#(late night insane web weaves)

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Darry Curtis n the mournin of just bein an older brother

[saeslove]

🕸️ 017 . threads of comfort

synopsis after encountering spider-man from a late-night walk, only to you share a conversation about love, self-worth, and moving on, with Spider-Man encouraging her to stop waiting for someone who doesn’t show up. wc 211

devastated by the fact that michael kaiser had ghosted you after the day you hanged out at your house, you tried to be understanding. after all, he was going through a lot, but you couldn’t help hoping he’d turn to you for comfort. walking along the sandy beach, the chilly wind whipping through your hair, you couldn’t shake the loneliness. it was late, and you decided it was time to head home.

as you walked towards the bus stop, you were suddenly confronted by two imposing men, their builds intimidating enough to make you feel small and powerless. your heart raced as you realised you were completely alone on the beach. was this it? were you about to be robbed?

fear gripped you, and you cursed yourself for not heeding your friend’s advice to head home earlier. the men finally noticed you, and with a menacing step in your direction, panic set in. you turned and ran as fast as you could, only to trip over your own shoelaces. the men caught up to you quickly, and before you could react, you felt a firm hand cover your eyes. you heard thuds in the distance, the unmistakable sound of punches landing.

as he removed his hands from your eyes, you blinked, still in a daze. the air around you felt charged, and your heart was still pounding in your chest. the man in the red and blue suit was standing just a few feet away, hands raised in a non-threatening

“hey, are you okay? don’t worry, i’m not here to hurt you," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, though there was a slight hint of nervousness in it.

you stared at him in disbelief. "spider-man? you saved me? thank you, i didn’t know what would’ve happened to me if you weren’t there. i was so terrified.” you started crying.

he panicked slightly. "hey, hey, don’t cry, okay? they can’t hurt you anymore, see? what’s a beautiful lady like you doing out here anyway? it’s not safe."

"guess you scared them off for me," you replied, still catching your breath. "i was just getting some fresh air."

his eyes brightened, as if a thought had just clicked. "say, are you afraid of heights?"

you shook your head, still trying to collect yourself, the adrenaline still pulsing through your veins. "no, not really."

"good, but you better hold on tight."

before you could process his words, spider-man gently scooped you up in his arms, surprising you with his strength. "wha—" you gasped, your hands instinctively gripping onto his suit.

"don’t worry, i’ve got you," he reassured you as he leapt, using the webbing to swing you both into the air.

you let out a small yelp of shock as you soared high above the streets, the wind rushing past your face. the world below you suddenly seemed so small.

"spider-man what are you—" you started, but he was already weaving through the buildings, moving with a fluid, graceful motion that made it look effortless.

"you said you needed fresh air, right?" he said with a grin in his voice.

this was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. and despite the shock, a part of you felt exhilarated, your heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

you glanced at him, trying to make sense of it all. "this is insane."

he chuckled. "you think? you should see it from my point of view." he tilted his head slightly, looking down at you. "better now?"

the view of the city lights twinkling beneath you, the sound of your breath mingling with the rush of the wind, it felt surreal. you nodded, still in awe, though part of you couldn’t help but feel something else stir deep inside you.

maybe it was the danger, or maybe it was the way spider-man had seemed so effortlessly cool and composed, but you realized, for some reason, this was one night you’d never forget.

"yeah," you finally managed, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "this is better."

he finally came to a stop at the tokyo bridge, gently setting you down. as you took in the view, you felt his hand subtly rest on your waist.

"i’ve got you," he said softly, his voice steady. "so, how’s the fresh air?"

you sighed, looking out at the scene before you. "it’s complicated. the guy i thought i liked, he ghosted me. i get it, though, but i just wanted to be there for him, you know? i guess i just wanted him to lean on me for a change.”

"well, i think you’re right to want him to lean on you. but you deserve someone who won’t make you wait around. you’ve got a lot to offer. trust me, anyone who doesn't see that is missing out."

“it’s just hard, you know? i really want to be there for him.” you then look at him, a bit more open than before, asking, "how do you stay so sure of yourself? it’s like you never doubt anything."

he chuckles softly, a confident grin spreading across his mask. "i don't have time to doubt, honestly. life moves fast, and if you're not sure of yourself, you're just holding yourself back. i learned a long time ago that you have to keep pushing”

he steps a little closer, his voice lowering slightly as he adds “so, tell me more about this guy of yours. what makes him so special that you’re willing to wait around?”

you hesitate for a moment, “he's complicated. he's not perfect, but i thought maybe we could figure it out together. but i don't know anymore. it feels like i’m always the one trying, and he’s not showing up the way i need him to."

your words hang in the air, a little uncertain but opening up to spider-man in a way you hadn’t expected.

he leans casually against the railing, “you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm but firm, “it’s not your job to wait around for someone to figure out how they feel about you. especially if they keep leaving you in the dark. you deserve more than that.”

the words hit harder than you’d like to admit.

“why do you even care?” you ask

he shrugs, a playful lilt returning to his tone. “it’s kind of my job. saving people, listening to them when they need it. besides, you’ve got this way of looking out for everyone but yourself. someone should return the favour.”

“thanks,” you say with a steady voice.

“anytime,” he replies, stepping back and shooting you a crooked grin through his mask. “now, how about i swing you home? unless you feel like talking to more shady guys on the beach.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “i think i’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

series MASTERLIST

notes from lily ❦⋆ : talking about himself babshaha

TAGLIST

@mixolya @x3nafix @96jnie @tamashithe2nd @cookielovesbook-akie @yuiearyi @noomimi @stargirljas @jhsluvv @sof888a @livelaughloveshidou @swagkittybear @axquella @passw-0-rd @hwaassaa @bbladie @tofumiarchives @justanotherweeb666 @metaphorically-here @ravenbc @levihanmyotp @rybunnie @adrnmyknight @etherealrin @shosuki @90s-belladonna @wwastro @shr00mfairy @pan-kojiwa @pctterheadd @shumeow-h [tell me if i missed out anyone]

comments & reblogs appreciated!

@ saeslove 2025 do not plagiarize, translate, or rewrite my writings without my permission !

[wicked-witch-for-hire]

Literary references in Gale's selection remarks

I. Theatrical plays (Shakespeare & Walter Scott)

- A rough tempest I will raise. - Shakespeare - Tempest, - this is a mash-up of two quotes:

In Act V, Scene 1, Prospero uses the phrasing "when first I raised the Tempest". In the same scene, he recites a soliloquy about the great works of magic he has accomplished, before finally renouncing magic altogether: " ... But this rough magic I here abjure ..."

This is an incredibly apt sentence for Gale - one can interpret this tempest as his magical capabilities or just the calamity of the orb, or even his end game choice. The whole play which begins with a shipwreck might be compared to the plot of BG3.

- What fools these mortals be. - Puck - A Midsummer Night’s Dream

- All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it. Shakespeare, again. As You Like It Link

- Oh, what a tangled Weave we web! - riff on a quote from Sir Walter Scott's play Marmion.

The original quote is "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!"

II. Pop-cult

- Swords, meet sorcery!

