”

“Mister, they’re your dice. How could I have rigged them?” This was getting absurd, Gin reached for a loose coin and tossed it with a flick of her thumb, “Here. This is thanks for letting me use them, your very nice, very balanced dice.”

The coin clattered to the ground with a tinkling chime. The man gripping her hand didn’t even turn to look. Oops, Gin realized, maybe that was a little too condescending for the very large, very scary man that is currently gripping me.

“You think you can just take my money?” The man asked, tightening his hold on Gin’s arm.

“I mean, technically, it’s not your money. Not anymore… any of these people can attest to that,” Gin gestured at the crowd of onlookers who were never far from a compelling game of chance. But none of them would meet her gaze, and most had begun shuffling away in awkward avoidance.

Shit, Gin thought, I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to do this.

Her balled up fist lashed out and hit the beastly goon firmly in his side where Gin desperately hoped there was something akin to a kidney. He winced and doubled over, freeing her hand long enough to grab the cash on the table. With a swipe of her arm she scooped what coins she could into her worn leather satchel and kicked the ad-hoc table, sending dice and the remaining coins flying.

The large scarred hand grabbed her again, pushing on her shoulder. Gin used the momentum to fall into a spin, twisting her way out of the grip and clipping the man’s ankles and knocking him off-balance with a low kick. She clambered out of his reach, using his disorientation as an opportunity. Half of the remaining crowd was scrambling for the strewn coins, she dodged and weaved around them desperately trying to blend into the portion of the crowd that was frantically fleeing.

Gin pushed through the scrambling masses, working her way out of the seedy corner of the market that the gamblers lurked in. She spun around the crowd, ducking behind carts and crates praying to lose her assailant in the crush of the horde. Spotting an alcove between two shops she crouched, tucking herself away as her opponent stumbled into the open-air market.

A light tapping on Gin’s shoulder disrupted her observation from the sunken vantage point. She looked up and two fingers gestured, silently beckoning her to a bargain. Gin frowned but wordlessly offered up one of the slips of paper she’d grabbed from the table as payment. The vendor nodded and shifted a crate of fragrantly overripe fruit in front of the hiding spot to offer better cover. Clearly this arrangement was one of the invisible goods that this little market was familiar dealing with.

Several long minutes passed and Gin gingerly poked her head out from the little hiding spot looking for any sign of the sore loser that was chasing her. The bustle of the crowd looked more or less normal and she gingerly crept out and away from her alcove.

Quickly but casually Gin beelined for the borders of the shopping district. She had an appointment at the edge of town and the hour was already getting late.

Gin could hear the rumble of the shop’s rolling doors closing before she saw it and picked up her pace.

“Wait! Waitwaitwait! Marty! I’ve got your money!”

The sinewy shopkeep turned shaking his head, “Gin, it’s too late. I’ve already waited longer than I should have. There’ll be hell to pay in the morning as it is. You lost kid.”

“No, please, please. I’ve got the money, and more… well a little more,” she rifled through the stack of paper cash, “The boss can’t say no to that can he? I’ve given him so much already. This is the last payment, then he’ll never have to see my face or hear my name ever again.”

“Yeah… not until the Great Gin needs another favor and a loan. You had a contract Gin. And you didn’t meet it. The boss is gonna sell her for parts in the morning.”

“No! He can’t, please Marty. Please. It’s all here,” she pressed the wad of cash into his hand, “He can’t it’s my legacy. You know how important this is,” Gin hated begging, but she’d gotten pretty good at it in the last few years. It’s amazing how used you can get to things when you’re desperate.

Marty huffed and looked around in frustration until ultimately shoving the stack of cash into the large leather pocket of his apron.

“Okay Gin, but If I get heat for this, I’m personally going to hunt you down and skin you myself,” Marty rolled the large metal door back up onto its clattering wheel and Gin ducked under before it was even fully open.

The warehouse door exposed a cavernous room stuffed with all manner of tagged and catalogued items. Gin wound through aisles of weapons, vases, jewels and vehicles, striding down the practiced path until she reached her ultimate destination.

Before her loomed a large four-winged ship, shiny graphite-black save for the copious burns and scrapes tattooing its nose and sides - Every one bringing to mind a close encounter or near-death escape and a tall tale that Gin could tell. She pressed her hand and then her cheek against the scraped nose of the ship, greeting the vehicle like it were her trusty steed.

“Tonic,” she said quietly, “I’ll never leave you alone ever again. I promise.”

“Stop talking to the ship Gin. She’s just a hunk of metal.”

“No, Marty, that’s where you’re wrong. She’s my very best friend. She’s family.”

“You know that’s… really sad, right? Don’t you have any real family to look after?” Marty tossed her the keys and they were caught by deft hands.

“Marty, do you think that if I had any real family left that I would be here, right now, with you?” She walked around to the cargo bay’s side door and unlocked it, stepping inside and taking a deep huff of the stale air.

“Well… no,” Marty stared at her a moment wondering if he should poke more into that dismissal of a response or let it go. He let it go.

“For the price you paid to get her back, you probably could have gotten something newer. Smaller sure, but faster,” he watched the woman inspect the inside and clean cobwebs from control panels, “Where do you plan to take her next, anyway?”

“Marty… have you ever heard of a place called Vanaheim?”

Find more of this work, and other work of mine on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesir_Alchemist/pseuds/Aesir_Alchemist

#loki #loki fanfic #loki odinson #loki x original female character #gender fluid loki

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sevensav--d-archived · 3 years

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@knifelizard sent 🔥 🔥

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion.

**Okay so to preface this, these are MY bad takes and MY pet peeves, and I am just ONE person so please don’t take anything I say to heart bc what the fuck do I know, I’m nobody.

🔥 Formatting makes RP so much harder for me. Like, five years ago this shit wasn’t around, I stg. At least not in the rpcs was in. I have trouble reading small fonts, and FOLKS THEY ARE JUST GETTING SMALLER AND SMALLER like If I have to copy and paste your text into a dang word doc and up the size, I’m probably not going to want to keep writing with you! It’s too much work!!! Icons too, those are getting so dang tiny and like, more power to you if your eyes can understand, but with small sizes on top of psds that more often than not degrade the image, I can barely tell what I’m seeing.

The thing is, I understand that doing formatting is some of the fun for roleplayers, so I take it all with a grain of salt. Not everyone has the same beef with their eyes as me. BUT, there’s a big ol’ problem with a sense of elitism that comes with ~formatting~ in rpcs. I have noticed it pretty much first hand, since my formatting pretty much ends at cutting and trimming my posts. I shouldn’t have to force myself to take even MORE time on my posts in order to be noticed and taken seriously as a roleplayer. I literally HAVE changed the way I do certain things just to fit in with more of the RP trends, and I ended up stopping doing a lot of them because they took too much time and they just suck the fun out of it for me. Other folks, do it, go ahead, have fun. But it really grinds my gears when I’m made to feel like I’m not as good at the whole RP thing because I don’t do extra formatting. I should be judged on my writing and dangit, I think my writing is pretty good, apart from the spelling mistakes I make.

Even simple shit like, making new posts for asks- That’s a GREAT development, I love it but FUCK it makes me tired and sometimes I just don’t wanna do it but I KEEP doing it because literally everyone else does it.... AND THAT SUUUUUCKS like let me live please I already have a hard time writing please don’t pressure me into taking the time to make a complicated theme and making my posts more ~aesthetically pleasing~ when I’m just here to read! I just wanna read!!!!!!!! :(((((((((((

Anyway long story short, It only slightly bugs me when people format a ton, bc it’s inconvenient for me- but I can work with that bc I want other people to have fun. It’s when MY fun is in jeopardy bc I don’t wanna put in the extra work, THAT’S when I get a bit!!! Miffed!!! Phew. Okay, moving on.

🔥 MENTAL HEALTH MATTERS until your mental health makes you do something that I don’t like then you’re just toxic and a bad person, OR it doesn;t matter bc you’re not popular. Like. Bruh. BRUH. I’m gonna expose myself a bit here and state that there have been times on my blogs where I am like. Teetering on the edge of collapse, and I’m not only crying for help, I’m strapping a neon sign to my face saying “I NEED TO BE TALKED TO OR ELSE I WILL JUST NOT COME BACK” and literally???? Crickets.

Like my feelings have been hurt so many times, by so many people in this rpc that I’m just floating on a sea of amicability waiting for people to cut me off from them bc I’m so desperate for attention or I’m so clingy but god forbid, if someone with a really popular blog pulls the same shit as me, it’s positivity city. I could go on about how inbox positivity irks me, but I know that a lot of people really do enjoy getting it. I just wish I didn’t always have to see it when I’m barely hanging on and begging for a little love but feeling like no one sees me or cares. It’s like being really hungry and watching someone get fed by a bunch of other people.

I’M JEALOUS! I AM A PERSON WHO GETS JEALOUS it’s a whole dang part of how my mental illness processes itself in my pea brain noggin!!! Jealousy is an UGLY emotion and it makes you do SHITTY things. I am VERY aware of this fact and I’m making efforts to call attention to my needs in a healthier way but dang dang dang is it hard to do that a lot of the time when you see other people getting away with literally the exact same behavior. Like???????? Ugh. UGH! I’m tired.

“Just leave the RPC bones” WHY DO I HAVE TO GO? Why is it that the only way I can get anyone to even glance in my direction is to have my much more popular than me best friend call attention to my needs (love them very much btw) but seriously. SERIOUSLY. This RPC needs to reflect a bit on how they handle people with “the wrong” kind of mentally ill. Not every adhd or depressed roleplayer is the same. Stop. Treating them. Like. They are. And stop! Ignoring! The people who are hurting! Jeez! It’s more than just anxiety go brrr or depression go brrr for some people, this is like. All we fucking have. And losing it could be really bad for some people.

Anyway, I know this particular subject is really touchy and nuanced and whatever but I’ve been in enough RPCs to recognize when there’s a problem.

If you can’t take someone’s mental health, like if they are too much for you, TELL THEM there’s a pretty good chance they’re aware that they’re a lot to handle, and will either try to be better, or will accept your decision and move on. Don’t maintain ‘friendships’ if you’re not actually going to maintain them, you’re just going to hurt someone when they think they can rely on you, but they really can’t. You don’t owe that to anyone, but you shouldn’t dangle it in front of someone only to take it away when you don’t want to deal with the negative side effects of someone’s mental illnesses. And LETS BE REAL IF YOU RP YOU PROBABLY HAVE SOME SHIT so I think we ALL could learn to be more empathetic. Talk to people, if you can. If you can’t?????? I hope you’re doing okay.

UGH.

Okay. Alright, I got that out. Those were two big ones that have been eating at me for literally months.

If you don’t like what I’m saying, please do nooooot bother trying to make me feel shitty about how I feel. I already feel shitty for feeling this way! These opinions are unpopular, I do not expect anyone to be on my very specific, very mean page.

#**salty bones #**yartz all over the screen #long post

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tothedarkdarkseas · 4 years

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Hi hi! We’re all desperate for something to post about so I’m issuing a new challenge to the writers in the fandom, if you dare: rank your fics from best to worst. Not necessarily just to focus on negatives, you can take your own approach! But IMO, we grow by acknowledging our weaknesses.

I haven’t read any back recently but these are the impressions in my ol’ noggin:

Ampersands - This is due to the fact that it’s the most recent, so I haven’t had as much time to start really hating it. I also hated it so much while writing it that I felt a little more pleasantly surprised by the finished version? Pretty okay in my memory, scared to read again to confirm. Some clunkier sections for sure, not broadly appealing and took far too long, but kind of funny and probably the least bad I’ve got to offer. Like a solid 7/10, I don’t think I’ve peaked higher than that.

On Oysters and Black Water - Used to be my favorite, I wish I could say I still like it more than I do. I do enjoy the ideas and enjoy some imagery, and I stand by giving Stu more (outraged!) autonomy on Plastic Beach, but the dialogue’s rough in spots and it’s overwritten. Even in a setting where I should be able to avoid accidental Americanisms among the Brits, I do still manage to fuck that up, so well done. Mostly saved because I do think it’s at least a unique Plastic Beach take.

Coffin Dancer - Not necessarily better in quality than the fics after, but it was the first bigger project and only real “AU” I’ve written, and I do have some lingering fondness even though it’s actually kinda face-scrunching to read back. Why is there so much detail about digging? Why is Sebastian fallen-money? The Niccals family are plot devices. Very unnatural dialogue. The gothic setting slightly disguises my overwriting, so that’s sneaky and beneficial. Not really a very compelling characterization of Murdoc, I’d write him a little nastier or meaner this time. Even in an AU, “selfless” feels like a totally wrong character trait for him.

Midnight Coward - Lower half of the barrel from here on. I don’t really rate this or November better/worse than each other, these spots are interchangeable. I feel like this might even be worse because it’s older, but it felt better received at the time? There’s at least one line that I remember liking about Stu’s hands, but otherwise very awkward, and some real clunkers of dialogue in this.

November Hasn’t Come - About the same as Midnight Coward, but I think more forgettable. Ideas that seemed unique when I started but were pretty poorly executed. No real standout descriptions, and a few that stand out in a bad way. Pretty "oof” dialogue. Above all it just doesn’t... seem to breathe as a story, but we needed erectile dysfunction fic. (Did we really though?)