This is a reference to the term "Swords & Sorcery" which was coined by F. Leiber (author of the Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser series) in 1961. Quoting from wiki: Sword and sorcery (S&S) or heroic fantasy is a subgenre of fantasy characterized by sword-wielding heroes engaged in exciting and violent adventures. Elements of romance, magic, and the supernatural are also often present. Unlike works of high fantasy, the tales, though dramatic, focus on personal battles rather than world-endangering matters. Sword and Sorcery tales eschew overarching themes of 'good vs evil' in favor of situational conflicts that often pit morally gray characters against one another to enrich themselves, or to defy tyranny.

- Gone with the Weave.

I think this is just a reference to the term "Gone with the wind" but not infamous book, lol.

- No gloom, all doom.

Riff on the popular expression "gloom & doom".

III. Religion

- Seek and you shall find me.

Jeremiah 29:13 You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

Matthew 7:7–8 "Ask, and it will be given you. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and it will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives. He who seeks finds. To him who knocks it will be opened.

While I don't think Gale is our Lord and Saviour, this is an interesting line. I would not be surprised if the writers had also remarked on his peculiar resemblance to someone...so I think this is an inside joke.

- Let me recite their demise.

This alludes to the custom of reciting prayers for the dying and the dead (a common practice in Abrahamic religions).

IV. D&D homages & references

- Don't make me go all Edwin Odesseiron on you.

So Edwin was a possible companion in BG1 & 2. A lawful evil red wizard of Thay. If you have seen the new movie I don't need to explain further, but for those who don't: basically Lorroakan as a companion. He greets the protagonist with this: “ Greetings. I am Edwin Odesseiron. You simians may refer to me merely as "sir" if you prefer a less... syllable-intensive workout."

Gale basically threatens to go all power-hungry wizard on us - mind, this is a funny line you can only hear if you select him in combat over and over again (spamming).

- I hope Halaster takes good care of Tara while I'm away.

Halaster Blackcloak was was a notorious, ancient, and utterly insane wizard who resided within his lair, the infamous Undermountain ( located deep beneath the city of Waterdeep) and died in 1375, so circa 120 years before BG3 takes place (late 1492). As part of his many preparations to escape death, Halaster created a number of clone-bodies to receive his consciousness, which he kept locked in protective stasis and located throughout Undermountain and the lower reaches of Waterdeep. When Halaster died prior to the Spellplague, it was possible that one or more of these clones was activated and set free by 1479 DR, although this is not confirmed.

I guess this must be a joke in wizard's circle in Waterdeep :-) This is also a spam line, so one can only hear it if they really like to click on Gale.

- Coliar, Karpri, Anadia... So many worlds still to travel. One day. (looking at the astrolabe)

Coliar, Kapri, Anadia - are all planets in the system (Realmspace). Toril is the third planet, where Faerun is. To reach these places you need to use spelljammers. Gale needs to hitch a hike from Lae'zel I guess.

[bambooslayer]

Scent Headcanons

so my covid/quarantine experience has been marked mainly by two things: indie perfume and the magnus archives. to combine these two interests, I’ve decided to match the “scent vibes” of some magnus characters and the entities. scent headcanons I guess? if those weren’t a thing before they are now. scents that I’ve tried will be marked with a *.

The Institute Staff

Jon- Solstice Scents' Gibbon’s Boarding School: dusty wooden desks, paper, carefully hidden tobacco pouch, dying fire, dried leaves, leather chairs, autumn breeze

This scent really captures the “tired academic” aura of Jon, especially S1-S2. Not quite completely put together, but still surrounded by the scent of knowledge.

Martin- Stereoplasm's Lydia*: A uniquely transformative scent; opens with agrestic lavender and earl grey tea with snips of fresh fennel greens. A flood of soapy emerald green bubbles then rests softly into clean sunset musk.

Martin has a comforting, calming scent. He always, always smells like tea no matter what he wears or does. Hints of soap peak through as he tries to keep himself clean and put together, even if the world is about to end. The scent of someone who’s learned to pull himself together to be ready for everyone else.

Sasha- Alkemia's Old Books and Fresh Flowers*: Fresh neroli orange flowers and heliotrope blossoms pressed between the delicate paper pages of a leather-bound book

Boundless beauty and ancient knowledge in one scent. She’s always sorting through the archive’s resources and constantly smells like the ancient paper surrounding her.

Tim- alphamusk's Bardot*: Gorgeous badass goddess like musk that’s insanely irresistible. Notes of roses, woods, magnolias but all blended so effortlessly and meld together beautifully in this sexy magnetizing musk. Everyone who smells it loves it. Very femme. Iconic.

Who doesn’t love Tim at first sight? A sexy, charismatic, fingergun shooting bisexual who’s always ready to do what he needs to get things done. A scent that blurs the lines between gender fits him, and it’s sexy to match. Even when he’s at his lowest, he still draws you in.

Elias- Alkemia's Book of Shadows*: A biblichor of eldritch books - heavy parchment paper, ancient iron oak gall ink, crumbling leather bindings, and wafts of rare incenses

Jonah Magnus smells of all the cursed knowledge he’s acquired. The statements and ancient books he’s encountered leave their marks on him in scent. You can’t smell the underlying evil, but there’s a certain darkness that lives there.

Basira - Death and Floral’s Red string of fate: Red musk and black, burnt amber blended with golden honey and black molasses

I don’t have a good explanation for this, it just feels right.

Melanie- Death and Floral’s Half-hoping to be eaten by a bear: Woody, sweet bare skin; the lingering scent of dry leaves on a cold morning.

Melanie smells of her supernatural adventures and longing for something more.

Daisy- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Mr. Czernobog: Unfiltered cigarettes, the leather and metal of sledgehammers, aortal blood slowly drying, and black incense.

Daisy knows what she’s done. She’s a Hunter, and these smells follow her.

Peter Lukas- Arcana Wildcraft's Black Sand: The scent of a warm night on a dark, sandy beach. Atmospheric sweetness with a hint of salt air and a subtle undercurrent of danger. The richest amber resin, black coconut, coconut husks, and smoky vetiver.

The scent of the loneliest sailor. There’s a dangerous draw to him still, but you can tell you should keep your distance. (unless you’re Elias of course)

The Entities

The Buried- Alkemia’s St. Louis Cemetery #1: “An atmospheric brooding of Spanish moss, crumbling stone, old cement, red clay brick, and graveyard dirt.”  

It’s not quite burying you, but it’s about to. You won’t be able to tell that it will until it’s too late.

The Corruption- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Elli’s Song: “The horrors of entropy, death, and decay: desiccated black mosses, vetiver, olibanum, patchouli, and ashes.”

Rotting. Decay. The disgusting decomposition of all things.

The Dark- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Event Horizon: “A disconcerting scent, heavy and oppressive, through which no light, no matter, and no spirit can escape. Black opium, labdanum, opoponax, black orchid, and benzoin.”

Pretty self-explanatory. Complete and utter darkness.

The Desolation- Arcana Wildcraft's Devilish: “Shaking off vanilla's reputation for namby pambyness, this infernally dark and smoky fragrance comes complete with licks of fire and sulfurous wafts of brimstone. The devil really does have all the best scents.”