Same Old Cadillac - Hitting the bottom of the barrel. This probably should be lower, but it was written in two days for 2Doc Week so I kinda want to cut it some slack. It was fun to participate, but I do not think this drabble holds up or is worth reading now after that challenge week. It’s at least mercifully short! As is obvious, I didn’t know what the Cotswolds really were besides quaint. I think this feels like a stupid suggestion coming from either of them now. I thought if I wrote something more tender it would be better received, but I suspect people could tell I’m not gifted in that department, I think this was recognized as pretty dire right away. I lost a subscriber after posting this on AO3 and I don’t blame them. (Also clearly knocking off the concept of Margate in Yearz but without the extra layers, thankfully wasn’t bold enough to actually try and write them in this location. Nothing is shakier than me trying to write English things... this ship was a mistake.)

Berries, Unripe - This is actually kind of unreadable. Probably the most overwritten, and all of my fics are already competing for that title. Dialogue’s unnatural, bad references to Coleridge because I was still trying to convince people I was smart, awkward breaching of the main topic. Just... there’s nothing else to say for it, it’s clunky and overwrought. I remember being so proud of this at the time, and now I feel guilty that this was a present! I really appreciate that anon being so nice about it. If you’re still out there anon, I will write something else for you.

I Couldn’t Feel, So I Would Touch - Baby’s first 2Doc and the first fic I’d written in like 7 years, and it shows. This is my most viewed and it is also easily the worst. There is nothing salvageable in this. I don’t just think it’s my worst, I think it’s really bad on any objective scale. Take a final shot for this descriptor because it’s Clunky(tm) and faux-poetic, the POV changes halfway through, I don’t have a good handle on the characters so the attempts to be thoughtful fail miserably. In complete honesty I would delete it if I wasn’t a greedy little piglet who would be sad to see my AO3 stats drop. :(

I don’t say all that just to be negative! I just, err... well, I guess I do tend to focus on the negatives, haha. But I’ve only been writing again since July 2018 and I think I’ve improved a lot in that time, I do think looking at the material shows that practice does equal improvement-- so most of it being sorta garbage means if I keep going, I’ll keep improving. I don’t think I’m really at “good” yet, but I’m at “better.” That’s really all we can be, because the milestone for “good” will simply keep moving. Right, anyway, there’s my long post talking about myself, please do this as well if you’ve got like 3+ fics to rank, I’d like to know what you make of your work, which ones you still like best or which you’d rewrite!

#tell me if this is obnoxious and i'll delete it #but equally if you decide to do it lmk

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katsidhe · 5 years

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And now it’s your turn! I would love to get the Director’s Commentary on “Awake, Arise.” Especially if you get inspired to add another chapter. 😜❤️

Thank you so much to both @caranfindel and @quirkykayleetam for asking about “Awake, Arise”! It’s a multi chapter, WIP season 9 AU with all my favorite things: Sam, and also torture. What else is there to say??

…okay, fine, let’s add some background.

How did you come up with the idea?

Sam’s been hurt a lot, hasn’t he? He gets injured every other episode, he gets tied up and threatened and tortured, he gets choked and stabbed and conked on the noggin and everything else under the sun. It’s why we love him. But most everything that’s happened to him (with the big ol’ glaring exception of the Cage) has been, if not wholly unanticipated, at least a shock in that moment. On the job, then acute hurt, then relative safety. When he’s in a fight, he can give as good as he gets. If he’s abducted, it’s a surprise, and it’s temporary. If he’s killed, it’s sudden, and he’s coming back. Even though hideous injury is a predictable hazard of his occupation, Sam hasn’t really been in a prolonged period of helplessness/anticipation of injury without a reasonable hope of escaping it or fighting back… at least, not on Earth.

In the Cage, on the other hand, Sam experienced unimaginably brutal and creative abuse, with no hope of escape or fighting back or rescue, and with every anticipation that each new day would be more absurdly unbearable than the last. But… he also didn’t need to be functional, per se, not beyond whatever variable standard of “entertaining” that Lucifer specified. He didn’t have to pull himself together to research a case or interact with civilians or navigate the nuanced and thorny complexities of his relationship with Dean.

Basically, Sam’s day-to-day struggles are stressful and ongoing and dangerous, but he never knows precisely what to expect, and he knows he’s generally equipped to fight back; his time in the Cage was a lot more morbidly predictable and inevitable, but there was no requirement to be a sane, productive member of society.

So….. what if we combined the best worst of both worlds? What if Sam got an exact time and date and description for the hurt, a who what when where, without any way for him to fight or avoid it? And it would just keep happening, but in between, he had to keep living his life? What if, on top of that, it was the worst thing he could imagine: a return to the Cage? (Trauma is nice but REtrauma is nicer.) How do would he deal with THAT flavor of ongoing trauma—something unlike anything he’s felt before?

Hence… the premise of Awake, Arise, which I tossed around in my mind for a few years, sort of fruitlessly wishing someone else would think of the same idea and write it. (I found a few stories with premises that were… vaguely similar but not quite there.) Eventually, I realized I’d have to be the change I wanted to see in the world. Or some such thing.

Why is it set in season 9?

Short answer? Not to put too fine a point on it, but adding Lucifer to s9 makes a stew that I think most embodies what I see as SPN’s mission statement: “Sam Winchester navigates various abusive relationships, of varying severity, to varying degrees of success.”

Longer justification: first of all, it’s gotta be after season 7—so that Sam’s in a place of relative functionality—and before season 11—so that Lucifer’s got little hope for imminent rescue. So that narrows the field a little.

And then I got to thinking about the other goals I had for a fic (y’know, beyond just endlessly self-indulgent Lucifer and Sam convos and Cage headcanons, which is my real genre of choice), and I realized I really, REALLY wanted to deal with the intricacies of Sam and Dean’s post-Gadreel relationship. The newly Mark’ed Dean is looking for absolution that Sam’s in absolutely no mood to give. Sam’s reeling from possession and betrayal; he’s trying, for the first time in a long time, to set some boundaries in their relationship. What better time to make things EVEN WORSE, than when Sam’s already got to navigate his victimhood at the hands of his own brother? What better time to add in Lucifer as both foil and cruel truth-teller?

Other things to love in season 9: Dean’s, erm, complicated relationship with violence and torture and Sam-as-victim is being exacerbated by the Mark (oh Dean, you scary bastard, I do love you)… and Cas and Sam’s friendship is both touchingly close and more than a tad off (”the only one who’s screwed up worse than you is me”, anyone?)… and Gadreel, whom I love, is hanging around to be a Sam-mirror (they should be friends but they’re very much noooot ahahaha)…

What’s with the title?