Was it worth it? The meaningful life you lived? Was it worth meeting this fiery end? A scent to match the end of a life worthwhile.

The End- Alkemia's Dustsceawung: “Dustsceawung is the contemplation of dust, worldly desires, and the ephemerality of all things... raspings that were once a tree, ruins that were once cities, bones that were once lovers. Dust is always the ultimate destination on our journey. The scent of forbidden explorations and an olfactory meditation on dust... attic air, the inside of old trunks, abandoned haylofts, library stacks, and abandoned buildings.”

The death of all things. Everything must succumb to its true form: dust. No matter what you fear, no matter how accomplished you are, no matter what you’ve planned, it will come for all. This scent carries the dust of those already ended, a reminder of your fate.

The Extinction- Alkemia's Deus Ex Machina: “An olfactory portrait of industrial decay and the fallen gods of age of disruption, innovation, and technological revolution... fire hardened steel, rusted iron, motor oil, wet cement, burnt copper wires, and grey amber.”

Mankind has brought itself to the edge. All that it has created is what finally destroys it. Remnants of industry linger, all that’s left of humanity’s monstrosity.

The Eye- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's The Book: “Old, yellowed parchment paper, tattered leather bindings. There’s a distinct warmth to the scent, though it is ancient and brittle.”

All knowledge lives here. It has watched you your entire life. It knows everything about you, everything about everyone, everything about everyone that has lived. Pages and pages and pages of its stronghold live in the institutes.  

The Flesh- Arcana Wildcraft’s Edward Hyde: “A depraved mix of dirt, blood red musk, roasted meat accord, acrid yellow musk, salt, and an odd hint of expensive men’s cologne.”

Meat. Meat. Meat. Meat is meat. A meaty scent that marks the servants of the flesh.

The Hunt- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Berzerker: “Thick furs, strips of leather, and a blood-stained axe with crushed poplar bud and juniper”

The Hunt is never over. Once you get a taste of blood, there is no going back. Furs of a predator, the sharp metallic weapon mixed with the blood of your prey.

The Lonely- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Desolation: “In the perfume, I also tried to capture the blue-violet-white of an afterimage and the silence of a snuffed candle. The scent is dry with age, taut with loss, grief, and heartbreak, and sorrowful in the unspeakable desolation of simply being forgotten.”

Alone at last. Forever. Alone in life, alone in memory, alone in history. A scent that marks those marked by the Lonely, disappearing into nothing.

The Slaughter- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s The Black Tower- “A sepulchral, desolate scent. Long-dead soldiers, oath-bound; the perfume of their armor, the chill wind that surges through their tower, white bone and blackened steel: white sandalwood, ambergris, wet ozone, galbanum and leather with ebony, teak, burnt grasses, English ivy and a hint of red wine.”

The scent of those trapped in the endless cycle of the violence of war, spanning centuries of slaughter.

The Spiral- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s Azathoth: “Azathoth is the blind, idiot god who sits on a black throne at the center of Chaos. His scent is high-pitched and screeching, both impenetrably dark and searingly bright with the clarity of madness: tangerine, saffron, vetiver, black amber and cedarwood.”

A scent that matches the contradictions and chaos of the spiral.

The Stranger- Arcana Wildcraft’s Blood & Circuses: “The monstrously sweet scent of clowns gone wrong. An outlandish, carnivalic mix of white pancake makeup accord, pink cotton candy, and the salty sugariness of warm kettle corn.”

The circus has returned. I hope you’re ready for the show. Steer clear of anyone who carries this smell, and give an extra glance to the mannequins you pass.

The Vast- Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab’s R'Lyeh: “The sunken city of the Great God Cthulhu. A hellishly dark aquatic scent, evocative of fathomless oceanic deeps, the mysteries of madness buried under crushing black waters, and the brooding eternal evil that lies beneath the waves.”

The scent of an eternal expanse that you cannot possibly comprehend. Is it the fear of what lies beneath? Is it the depth itself? Does it matter once you’re lost in it?

The Web- Haus of Gloi’s Spider Silk: “Procured from a dream: delicate water mint, wispy grey musk, crystalline webs of amber, oakmoss, torchwood, copaiba resin, and a touch of withered violet leaf.”

A gentle spider creeps its way around, leaving their little traces in the webs they weave. Only too late will you notice that you’re trapped in the web.

[imagine-loki]

The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Title : The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Chapter NO. 4 of 10?

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki’s Asgardian wife learns women write fanfiction about him on a trip to Midgard. She’s edgy for the duration and lets him have it when they get back.

Author: lokilover9

Rating: M

Notes: Hello everyone. I will get to writing another chapter of Irked, but for now, here’s a mini crack fic. Should be good for a laugh or two.

That afternoon and throughout the evening, Brianna stayed in her room with Loki. He appeared once to make her a sandwich, assured everyone she was fine and returned to her without another word. At around midnight, he sauntered into the living room looking exasperated.

"She's sleeping. In the bed this time."

"Why hadn't she before?" Asked Pepper.

His fists clenched. "A fear of rats obtained on the streets. Which I assume happened during her traveling to meet me."

"You can't blame yourself for that."

Loki went to the kitchen, retrieved some expensive Scotch from a cupboard above the fridge and started chugging it. "Yes I can, Virginia. She knew I was her Father before coming."

"What?" Everyone joined him around the island. "How?"

"Her Mother kept a diary." He held up the Scotch. "And us magically inclined are astute at finding hidden treasure."

"Must be hereditary." Kidded Stark. "Little Warrior's a master tater tot thief."

"Fuck. She thought I'd abandoned her."

"Harsh, bro. Even I know you're incapable of that."

"Still impersonating a Prince, are you?"

"I'm serious." Said Thor. "Obviously you forgot that termination spell on someone. If it wasn't a woman from the dumpster night, then who?"

"It was."

"Huh? You had sex with a woman in a dumpster?" Asked Stark.

"He woke in one naked after tossed into it by three."

"You had sex with 'three' women in a dumpster?"

"No, I was drugged first. Hence the waking?"

"And razzed me about doing the same in a seniors tub?"

Pepper frowned. "You had sex with a senior in her tub? What the hell, Tony?"

Loki rubbed his brow. 'I'm surrounded by fucking lunatics.'

"Virginia, no! Remember my best friend Mike? His grandmother…"

"Which one was it?" Thor quietly asked.

"The sword swallowing wench."

"You sure?"

"Brianna described her perfectly and showed me a matching, heart shaped birthmark beneath her collarbone."

Tony continued… "Now Loopy, also known as Sasquatch..."

"I thought you couldn't remember anything after..."

Loki's patience ran out and he banged the bottle down. "I DON'T REMEMBER! Which means she rode me until the fireworks went off because apparently my dick stays erect while I'm unconscious! How the bloody hell I'll convince Astrid of this saga is beyond me!"

"Aren't you more worried of convincing Mother?"

"I don't talk to Mother about my dick Thor and hope you don't either."

"Uh, guys? Lady present. Change the subject, please?"