“Awake, arise, or be forever fall’n” is a Paradise Lost quote. It’s Satan’s rallying cry to the other angels who have fallen from God’s grace: he’s telling them that he’s their only salvation.

How closely is it going to follow canon events?

I’m operating under the logic that the ONLY thing that’s altered between canon and the Awake Arise universe is the existence of Abaddon’s spell. That being said, the addition of Lucifer to the season 9 chessboard upsets the plans of quite a few players, and changes the Sam’n’Dean dynamic dramatically! There are a lot of fun implications that come from that one alteration, so while generally, facts that are true in canon remain true here, the landscape’s gonna look pretty different in the end.

Was this your first real attempt at creative writing?

Yepppp. It’s not my first fic ever (that dubious distinction belongs to a very short piece I wrote in about an hour right after 11.09 because holy shit 11.09 was not fucking around), but it’s the first one I’ve ever expended serious effort on. When I started writing it in 2017, I didn’t think of myself as any kind of an author. I think my writing has improved since then, and hopefully it will continue to improve.

It’s incredibly self indulgent, isn’t it?

Why, yes. Yes, it is. It is an excuse for my id to hurt Sam in fun new ways. I tacked intellectual character justifications onto it post hoc.

Are you ever going to update?

Yes. I am going to see this unholy thing through to the bitter end (which btw is already written). Chapter 17 is about three-quarters done.

How long is it going to be?

Who knows! It began life with a broad fifteen chapter outline, but I kept thinking of more things to add to the middle, and then I needed additional things to connect those things in ways that made sense… you get the picture. Right now my outline has bloated to 33 chapters, and it’s almost certainly going to be longer than that.

And there’s my commentary! Thanks for asking!! I’m not even sure what people are most interested in knowing about this piece, since it’s a WIP… so if there’s some burning question or idle curiosity I didn’t cover, drop me a line!

#i speaks #this was so much fun #awake arise #sam and lucifer #sam and the cage #sam and trauma #sam and abuse #my fic #dean critical #i suppose #anyway the takeaway from this is that I like media about trauma and abuse #raise your hand if you're surprised

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winecatsandpizza · 6 years

Text

Whisper

Title: Whisper

Day: October 17

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Casifer x Reader

Tags: dub-con, non-con, Casifer, dark!fic, grace, oral, teleporting

Beta: @jessyackles

Fic Aesthetic: Me

A/N: This is a part two of sorts to October 2nd’s story, Lookalike.

Written for: @horrificmemes ‘s October Writing Challenge

You woke up underneath the Eiffel Tower. The lights were a beautiful contrast against the night sky. You felt calm and content looking at the masterpiece above you until you heard a voice.

“The view is almost as beautiful as you are, Y/N.”

You sat at looking for him. Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. In fact, no one was around. You were alone, lying naked on a blanket in Paris with no one else around you. Lucifer was just a whisper inside your head. The memories of what Lucifer had done to you washed over you.

“Lucifer, where are you?” You sighed.

“I am everywhere, doll face. If you don’t like the view, I can change it for you. How about here?”

Suddenly, you were in a posh bedroom you didn’t recognize. The cold, silk sheets beneath you gave you goosebumps as you sat up and looked around the room. You felt out of place in the sophisticated, chic room. You jumped as you felt a cool touch on your shoulder.

“I thought you always wanted an evening in Paris with ole Cassie, but maybe you’d prefer this fancy bedroom?” Lucifer was using Castiel’s grace to slowly move down your chest. As much as you tried to move away, the cool tingly sensation wouldn’t budge.

“He has a lot of memories of you in his noggin. I know it wasn’t your first time, you dirty bird. I, myself, quite enjoyed myself and if you stop lying to yourself I think you did, too.” The grace was circling your nipples as another strand on grace began to circle your clit.

“Lucifer,” you hissed sharply as you grasped at the sheets.

He chuckled, “I never get tired of hearing you say my name. You’re such a good girl for me when you scream it, Y/N.” Grace was thrust inside you repeatedly as it circled your clit and tweaked your nipples. You tried to fight against the orgasm that was building inside of you, but there was no use.

“Lucifer, please,” you brokenly sobbed.

“Please what, Y/N?”

“Take me, b-but let Cas go,” your orgasm crashed through you and once it was over, you felt more shame than the previous orgasms Lucifer had stolen from you.

“Let’s try this again,” Lucifer suggested and you were in another new place. This time, the beautiful fall leaves surrounded you. It was dusk and the sun was just breaking through the horizon. The sounds of happy birds and crickets put a smile on our face before Lucifer was in front of you.

“Y/N,” Lucifer’s voice was different this time. It almost sounded like Castiel.

“Cas?” you hurriedly inquired as your face light up with hope as you found his shining blue eyes.

“Yes, Y/N, it’s me. I don’t have much time. You need to give Lucifer what he wants. Do not worry about me. Do not feel shame. Give Lucifer what he wants. I love you, Y/N,” Cas advised.

“”What are you talking about, Cas?”

“Oh, sorry. Cas isn’t here right now, please leave a message at the beep,” Lucifer responded sarcastically. “Fall is your favorite season. Maybe some outdoor fun will change your mind?” he winked.

“Lucifer,” you began as you swallowed hard, “I’m yours.”

“Just like that?” he asked unsure. You nodded.

“Hm, I’ll have to send dad a thank you card for making this then.”

“I have one request that does not involve Castiel or trying to get out of this, and then you can do whatever you want.”

“Name it,” he shot back instantly.

“I need to see Sam and Dean for five minutes to tell them that I am going away, indefinitely, and to never look for me. To never try to save me. To just move on and forget that I never existed. I think we both know how determined and in-the-way they can be,” you stated as you got on your knees in front of him and began to undo his belt.

“Let’s finish here, then we’ll see about your chat with boys. Let’s see just how much of a good girl you’re going to be for me from now on.”

“Yes, Lucifer,” you responded and you unsheathed Castiel’s cock from its confines.

My Full October Writing Challenge Masterlist

#winecatsandpizza #October Writing Challenege #Horrific Memes #casifer #casifer x reader #Casifer x Y/N #reader insert #spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #supernatural fan #dark #cas #castiel

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swords-guns-blogs · 6 years

Text

One Year Later

Oh, hi there! You may recognize me as a cute cuddly version of your favorite regenerative degenerate. "Hello Deadpool", if you will. If you keep up with those old fashioned paper "kah-micks" that come out month to month, you're probably realizing this is what we in the biz like to call the re-cap page. Because let's face it! Life happens! Sometimes you're all set to write a bunch of replies that help shape a beautiful story about an idiot and his dream of owning a boat and then sometimes you fall off the face of the Earth for an entire year. Point being, it happens, but the story must go on!