"With pleasure. Brianna's been alone for almost three months. Fending for herself on a realm where her own kind are willing to sell her off to the highest bidder. That's why her Mother, whose name I will not repeat, Claudia and Hannah, all took turns that night to see who'd strike gold. They were hoping she would inherit some of my powers.Thank the fucking norns two failed!"

"Oh my god." Pepper solemnly whispered.

"Stop shouting. You'll wake her."

Loki pensively stared at Thor. "I've silenced her room. Ironic how every realm thinks Frost Giants monsters. Call it a sixth sense, but I recently felt compelled to learn the Jotun language and began studying their history. For millenniums, they thrived in a predominantly wealthy, civilized and disciplined, family oriented culture. Just like Asgardians. Laufey's greed for power changed all that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Brianna knows."

The older God responded curtly. "You told her she's a Frost Giant?"

The second Stark had revealed her ice capade, Loki knew she was his and conjured a back up plan to protect her. Testing Thor was part of it. If he couldn't accept her, Odin definitely wouldn't. Especially once learning of her true identity. 'Thanks for your honesty, brother. Now to put that plan into action.' "Brianna is six years old. She's lived in constant fear of those who should have loved her and of herself, because she didn't understand her powers, or where they stemmed from. I will not betray her by lying about her heritage, nor permit she lives ashamed of it. Certainly you understand?" He then addressed Tony. "Excuse me. I need some air."

Stark got the hint and knew where he'd be. "Who's Laufey?" He asked uncle oaf.

"Jotunheim's last King."

"What happened to him?"

"He was murdered."

"Nice." He quickly winked at Pepper. "Stay here and mind Little Warrior? I think Snowflake could use a friend." He joined Loki outside, sitting against the glass on his landing deck. "You okay?"

"Besides overly tempted to murder three sluts? Of course."

"Please don't?"

"Only for my Daughter's sake."

"What else was in the diary?"

"Brianna and I spoke about many things. Some I'll tell you, some I won't."

"Why?"

"We agreed it best. You've done everything to protect her and we want to return the favor."

"I can protect myself."

"Not from yourself, should I reveal too much.

"Spoiled sports."

"I thank you again for watching over one of my own and for keeping your promise to Brianna. She praised you both a lot. Calls you uncle Cootyoodles."

Stark proudly grinned. “She's an amazing kid, but I'm happy you came. If not, Pepper and I planned to ask Thor to take her."

"To Asgard?"

"Where else? We can't protect her from the bad guys. She'd either become a lab rat or be used as a weapon, here. Her Mother is a perfect example of such intentions. Evil bitch."

"Indeed, yet not the mastermind. Hannah was. Brianna was secretly born in the same house she was conceived in and never registered as a citizen. Most recently, they were living in a house in the countryside in State. One a carpenter and the other an electrician, they'd constructed her a hidden, sound proof, room in the basement and that was her existence. Always fed and clothed, but comforted only by her Mother, who snuck her out from time to time. Yet never outside the house and at every opportunity, taught her how to use the computer. They'd resided in two other States the same way. Forever keeping Brianna hidden from society, waiting for a sign she had powers. She cleverly hid them and eventually braved sneaking out alone when they weren't around. Always careful to conceal her tracks while learning all she could of your world through the internet. Until one day, she was mistaken when Hannah sauntered out of bed late and became enraged by her presence. They reinforced her rooms security and although Brianna knew it bypassable, she was terrified to try after the arguing started. It continued for days, often vicious sounding, but she couldn't decipher the words. The worst of it ended with a distant scream on the grounds and panicked footsteps amidst the house. That night, Hannah went to her with a look of insanity, tossing bags of nonperishable food into her room and threatening her harm if she ever came out without permission again. When Brianna heard nothing for days, she bravely disobeyed and carefully scoured every room for money. That's how she encountered the diary and learned about me. Research lead her to you and she mapped out a plan."

"I knew she was brave, but that's extraordinary." Said Tony. "How did she escape?"

"Easily. They never returned."

"They just..vanished?"

"Apparently. When food ran low, Brianna rode her bike to a neighbors, hid herself in the back of his pick up truck and hitched a ride into the nearest city."

"Shit. Does she know what they did?"

"No explicit details were written, but imagine a six year old seeking the word sex on dictionary.com to learn how she was created. The plot began when Hannah saw me leaving their local grocery store and followed me to my hotel. From there, I was stalked until they discovered my favorite hangout."

Stark imagined suiting up on the bitches. "Now I'm tempted to murder three sluts. Poor Little Warrior. What a shitty life she lead. Can I ask where she came from?"

"No, but it took her three weeks to reach you with the help of homeless people."

"What?"

"Two in particular who by the grace of Valhalla, were kind enough to protect her along the way. Neither knew where she was headed and kept her presence secret. All in exchange for food, clothes and periodic shelter. One a teen she sent home to her family, the other an older woman, who claimed to have none. Brianna bid her goodbye near the Lincoln bridge and from there, traveled alone for two days."

"Holy fuck. I still can't believe she made it here alive."

"The child's a genius." 'Who already knows how to make herself invisible.' Thought Loki. He silently recalled the day he'd scared the shit out of some maids with half his face, upper torso and one leg invisible. He was on his way to Frigga after failing to rectify the problem. 'Norns. Only a task that took me until adulthood to master.'

"True, but I gotta know. How did she get into my Tower?"

The God merely arched his brows.

"Nevermind. Like Father, like Daughter. What now?"

"We leave for Asgard tomorrow afternoon. Brianna can't wait. Presuming having new parents 'and' living on a new realm might've induced her reluctance, I've convinced her it's a months visit."

"She's never coming back?"

"As an adult maybe. Beforehand could be risky. Please play along?"

"I will, but she'll hate me for it."

"She'll think you didn't know. I'll take the heat."

"What about Thor?"

"He can't know until morning. Then he won't run ahead and announce it, grandstanding in the name of preparing everyone."

"He'd do that?"

"He might. Brianna is my daughter. My responsibility. I'll not have my wife learning of her through him."

"Don't blame ya."

"There's something else he can't know. I shielded us from Heimdalls sight's the moment we landed to keep anyone from tracing Brianna back to you and Pepper. You're my friends and if they decide to look for her, I won't have your lives torn apart again because of me."

Tony was so humbled and astonished by everything, he never thought to ask why Thor couldn't know this information, or how these women knew Loki's powers were so extensive. "Thanks, man."

"I'll do all the headhunting on my next trip back. For now, the sluts can stew not knowing where Brianna is."

"Serves them right. Too bad we won't witness their panic."

Loki inwardly snickered. 'I might.'

"Why did Brianna sleep so long after making all that ice?"

"Extensive use by one so new to their powers is exhausting. I've seen it before."

"There are more like you on Asgard?"

"Only a handful of us are Gods. Yet many posses lesser powers they are schooled to perfect. As adults, they are encouraged to join our military."

"And if they don't?"

"It is not enforced, Tony. They are allowed to exist freely."

"Oh. Why was she so angry we touched her stuff?"

"She wants to tell you tomorrow."

"Okay. You mentioned a Claudia and Hannah. What was her Mother's name?"

"Brianna's about to disappear and you're still snooping, knowing jail time could loom in the future?"

"Can't an earthling be curious? Liiike..of how extensive Brianna's powers are?"

"Classified."

Stark rolled his eyes. "Should I just not bother asking anything else?"

"I can stargaze while tuning you out."

"Fine. Wanna know some fun facts about your Daughter?"

"Sure."

"She grows on ya real quick."

"I know."

"Loves vampires and zombies. Plays a mean game of Mario Kart, is a mathematical, geographical and weird animal whiz. Knows what an Emperor Tamarin is. They look like a Teddy bear, raccoon, monkey combination, with a wild west moustache. Gets a kick out of quizzing Jarvis and laughs her ass off when he fucks up."

Loki smirked.

"Loves motown music…"

"'Motown?'"

"Come on, really?" Tony motioned movements of the Supremes. "Stop! In the name of love, before you break my heart… No? How about this one?" He imitated Stevie Wonder, grooving at his piano. "...Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours!"

"You aren't my type." Teased Loki. "Nor am I familiar with that genre of music."

"Your loss, our gain. She also loves having stories read to her at bedtime and dancing. Tried teaching me how to moonwalk and I failed. Epically."

"Did she laugh her ass off at that too?"

"Yep. We'll miss her. A lot."

"I'll never let her forget you, Tony."

They started for the elevator.

"I hope not and that whole date rape thing? Be the victim male or female, the culprits deserve major jail time."

Familiar with Starks habit of finding amusement in the worst of circumstances, Loki sensed a punchline. "And?"

"Alter that part to your benefit in the future. Like you slipped and hit your head. A guys dick staying hard while he's unconscious? Great story to tell your grandson's around the campfire one day."

"Eh he he he. Maybe I will."

Loki settled into bed and conjured an ancient, Jotun text. He opened it to a marked page and silently re-read a prophecy he'd recently discovered. One written by a beloved seer of his ancestors;

'Gifted by the Norns, a child will be born on a foreign realm to a veiled, Jotun King and Mother of ignoble blood. A sorcerer by birth, he is destined to protect, guide and teach his sorceress daughter to cultivate and master her powers. For she will make history as a savior to the nine realms. Destined to unite them in battles against evil. A Queen who shall reign above kings. Jotunheim's Goddess of Ice.'

It vanished, replaced by Asgardian writing paper and a fancy pen as he thought of his wife. Her antics often drove people to drink, including himself, yet they loved each other madly. It was her bright blue eyes, perpetually cheery personality and spontaneity that first attracted him. A welcome change from the drudgery of structured royal life, but ultimately her sincere heart. She adored him, flaws included. And shite did she give good head. The only lover out of hundreds to pop his cork on the first try. Now, after their last conversation it saddened him to write this.

'Dear Astrid; Forgive me as I have a shocking confession to make. Foremost, I have no relationship of any kind with the woman involved and knew nothing of this until it was brought to my attention. It seems my carnal activities on Midgard have induced more than smutty fanfiction. I have a daughter, my lovely. A little girl who stole my heart with her smile. As you did. I would not recover from losing you, but owe her a chance. To breathe her realms air. Count its stars. Feel the sun and rain on her face. For myself to be the adult so she can be the child. I need time to earn her trust and hope we bond. I know it's a lot to ask, but wait for me? Give 'us' a fighting chance? Consider it at least?

Your adoring husband, Loki.'

He sealed it in an envelope and affectionately whispered to Brianna. "Our adventure begins, Og Min Lille."

Og Min Lille ~ My Little One in Norwegian

[revthepunchbear]

A Debt Owed, A Debt Paid

It had all started with a chill down her spine and a feeling of overwhelming dread, like death was peeling away at her. She’d nearly thrown up, right then and there, which wouldn’t have been the worst part of the night by far. There was a point that night were she was withering from the inside out as magic was sucked from her, those very forces that bound her together ripping away to see her hemorrhaging blood everywhere. 

At that point, she hadn’t even known why it was happening. She’d only known that she’d seen malevolent forces on the Other Side, spiraling around their safe house in Elwynn. The Harbinger had been there too and that terrified her more than anything. That desperate feeling that she had to do something surged through her as the body of Eilithe had been drug from the house, Xavier pushing himself to the limit to contain the madness within. 

Once, twice, three times Reveria tried to pull the soul back into Eilithe’s body only to find it harder and harder to do each time. The druid was panicking, Eilithe’s soul had never been so hard to guide. It had to be the malevolence around them, it had to be those spirits coming for her that were making it so hard. In her desperation, she’d called on the only one she thought could remedy the situation. Cut palms, brands traced in blood on the dirt and upon her face, the pleas for help sounding out in Zandali. 

“Mama, hear me. Your vessel needs you. I invoke the promise you made and bound to me. Mama, I have nothing else.... I have no offering of payment. My debt is yours. Please... Answer me Mama.”

Ghostly, spidery limbs had torn from Reveria’s mouth, searching for purchase anywhere they could as a flood of widow spiders poured from the druid’s mouth.  Those spiders formed together, weaving the shape of a trollish woman in a tattered ballroom gown. Eight spidery limbs jutted from her back as she looked down on the nearly crying Reveria. 

“What ya doin’ Zin’ulwembu? Can’t ya see she be castin’? Ya only hurtin’ her more, fightin’ her like ya is.” There’d been many more words, Reveria had begged Mama Zarenyen to help Eilithe and the loa had, in no small fashion. The insanity had been quelled, though Mama’s actions may have see An’Set hurt, it was still a small price to pay to end the insanity within the safe house. However...

Mama had come from the safe house and over to Reveria, cupping her chin in her hand. Her gaze had held a smile but there was the undeniable undercurrent of a threat. “I be comin’ tah collect ya debt. Ya best not hold out on Mama, Zin’ulwembu.” Those words haunted the druid, even as An’Set asked about them later. She’d brushed it off, offering an explanation. He’d chided her, and all she had to offer in return was “What else was I suppose to do? You were getting your ass beat.” He hadn’t been able to argue that. 

That night had ended in a much better place, Reveria and An’Set had snorted some of their favorite drugs, ran around acting like fools yelling at the top of their lungs, yodeling, bothering their friends, and more. The night didn’t truly even end there, as An’Set carried Reveria off into the teahouse, slung over his shoulder, where they rutted away the rest of the night and into the morning in drug fueled ecstasy, ringing in their new year in style. The thought of the debt that was owed, slipping from her mind in those moments.

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

A day or two passed, Reveria had managed to avoid anything too straining or stressful. Zelphryin had returned, which had been less than pleasing to her but she’d managed to coax him into taking her and Eilithe to the spa. They’d yet to go but she was in no particular rush. This night she sat up, alone, in the great room, sipping on bourbon as a fire crackled and flickered in the fireplace. An’Set was in bed, as were all her children. 

She was lost in thought, right up until the tapping of the glass of the floor to ceiling windows sounded out. So lost in thought was she that she nearly jumped out of her skin. She managed not to spill her drink, setting it down quickly as she looked with wide eyes at the window. Standing there, with that telltale grin of hers, was Mama Zarenyen, beckoning Reveria with a lone finger. 