Right... The story. Where exactly where we again? Hold on a sec, I need to reread this myself. Don't go anywhere, it'll just take me a seco-JEEZ THEY WRITE A LOT. Entire paragraphs?! Come on. What happened to the good 'ol days when they placed all of their replies in 140 characters or less? I mean the occasional TwitLonger was fine, but this is going to take me forever! [Now might be a good time to reintroduce the "laws" of how you present yourself, Wade]

Nice thinking, Boxy! You see, this is all taking place on a website teenage girls use to blog about their favorite porn and TV show GIFs. [That's not even remotely wh-] And I've been able to take advantage of these blogs and their rich text editors to really convey all the craziness that goes in my noggin. You'll notice that right now, everything is just plain text! Real free form stuff, no fancy bold or italicized effects. This is just me, talking to you [The reader]. Yeah that's right. I actually understand all of this nonsense. I'm well aware that this one guy writes for me [In his image sometimes] and his Canadian sister from another mister is the only one who reads the replies [Bless her]. You might notice the occasional enclosed bracket segment in my monologue as well. Well that's just my thoughts. Now I know what you're thinking, "Wade, I thought these were already your thoughts? Just voiced towards me, the reader?" Well they are! The boxes are just my OTHER thoughts! Sometimes there's only the one [I'm the voice of reason], sometimes I bring in a second one {I like a little crazy!} and if you ever see the dreaded third... It'll be too late for you. I think that just about covers everything! [Actions?] Speak way louder than words, agreed. Especially since these type of words have no sound to them. [... sigh Actions like that. The bold text.] OH! Right! Given how ridiculous my speech is in word form, my lovely writer is fond of using bold words to represent the story. You can consider this when he truly takes over, I don't typically have much say or control of what torture he places on me. {Like the time he blew your nuts off and made you a teenage girl?} Ha, Classic Austin. [You done yet?] Oh yeah, I scarfed the last one down in the middle of all that explaining. [Not lunch, you idiot! The recap. Did you read it all yet?] Eh. I'm gonna wing it. [Oh boy] inhales Maximum Effort. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Wade pressed his shoulder against the frame of the wooden porch as he stared out at the morning sun. It was just peaking over for the first time, the pink tones of the clouds only helped the orange of the sun appear to be more vibrant. As a few birds landed on the soft ground in front of the two-story yellow ranch house, a smile crept onto Wade's face. Closing his eyes, Wade took a moment to appreciate the calm sounds of the country air, the birds below picking for worms, and with one deep inhale he took in all of the scents that the warm cup of coffee he had just brewed. As he opened his eyes, he couldn't help but feel that life was just better this way. No worries, no regrets, just a large plot of land, several rows of seasonal crops, a few farm animals to provide the necessities, and of course, her. Wade stepped off the porch and onto the brown stairs that led him to the ground. The birds turned and scurried off to a new patch of grass as Wade walked by. With their new home and new lives came one extra amenity, an amazing view. It had become a morning tradition for Wade, to walk the land that he had cultivated with his bare hands, only to end up at the edge of the mountain the home sat upon. As he pushed through waves of Corn Stalk, Wade couldn't help but turn his head when a couple of crow's began to 'Kaw', that's when he laid eyes on an old familiar face. They had realized really early on that their bird friends were going to take their fair share of the land, so to combat against those Crows who weren't as brave, Wade had built a scarecrow. Standing taller than the stalks of corn, Wade looked up at his old suit and mask. It had been stuffed to the brim with hay and nailed to a board as to give the impression of it being a real person, a Deadpool Scarecrow. No matter what the circumstances were, it always put a smile on his face to see his old work uniform in such display. As he moved past the corn and onto the lettuce patches and tomato vines, Wade could see it. The breathtaking view that had made their decision to move here so easy. You could see the country side for miles, deep rolling hills filled in with lush vegetation and tree lines. Two rivers ran through towards the bottom of the mountain and when it rained, they would always echo the valley with sounds of clean and pure running water. And on the top of all the tree's, just barely peeking over, was that vibrant orange sun. Wade took another drink from his mug, as he let the warm liquid sit in his mouth for an extra second, he tried to take a moment and truly appreciate what his life had turned into. To appreciate all the hard work they had put into their new home. To appreciate the risk, the reward, the fright of change, and the fruits of labor. As his eyes opened back up and he downed the coffee, Wade's ears perked as he heard the front door open up. His head turned back to the house as he spotted her walking out onto the porch, the special cup of coffee he had made just for her in hand. As she leaned over the side of the porch, Wade couldn't help but give a big goofy wave from all the way on the edge of the land. With a smile plastered to his face, he started the walk back to her. No matter how many times they had repeated this exact scenario, Wade never got tired of this feeling. Each step was agony and bliss, as he was forced to be without and her but slowly grew closer. The sooner he had his arms wrapped around her the better. Wade disappeared through the back end of the corn stalks and within a few moments he had emerged the other side using a path he had made forever ago, this always made them both laugh. As Wade stepped out from the corn stalk, he heard her voice "Hello, my love". Wade stopped dead in his tracks. ...Her voice. It wasn't... her voice. That voice was cold... He had heard it before, but not in such a long time... His body was frozen, he couldn't move if he had wanted... So she moved him herself. Wade felt a magical force begin to twist his head, forcing his eyes to turn back to the corn stalks. Soon enough his feet and body followed the magical suggestions, until he was entirely facing the stalks. Her dark magic didn't stop there, one by one each corn stalk began to slowly turn black. Starting at the base of the plant, a black color began to take over and destroy the plant. When the entire stalk had been taken over in darkness, it disappeared into ash, catching itself in the wind. As more and more stalks began to vanish into ash, a hazy black fog began to form. Wade tried to turn his head, he tried to take a step backwards, but he just couldn't. That's when the darkness started to form, enough stalk had vanished that he could make out the Deadpool Scarecrow in the middle of the field and standing next to it was the bone chilling voice he had heard just moments ago. Stepping out from behind the red uniform, covered in ash herself, was none other than Lady Death. Her robe and hair blended in with the dark ash that swirled around the air, only her bright white bones were visible. She had a loving smile on her face as she watched the vegetation die off, her hand drifted along with the wind, taking in every moment. It was as if she was looking at her own impressive mountain view. Only less trees and rivers and there was no vibrant orange sun peaking over... Wade was screaming internally, to the top of his mental lungs. His only thought was the woman behind him... Even if he could turn back and see her, something told him she wasn't there anymore. This was a beautiful dream shifting into a horrid nightmare. "You've made quite the home for yourself, Wade... I always thought this would be the life we would share one day." Wade snarled, again internally, his body was still frozen. No matter how hard he tried to move backwards, he couldn't. Oddly enough, trying all his options, Wade noticed he could move forward. But he was fighting it with everything in his soul. "Well don't just stand there, silly. Get over here!" With a sickening grin, she snapped her fingers. Wade's stomach dropped as he felt his body moving in one fluid motion. Despite being motionless, his frozen frame dug against the dirt and slowly made its way to Death's side. "Wade... I'm getting the feeling you don't want to be with me. Please... Don't tell me there's someone else." Wade felt his head drop, he was losing hope, and her words only made him worry more. "Oh, Wade... I don't think I ever felt your emotions this strongly..." Her tone began to grow slightly more agitated. "...I thought I knew what your love felt like, but this..." She let out a exhaustive sigh, growing tired with what she was discovering. She walked closer to Wade, grabbing his jaw with her hand. "You don't think you of all people are /that/ lucky, do you Wade? You don't get this kind of ending." Her tone was shifting from that of anger to that of seduction as she took a moment of her own to appreciate the sweat of fear and regret dripping off the man. "Oh... I missed you, my love. Why you ever thought you could replace me with her is beyond me. What does she have that I don't? Life? I can fix that." Wade brought began to hold the weight of his head again. His body was bound by her dark magic to not allow movement, but he was starting to shake with rage. "Oh no... Are you afraid of what might happen to her? Don't worry. I'll make it painless for her. I know, Lady Luck personally, she won't mind getting this one off her plate." Wade's shaking grew more and more violent, his body breaking through the dark magic. As he watched her hands begin to form another "snap" he managed to reach out and grab her by the wrist. He tried to speak, but it was like she had filled his voice box with few kitchen knives. Fighting through the pain he mustered out a pitiful "...No" Death locked eyes with him, her snarky smile fading for a brief moment only to come back stronger. "My love... You're so blind. Don't worry, I will make this right." She goes to snap her fingers again, but Wade has now latched onto her hand. "...I said... NO." Wade lets out a primal scream as he bends back her fingers hearing a few loud cracks. Death stands, unaffected, her smile fading away as she scanned the area around them. The ash from the corn stalk had moved throughout the entire plot of land, darkening it to the point where black was all you could see. Her smile was now a disappointing frown, her time had ran out. "...You can't save her forever. She can't save you either, Wade, luck doesn't work like that. I will ensure our future, my love. You're leaving me for now, but I promise, Wade... I will see you very soon." Wade dropped to his knees as he felt the dark magic exit his body in one fluid departure. Immediately Wade gets to his feet and turns to back to the house, but it's surrounded in darkness. His first attempt is to run towards where the house would be, but after running a few hundred feet it was apparent that he wasn't going to make it anywhere... He had seen this movie before. [Deadpool 2, in theaters now] Wade dropped his head once more as he waited for it to happen... The only thing on his mind was how real and lifelike this had all felt. How this dream was nothing more than that, a dream... Wade would've given anything to be back on that farm, with her. ~~~~~~~ "...I'm sorry, Dom" Wade eyes slowly opened, everything was blurry and he had a headache from hell. His body was still rocking back and forth from the repelling device that was attached to the top of the elevator shaft. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see a rusty nail sticking out of the wall, and it was covered in blood. That probably explains why he could feel a large amount of blood at the bottom of his mask. In reality, Wade had impaled himself on the nail of the elevator shaft, he had been out for sometime and had just now made it back to the land of the living. For Domino, the big red moron had just given her a few minutes of peace and quiet... For Wade, he had been living a dream and all he wanted to do was go back.