There was a sense of relief, yet also a pang of anxiety as Reveria’s inky hues took the loa in. She stood, slowly, the long shirt of An’Set’s that she wore, flapping about her thighs as she walked to the rear door. There was no doubt in her mind that Mama would have been inside, were it not for the wards Eilithe had helped the druid place. Outside, Mama turned and began slowly walking through the large backyard as Reveria joined her.  A grin spread Mama’s lips, her short tusks popping out just a bit as her spidery limbs draped about Reveria’s figure. "Zin’ulwembu... Walk wit me...We be havin’ tings ta discuss.” The druid’s arms crossed against her chest as she walked along, not as though she had much of a choice in the matter. “What is it you want, Mama?” The loa chuckled, low and dark, canting her head as she slowly led Reveria along. “Ya sound so suspicious, Zin’ulwembu. Mama can’ jus’ want ta talk at ya? Spend some time wit her vessel?” 

Reveria narrowed her eyes and looked over to the woman, peering at her searchingly. She seriously doubted that Mama was just here to talk, the fresh debt springing to the forefront of her mind. Still, she was willing to try and play along. “Well, I just didn’t think you were here for that. What did you want to talk about?” Mama wiggled her fingers at Rysh’Vhek as the massive spider skittered from the jungle. “Ya chil’ren be lookin’ strong an’ hel’ty. Ya man, he be a surprise. Love be a surprise in general doh, so dat ain’ bein’ all dat strange. Ya life be prosperin’. I been seein’ ya wit ya trainin’ too. Zulfie got ya becomin’ quite dah little witchdoctah don’ she?” 

There wasn’t much for Reveria to say to all of that. It was clear that Mama had been watching her life of late, which hardly surprised Reveria. “Eilithe is a good shan’do. She teaches me well. It was rocky there for a bit but I stopped trying to do things on my own. The harder things at least.” Their path led them into the jungle, the scent and smells of it something Reveria recognized from a time long passed. The jungle slowly became strewn in the webs of large spiders, the telltale cocoons and husks of their prey laying about or hanging from trees. 

All the while the pair had talked until they arrived at the center, a circular wall of webbing that rose up to the ceiling of the jungle, with a circular altar of bones and stone laying in the middle. She’d been here before, long ago to strike a bargain that she’d regretted. Tonight though, there was no sense of ominous foreboding, just a loa that was acting almost motherly to the druid. Once they stood before the altar, Mama released Reveria and began to walk in a slow circle about her. “So now we come tah tha real biz’ness... Ya be owin’ Mama a debt zin’ulwembu. An’ Mama been tinkin’ real hard on what dat gonna be paid wit.” Reveria’s brow furrowed but she remained silent, ready to speak up if it had anything to do with her family. Both fortunately and unfortunately for her, it did not. 

“Ya be my vessel but ya don’t know nut’ting bout takin’ dat form, do ya? Ya had dreams of it doh, I know ya have. Mama seen dem dreams cuz she caused dem dreams. Ya dreamed ya was dah spidah... ya dreamed ya was dah eighth eye... it been comin’ for a long time. ya been feelin’ dat urge, dat pressure, when ya go tah shift. When ya tink ya shiftin’ tah dat lovely saber... Dere be a part ah ya dat tinkin’... In dah back ah ya mind... Dat da saber ain’ right no more.” She paused in her circling to lay a hand on Reveria’s left shoulder. 

“Dah time has come. Ya debt gonna be startin’ ya transformation intah Mama’s vessel more fully. I be takin’ ya saber. It gon take time but ya be findin’ soon dat ya gonna be stuck in dah middle, wit out a form like dat... until ya be masterin’ dah spidah. Dere gon come a day... Dere gon be times... Mama gon take ya vessel and use it for herself. Dat be dah price.” Reveria looked on, all but helpless as she processed the desire of Mama. She was about to become an actual vessel. She would lose control. Who knew what Mama would do? The thought terrified her, 

“Fine... Fine...” All she could do was keep telling herself it had been worth it, that her sister’s life and soul had been worth it. That her husband’s life had been worth it. “Dat’s alright, Zin’ulwembu. Every’ting gon be okay~” The way she said it, the way her voice carried a veiled malicious tone, Reveria had a sense of dread in her stomach but this was the price and she would pay it. Mama’s hand began to feel hot, so hot... Like a red hot cattle prod, leaving Reveria screaming in the jungle as a matching brand, another widow, formed on her left shoulder. The skin sizzled and cooked, the druid howled, and Mama Zarenyen laughed. 

“Dere, dere Zin’ulwembu... Mama takin’ care ah you like she always done...” 

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

Tagging @eilitheduskbringer​ @kurel-andiel​ @velerodra-valesinger​ @theshalthera​ @xavier-sunshadow​

Art by @kazeco1986​ 

[chiseler]

The Greatest Bad Writer in America? Weird, Forgotten Harry Stephen Keeler

Harry Stephen Keeler (1890-1967) enjoys a peculiar kind of fame as a writer. Or "paper-blackener," to quote him. The prose of his mystery novels and pulp stories, written from the 1920s into the 1960s, can be simultaneously balled up, discombobulated, lyrical, cryptic -- even going "utterly blooey" at times. This is from The Riddle of the Traveling Skull, published in 1934:

For it must be remembered that at the time I knew quite nothing, naturally, concerning Milo Payne, the mysterious Cockney-talking Englishman with the checkered long-beaked Sherlockholmsian cap; nor of the latter's "Barr-Bag" which was as like my own bag as one Milwaukee wienerwurst is like another; nor of Legga, the Human Spider, with her four legs and her six arms; nor of Ichabod Chang, ex-convict, and son of Dong Chang; nor of the elusive poetess, Abigail Sprigge; nor of the Great Simon, with his 2163 pearl buttons; nor of--in short, I then knew quite nothing about anything or anybody involved in the affair of which I had now become a part, unless perchance it were my Nemesis, Sophie Kratzenschneiderwümpel--or Suing Sophie!

Viewed through the appropriate lens, Keeler's manifest flaws become avant-garde virtues, as he seems to stretch the novel towards some new form, possibly the radio play or podcast. Neil Gaiman is a fan: "My guiltiest pleasure is Harry Stephen Keeler. He may have been the greatest bad writer America has ever produced. Or perhaps the worst great writer. I do not know. There are few faults you can accuse him of that he is not guilty of. But I love him."

Among the various devotees keeping this "forgotten author" alive, no one has proven more steadfast than Richard Polt, who chairs the philosophy department at Xavier University in Cincinnati and founded the Harry Stephen Keeler Society. http://site.xavier.edu/polt/keeler/

Richard, give us an introduction to Keeler and his work -- and tell us what led you to dedicate so much time and energy to keeping his name alive.

I ran across Keeler by pure accident in 1996, and from the start I was thrilled by the feeling that I was onto something truly weird and forgotten. I’ve always enjoyed digging into some corner of culture, going deep enough that I discover things that just aren’t in sight of today’s conventional wisdom, and finding connections that I would never have found otherwise. That’s exactly what the world of Harry Stephen Keeler has done for me.