[...I ...He ...Oh my, God.]

Wade was silent. Oddly so. It was obvious he was moving and functioning again, but it was just so unlike him not to bust into a Cher song upon regaining consciousness. Instead, he kept to himself, grabbed the rope from the repeal device and started climbing to the top where Dom was waiting. For whatever reason, he couldn't meet her eye line. Instead he climbed through to the next level and readied his guns. “...Snap out of, buddy. That got a little too real.”

#Feels good to be back #Marvel RP #Deadpool #Domino #Farm life

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lettersfromleslie · 4 years

Text

SUMMER HEAT / EMPTY STREETS / JUSTICE NOR PEACE IN SIGHT / BUT STEP RIGHT THIS WAY FOR THE ONLY SHOW IN TOWN

Hello again from the belly of the beast!

It’s been a weird, hot, bittersweet summer. The new abnormal has made itself at home, the phases of the ‘rona have been swimming by, and one way or another life’s gone on living… Just wanted to put down a quickish sketch of what that’s been like in our lovable ol meatgrinder N.Y.C.

The lil lady and I spent the three months from mid-March to June in lockdown. I talked about all that plenty in my last post. It was a very surreal and foggy phase for us and looking back it’s hard to form a clear picture of what we did or how we felt. I think that fogginess has a lot to do with the mood swings, the phases of the news cycle, the ever-evolving picture we had of the world and our place in it… I kept my sanity by working on the album. It was good to have a mission in that. It was good too that I’d done the crowdfund and people had already paid for the damn thing, which kept me from slacking off too much. When I wrote my last post on May 2nd I was feeling quite blocked-up and discouraged because I wasn’t getting my takes, but then towards the end of May things started falling into place and before I knew it I had the whole album on tape. And whaddaya know, I think it’s a pretty good one! Probably the best one I’ve done. It was the first time I deliberately set out to write and deliver an album on a schedule, setting my dates without having the material in place, and I think that led to it being a very tight, compact statement. Of course the songs wound up being a bit more introspective and quarantine-y than planned, but that’s just how she goes, eh?

I wrapped up recording work around the beginning of June. That coincided with the period that Ariel and I started really venturing out again - starting on May 29th when we first joined the BLM protests against police brutality. I have to admit it doesn’t come naturally to me to talk about the protests online - not because it’s not important, but because I’m unsure if my voice would be as meaningful or articulate as the voices of those who are speaking from a lifetime of experience. Everyone’s feeds are already flooded with this stuff, and being a vaguely foreign white boy with an escapist bent there seems so little use in me going up and taking the mic. I'd just be repeating what I'd had to learn from others.

But that said - taking part in the protests was absolutely eye-opening. The energy and anger and emotion were relentless, and the demands for fairness and justice were so obvious, so simple to understand, and just so plainly the right thing to do. Which made it all the more incredible that it didn’t seem to affect those we were protesting in the slightest. I naively thought that the NYPD would at the very least be eager to put it out there that they, too, were against the indiscriminate killing of unarmed people, black or otherwise. I thought they’d take a knee with us. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, necessarily - but still, maybe just for the sake of PR. Intead we got to watch them go out of their way to perform live demonstrations of what we were protesting against over and over again… That’s to say my skinny white ass got a real crash-course in the harsh realities. We got kettled, intimidated with helicopters, we watched people get rounded up and beaten with batons for violating the 8PM curfew, we were there when that cop car rammed into a group of protesters on Flatbush Avenue… We also saw the looting, and the cop cars on fire, and the trash fires all along Broadway and on Union Square.

What can I say about it? It was fucked. It’s fucked. To be treated as an enemy by the police for protesting police violence. What else to assume than that they were taking the side of violence? They acted more like heavily-armed counter-protesters than peacekeepers. And of course it all led me to examine my own life and the advantages I’ve had. If you’ve been following me over the years you know I’ve always made a point of organizing my life in such a way that I have room to kinda detach from modern life and dream. And I used to think everyone could just do that. I was always proselytizing about it when I was a kid. “Just go live it!” All the while unthinkingly accepting the free passes that society would give me. Playing the free-spirited ragamuffin, simply expecting the world to recognize me in my role - and the world did! - while in a different body I wouldn’t have been recognized. That’s clear enough. So what kind of hypocrite would I be if I wasn’t out shouting for the same freedoms for my fellow humans? It’s something of a karmic debt at this point.

 While all this was going on I also had to be dealing with my money situation, which was getting pretty bad. For reasons you can imagine I wasn’t in a place where I could apply for unemployment or any other kind of government assistance. My album crowdfund, the livestreams, and a little help from family and friends had seen me through the worst of the lockdown, but by the end of June I really had to start busking again. Sink or swim.

So, back to old Wash Square. That park has been through some phases in 2020, lemme tell you. It started out seriously mad. When I first started busking again the protests were still going full blast. March after march would weave in and out of the park, speeches were held, kneel-ins, sit-ins, you name it. I’d play the lulls. Around mid-July that righteous energy started making way for some seriously weird craziness. The NYPD had by this point stopped enforcing any of the usual small stuff and the Weird Ones had taken note. A squatter who called himself Jesus built a permanent home for himself and his followers in the fountain. Noise complaints were a thing of the past. Fights and brawls galore. Drugs, nudity, raves, and a riotous fuckitall feeling in the air, masks off, hands on, summer of mad recklessness. Me and my quarantine brain weren’t quite equipped to join the fray. I just kinda nervously skitted around the edges of it, yodeling here and there. Bit absent I was, maybe, but how can you go carefree gonzo when doing so means constantly risking killing someone’s granny by accident? I kept my social distance. There were some bad encounters. Bottles thrown at me while playing. Got assualted by some nut outside the W4st subway station, yanking me by the hair, punching me in the noggin. It was clear to anyone out there that the police had thrown their hands up at the situation and were letting people find out what life was like without them. As far as I could make out this unofficial police strike emboldened both the bad guys and the protesters without getting the cops anything. They might’ve been hoping the resident bougies would put their foot down one way or another, bark up the food chain some, but forget about it. There wasn’t much backlash or pushback from these upstanding, tax-paying pillars of society - they all just skipped town and headed for greener pastures. This mass exodus of wealth which had seemed temporary back in April started really accelerating around this point and by now the absence has started to feel permanent. If there’s any force of NIMBYism left in the Village I haven’t seen it. Those who have stayed on seem to have adopted a live-and-let-die approach. Aside from the fairy-lighted open-air restaurant patios with their potted plants and plexiglass dividers the streets belong to the people again, for better or for worse.

Personally, I don’t mind at all. Why should I? The money’s tough, but hell. I’ve always been broke. I’ve spent all my seven years in this city staring up at the rungless ladder which is Manhattan. If it can stop being a playground for the rich, it might become a place where I could actually hope to live someday.

Anyway, the last month has seen a sort of stabilization of the status quo. Some of the park regulars are back. R&B Lee, who used to be stuck down underground in the W4st subway station, has made a permanent place for himself and his giant PA on the western corner of the fountain. Jimmy the drummer is out all the time with a revolving cast of players. There are DJ sets on weekends and they get loud as all hell. So music’s back, but it’s a different world, and a much louder one. I’ve taken to playing in the small circle of benches on the western side of the park. There’s really not much space for unamplified music; the regular acoustic jam sessions have moved to other, more private locations and Colin Huggins, the park’s much-beloved pianist-in-residence, has more or less given up for the time being. Johan the living statue is out again much of the time. The portrait artists and street art sellers and fortune tellers are back, but the park poets are still in absence, probably conferring with their muses. Check out this article by Charlie Crespo with photos of some of the characters who are out and about.

Meanwhile the atmosphere out there is weird, anarchic, and sorta wonderful if you’re into that sort of thing. I guess I am. You won’t get bored hanging out on Washington Square in the summer of 2020, that’s for sure. Different threads of activism and action going on in every corner, friendships forged, love-ins, creativity, occasional bad chaos and ill energy, along with a good helping of just regular old hedonism in radical trappings. For a while there were great crowds of activist kids sleeping on the lawns and yakking all night about the revolution… The cops put a stop to that one, started clearing everyone out of the park again at midnight. Honestly a lot of it feels like what I always imagined the sixties might’ve been like. I’ve often looked at it a wee bit wistfully wishing I could be twenty again for it, with a head full of hot air and a fabulous tolerance for risk, instead of with bills to pay, dwindling resources, and a partner & a cat to look after. Oh, but I’ll be alright.

To everyone who’s still in NYC and has been worried about going out in public: if your health & conscience permit, come to the park sometime & let me sing a song for ya. I mean, do it responsibly - don that mask, bring your hand sanitizer, observe that distance - but New Yorkers have been knocking it out of the park when it comes to beating the virus, and that means the risks are lower and going out is almost as safe as it used to be. The park has plenty of room to socially distance. No one will bother you about it if you bring a picnic blanket and a bottle of something. The subway is safer to travel on than you might expect. The nights are hot and humid and saturated with all the great unknown we’re traveling through together.

And as far as I can make out, it’s the only show in town!

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inktheblot · 7 years

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As awful as it was, Fiddleford getting Portal straight to the head was what snapped Stanford out of his Bill-worship and stubborn adherence to the success of the transuniversal metavortex. What if that didn't happen, and Weirdmageddon came to fly 30 years ahead of schedule?

Or, a summary of an AU I will probably never get around to writing but I put too much thought into anyway.

Setting the scene of 1982-Weirdmageddon in full swing. Turning Gravity Falls inside out is fun, but eventually, of course, Bill figures out that he can’t go any further than this stupid hick town. He turns to who else but Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world, for potential solutions. “Hey, pal, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about this barrier thing, would you?”

Ford is basically Bill’s brainwashed little lap pet of the apocalypse by this point. The demon decided to keep him around because messing with him is entertaining and he might happen to have some decent knowledge left in the ol’ noggin that could come in handy later. “You belong here. I am your Muse and you are my Genius,” Bill constantly reminds him, an endlessly repeating mantra in his head. Bit by bit, Bill has twisted Ford’s thoughts and convinced him this is where he was meant to be all along: living among freaks and monsters.