Keeler (1890-1967) was a lifelong Chicagoan. His father died when Harry was an infant, and his mother married a series of other ne’er-do-wells who also kept dying on her. Meanwhile, she ran a boarding house for vaudevillians—so Harry was exposed to a wide variety of theatrical types in a city that was teeming with immigrants. He studied to be an electrical engineer and worked for a while at a steel plant, but his real passion was writing. His mom feared that he was going insane, and had him committed to the asylum at Kankakee, Illinois in 1911-1912. But he was released, and managed to make a living publishing quirky little stories with twists. In 1919 he became the editor of the pulp magazine 10 Story Book, which published short fiction and pictures of half-clothed girls. He also edited magazines such as the Chicago Ledger and America’s Humor.

Keeler’s stories began to get more convoluted, and by the late ’20s he was publishing mystery novels with Dutton in the US and Ward Lock in England, including The Spectacles of Mr. Cagliostro, which drew on his experience in the asylum. Things were looking up, but the Depression cut into book sales at the same time as HSK’s novels took a turn for the bizarre. He typically built his novels on the skeleton of an old short story from his youth, or several of them woven together. Sometimes his wife, Hazel Goodwin Keeler, would also contribute a chapter. This all became the occasion for gloriously implausible tales, chock-full of long-winded speeches in dialect; caricatures of every ethnic group from “Swodocks” to “Celestials”; near-future technology such as intercontinental 3D television; and, inevitably, a surprise ending that sends your synapses on a rollercoaster ride. This stuff appealed to an ever narrower audience. Finally, Dutton dropped Keeler in 1942. He was published by the bargain basement Phoenix Press from 1943 to 1948. Ward Lock cut him in 1953. Then he wrote for Spanish and Portuguese publication at $50 a title—or just for himself.

There were definitely some bitterness and frustration in Keeler’s old age, and when Hazel died in 1960, he went into a tailspin. But then he married Thelma Rinaldo, his one-time secretary from America’s Humor, and as he put it, he caught hold of “the greased pig known as the will to live.” Harry collaborated with Thelma on some late novels that have been published only in recent years.

There are two perennial questions about Keeler: Was he mentally ill? And was he a bad writer? Most people’s initial reaction is that he was a terrible writer who had mental problems. But you can also make the case that he knew what he was doing and was very good at it; it’s just that he had an eccentric sense of humor that requires a special sensibility to appreciate. I’m inclined to this latter view, although he does keep me guessing. I suspect that he had some traits that we would classify as belonging to the autistic spectrum, such as a prodigious memory for facts combined with a superficial grasp of human emotion. A Keeler story is not about interiority; it’s about a complex plot that plays games with the reader’s mind.

Describe Keeler's trademark concoction, the "webwork plot." “Web-work” or “webwork” was Keeler’s term for a highly complex plot, which weaves together a number of strands. He introduced the term in 1917 in a series of articles for The Student-Writer, which he then expanded into a fairly long treatise, "The Mechanics (And Kinematics) of Web-Work Plot Construction" (The Author and Journalist, April-November, 1928). Keeler never claimed to have invented the term or the concept; he gave credit to now-forgotten pulp writers such as Bertram Lebhar. But he did consider himself to be a skilled practitioner, and his fans would surely agree.

What’s most delightful in HSK’s theoretical writings on webwork is the diagrams, which show graphically how various characters and objects intersect at key moments in the story. "Mechanics" distinguishes 15 types of “elemental plot combinations” and presents a mind-blowing diagram of Keeler’s 1924 The Voice of the Seven Sparrows. It’s a very tortured plate of spaghetti.

Some of Keeler’s novels (including Sing Sing Nights, Thieves’ Nights, and the series Hangman’s Nights) get their complexity from a 1001 Nights structure: a framework story embraces several stories told by characters. Other Keeler novels get their complexity from endless digressions and red herrings, or tons of factoids that may or may not turn out to be relevant to the main story. Often, the action is told or retold by an unreliable character, instead of being shown to us directly. Inevitably, there’s a big surprise at the end that makes you see the whole plot differently in retrospect.

If you take away the surprise ending, webwork looks a lot like the contemporary literary genre sometimes called “hysterical realism”—the massive, weird, convoluted stories of writers like Pynchon. Keeler pioneered the formal analysis of this kind of tale. If you have a mathematical mind, you’ll appreciate his advice for getting a webwork started:

In conceiving a story or inaugurating a plot which involves threads weaving with threads, if the thread A, or viewpoint character, should figure with the thread B in an opening incident of numerical order "n" (with respect to the incidents in the conditions precedent) there must be invented a following incident "n + 1" involving threads A and C; an incident "n + 2" involving threads A and D; an incident "n + 3" involving threads A and E; and so on up to perhaps at least "n + 4” or "n + 5"; and furthermore "n" must cause "n +1"; "n + 1" must cause "n + 2"; "n + 2” must cause "n + 3" etc.

I’ve tried it—it works!

What's it like living in and among Keelerian natterings over the long haul?

Like one of Pynchon’s paranoid plots, or like Borges’ fantasy encyclopedia that ends up colonizing reality, the Keelerian world has many unsuspected strands that create a webwork in which I am now enmeshed. I’ve read more obscure authors because they imitated Keeler (John Russell Fearn) or were friends of his (T. S. Stribling). I found out that my own great-grandfather, Wells Hastings, wrote a mystery novel that can fairly be described as webwork. And I taught myself some Dutch in order to read the 2010 novel De Sciencefictionschrijver, by Harold S. Karstens—a story about a man who becomes unhealthily obsessed with Harry Stephen Keeler and starts a correspondence with Richard Polt. Yes, Keeler’s world is absorbing—to the point where I have now been absorbed within the covers of a fictional exploration of that world, to be discovered, like Harry himself, by future eccentrics.

by Daniel Riccuito

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 210: Sorcerer

Last time I checked in with Sorcerer (@sorcerermusic), he was cruising on bombastic funk waves, late night rhythms, spy movie guitars, and trippy synth atmospheres with Dream Season. But the intervening time has not been idle for Daniel Saxon Judd, who also released Hope for the Future on Real Balearic, contributed guitars to Hatchback’s stunning Year of the Dragon, and experienced something akin to a career retrospective with the 2xLP reissues of White Magic and Neon Leon on Be With (as well as an accompanying and typically excellent interview conducted by Dr. Rob at Ban Ban Ton Ton). Showing no signs of slowing down, Sorcerer starts out 2019 very strong with Tropic Nice on eclectics, featuring two sun-dappled originals of exotic funk, popping breakbeats, paradise island guitars, futuristic idiophone cascades, and infectious bass sensuality. As per usual with eclectics, the stellar originals are backed by adventurous remixes, one of which comes from NOTI (otherwise known as Neil Diablo), who transforms “Softest Rebound” into a euphoric journey of balearic house beauty led by shimmering pianos and solar dub echoes. And the other remix is no less transformative, with Jac the Disco stripping away most of “Tropic Nice” and using what remains to explore realms of cosmic disco and interstellar club power.