Now Ford is half-asleep and half-drunk from time punch. He starts babbling about the Law of Weirdness Magnetism and how yes, you can drop the barrier. But after layers of intoxication and mind alteration, he’s barely talking coherently at all, so Bill takes things into his own hands. “Hey, don’t wear yourself out, kid! You wouldn’t mind if I just poked around in that brilliant mind of yours for that equation, right? See, it’s no biggie…You rest, Sixer. I’ll handle the hard work here.”

But Ford’s mind is a mess now; it’s not even close to organized anymore. It’s scattered with lots of weirdness, lots of upside-down-ness…and triangles. Lots of triangles. It’s pretty funny, Bill thinks: a couple of years ago, Stanford Pines was the most driven and determined young scientist this side of Dimension 52, and now he’s complete chaos-ified slush.

Bill amuses himself sifting through the disarray of Ford’s Mindscape, until he comes across something very interesting tucked inside a battered textbook. It’s an old photograph of two near-identical boys posing on a beach, all sunburns and smiles.

Bill gets a Wonderful Awful Idea.

“OH BOY. OH BOY OH BOY. CONGRATULATIONS, MISSUS PINES, IT’S TWINS!”

How HILARIOUS would it be to hold a little family reunion??? While Bill’s physical form can’t leave Gravity Falls - yet - the Dreamscape is still his to conquer, and it won’t take long for him to pick up this second Stan. He puts Ford’s mind to sleep and returns to the material world, only to project his dream form back outward moments later. He leaves the town - and his pet - in the hands of his Henchmaniacs.

Stanley is, frankly, in deep shit, as we might expect. By the time he dreams of this floating nacho, he’s just about had it with the world. Since he never got that postcard from his brother, he’s pretty convinced that no one gives a damn about him and nothing in his life is gonna turn around anytime soon. He’s pretty dead set on ending it all, but he figured he’d at least sleep on it before being too rash.

Then along comes this triangle guy who seems to know Lots of Things, throwing haughty proclamations and bizarre nicknames left and right. “Hey, Fish Head, you’re a bargaining man, yeah? How’s about striking a deal with me,” he proposes. “Before you go blowing your brains out, I thought maybe you might want to see your brother one more time…”

Stan is not on his conman A-game. He's too exhausted and miserable to try sorting through riddles and deals and God knows what else. He does protest the offer at first: “Nah, why bother? I haven’t seen him in like, what, twelve years? He hates me.” But eventually he figures this is all a dream, and anyway, he has nothing to lose. So he shakes the demon’s hand.

The blue fire thing is a little creepy, but he doesn’t have much time to process it, since the next thing he knows, his body is being yanked out from under him.

He regains consciousness somewhere that must be very far away from the deadends of New Mexico. This doesn’t look remotely like his trashy motel room. It doesn’t look like Earth at all, really. “What the hell is this? Is this hell?? Is that what that flyin’ corn chip was getting at? I’m dead, I’m in hell, and - and - and Ford’s here too! That’s it, isn’t it? This is it? This is - this is the end?”

Right on cue, Stanley catches sight of his brother, now somewhat awake and alert again, floating in midair, glowing yellow and looking utterly…well…demonic. Something deep within Stan breaks. He balls up in manic panicked laughter on the floor of the Fearamid.

Things don’t go too well between a Stanley barely alive and a Stanford spellbound by otherdimensional evil. An ugly conversation fueled by old grudges and new magic commences.

Eventually Stan finds a means of temporary escape from Bill’s lair, dropping onto the streets of chaos-torn Gravity Falls, muttering curses to himself all the while. The next human being he happens to run into is none other than Fiddleford McGucket, decently crazy but still technically sane. That’s when solutions start happening…if tackling a grumbly guy in the street because "DID YOU SAY STANFORD?! YOU’VE SEEN STANFORD?!” is any way for things to start shaping up.

Fidds is safe, relatively speaking. When things started getting messed up, he immediately figured Ford’s research had something to do with it. He rushed over to Ford’s house, where everything was pretty much wrecked, but he managed to snatch up Journal 1 and the components for the unicorn-hair protection spell. Then he found a shed to put up the shield around, to keep himself alive at the very least. He avoided use of the memory gun as best he could, figuring a situation like this would require all his wits, and anyway, trying to forget about this living nightmare wouldn’t make it disappear.

Stan and Fiddleford explain to each other as much as they know about Stanford and the situation at hand, and begin to formulate a plan. They return to the Fearamid with the memory gun. One of them distracts Bill while the other blasts his influence out of Ford’s head.

The three reconvene. Stan and Fidds attempt to jog Ford’s memory: just enough to get him to understand what’s going on, but not so much that he falls back under Bill’s power.

Seeing the people he loves most so distraught ignites something in Ford. He is reminded of all the things he wished he’d said to them, all that he owes them, and he knows what he has to do to make it up to them. As if again possessed but now by a benign force, he sets the memory gun in his own name and summons Bill into his mind one last time, offering up his genius and the equation needed to escape Gravity Falls.

Bill answers the call immediately, meandering through Ford’s mind in search of his prize, only to realize soon enough that everything is going down in blue flames. He whips around to find the image of Ford staring him down, his eyes clearer than they have been in over a year.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Bill shrieks. "YOU’RE DESTROYING EVERYTHING! WHAT ABOUT ALL WE WORKED FOR?! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! YOU ARE MY GENIUS! I AM YOUR MUSE!”

“It’s true that there is great Genius involved in this, but you won't find it in here,” Ford murmurs, thinking of his brother and his best friend holding down the trigger on the other side of his consciousness. “No one else will suffer from your trickery…or my foolishness."

Bill screams. Ford exhales. The Mindscape fades to white. The invasive weirdness evaporates from Earth Dimension 46’;.

Ford awakens to Stan and Fiddleford leaning over him, tears in their eyes and worry on their faces. They manage to convince their amnesiac companion to return to his old house, but any hope of restoring his memory seems for naught…

That is, until Fidds happens upon a stray thirty-eight-sided die stuck in the floorboards. “This was our favorite game in college,” he explains to Stan wistfully. “Kinda nerdy, maybe, but we sure had fun with it. How did that chant thingummy go? Something like…‘with pen and paper, shield and sword…’”

A weak and tired, but nevertheless passionate voice sounds from the other side of the room.

“‘Our quest shall be our sweet reward.'"

#gravity falls #stanford pines #bill cipher #fiddleford mcgucket #stanley pines #my fic #kinda sorta #idk man just take it #i've been calling it #genius au #now that i think about it #this is kinda some weird fusion of mystery trio and one of us honestly

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