Sorcerer - Tropic Nice (eclectics, 2019) The title track bounces in on bulbous and rubbery basslines while methodical hand drums lock into mechanical loops. The mix is suffused with subtle yet psychoactive dub textures…these shadowy air movements, sizzling vapors, and otherworldly hisses that seem to move backwards and forwards through time. Melodious and synthetic mallet instruments cutting the difference between balafons and e-pianos melt over the mix as the snares drop in, giving further hypnotic energy to the body moving grooves. Then come the paradise guitar riffs dropping palm-muted dreamscapes that evoke the feeling of swaying in a hammock as a warm sea breeze caresses the skin. The repetitive sunshine riffs are overlaid by melting slides and wailing leads while fried electro waves and heady percussive fx suffuse the air with vibrant movements. At some point, a rolling sub-bass groove flows over the rubber band funk lines, everything swaying narcotically as the track launches towards colorburst cloudrealms where bleary-eyed guitar solos weave spellbinding panoramas that are smeared into a liquid echo haze. And near the end...almost buried within the tropical grooves...sits a playful synth-marimba solo that brings a sort of Caribbean jazz fusion flavor to Sorcerer’s boogie heat.

The other original is “Softed Rebound,” which comes to life on three-dimensional squelching bass synths that are danced above by percolating bell tone melodies and e-piano chords…everything chiming and resonating like ocean crystals. Stuttering hats and shuffling breaks hold down a sunset groove with soft fusion leads that slide through magical twilight melodies alongside melodious chords. Ghostly guitar harmonics sit deep in the background ether sounding almost like steel drums as they morph through harsh echowaves and at some point, effervescent funk riffs start flying from all directions, resulting in a psychedelic conversation between color clouds of jamming guitar magic. The track shifts drastically towards the middle, as massive pads wash the spirit clean while trailing sea blue vapors that waver before fading. It all grows increasingly triumphant, with Daniel’s blissed out guitars and repetitive riff pulsations working the mind and body into fantasy trance motions. All the while, the cooler than cool breaks are led by ultra-tight hi-hat accents and sometimes back into a vibed out glide, while at others times they charge through the cosmos with an infectious energy…everything surfing on positivity waves as skittering cymbals and scatting guitars weave webs of enchantment…like downtown 70s funk blasted through a dayglo stargate. 

NOTI’s remix of “Softest Rebound” morphs and mutates Daniel’s guitar through sunshine reggae echoes while four-four kicks and alien aquatics fly through the stereo field. Snares smash through galactic reverb caverns as percolating sequences and tropical Berlin school patterns dance through the sky until all of the sudden, we find ourselves submerged in an oceanic house groove led by deeper than deep basslines and melancholic chord fogs. Massive four-to-the-floor rhythms are swarmed around by skipping woodblocks and sleigh bells, spiritual jazz pianos float on ethereal currents, and the shimmering guitars eventually recede, being replaced cosmic synth orchestrations and paradise ivory incantations. There’s a rhythmic drop that leaves behind a soulful ambient passage adorned by glittering sonic hazes, euphoric post-classical synth meditations, and the ever entrancing pianos…everything coming together for a horizontal float down a river of dreams. Towards the end, the banging rhythms fly solo, joined only by zany oscillations and lackadaisical guitars dropping airy riffs and solo slides that could seemingly evaporate at any moment. And there’s also an ambient coda featuring seaside fantasy sequences, maddening insect conversations, starshine tapestries, and the ever present snares cracking through the air.

Jac the Disco’s version of “Tropic Nice” sees minimal dial tones pulsing over slamming clubs beats, panning hi-hat layers, and irresistible storm surges of energy. The bassline is truly insane…this fat cosmic slab of greasy disco heat that grooves forever upwards with vague airs of MJ at his most spaced out. Dripping synth liquids move throughout the mix like glowing and wiggling soundstreaks that are increasingly shrouded by deep space reverb fx and jacking clap patterns stoke dancefloor mayhem as the whole thing works itself into a interstellar groove ritual. There’s a brief but tranced out drop where galactic synth layers merge and modulate through cold sonic expanses as sparse skeletal beats march continually onwards. And when the loved up and bottom heavy rhythms return, they bring with them searing vibrato waves that push the track towards overwhelming levels of dark euphoria. The original song is almost totally lost, with Jac the Disco instead reveling in a sensual utopia of muscular disco rhythmics and throbbing bassline firestorms…with everything swirled around by aqueous arps and submarine sound vortices.

(image taken from the label’s bandcamp)

[galaxy-parker]

Better Together

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Where you’re saved from a midnight walk gone wrong by a masked hero, but he let’s a little too much of his Peter Parker show

Warnings: Angst, Assault

Word Count: 2031

On the long walks home from the library, you liked to kick pebbles across the sidewalk, stomp on every crack you could and pretend that the city was yours to discover.

You would sometimes listen to music, enjoying the soft melodies that flitted through your ears, but usually opted for tuning into the bustling streets of Queens. They were always lousy with whispers and you enjoyed hearing the passing conversations of people you didn’t know and would never see again. You even made a game out of it, piecing together sentences and weaving stories of them in your mind.

But tonight the streets were quiet, the air still.

Your run to the library had taken a bit longer than anticipated- four hours longer to be exact- but it wasn’t nearly your first time walking the streets alone in the later hours of a Friday night. You were from New York born and raised, you weren’t worried.

The night was cool but not uncomfortably so and you fiddled with the fraying strap of your backpack as you walked, letting the thin sleeves of your too large sweater cover your hands partially. Your mind strayed to subjects of little use while the echo of your footfalls sounded in your ears.

It only took you a few moments more to realize that the sound of footsteps that echoed were too many to be just yours.

A chill ran down your spine, your body suddenly becoming fully alert as you quickened your pace a fraction of an inch. You forced deep breaths down your throat, calming your heartbeat before rational thoughts took over. It’s nothing. Probably just another pedestrian going somewhere, calm down.

You spared a quick glance over your shoulder, your heartbeat immediately spiking up again. Two figures stalked a few yards behind you. The lanterns on the sidewalk caused dark shadows to fall over their hooded faces and- shit shit shit.

You whipped your head around again, gripping your bag tightly, giving you something stable to hold on to as your heart sped and your palms began to sweat.

Shit shit shit.

Peter barated you every day for walking alone so late- ‘It’s dangerous you know, you could get hurt’ - you silently cursed yourself for never listening to him.

Voices rung out behind you, gruff and slurred, the syllables muddled together. It was nearly impossible to decipher the words being flung at your back, but the hairs on your arms rose in response.

Nothing good will come of this, the words echoed in your head and you clenched your jaw, Nothing good will come of this.

A large hand encased your shoulder spinning you around and strangled noise escaped your lips as the smell of second-hand alcohol settled in your nose. Your eyes met the blood-shot ones of a man- a boy- barely a few years older than you, a feral grin on his face. You felt the bitter taste of bile rise in your throat for a moment before you lifted your arm up and immediately back down, driving it into his inner elbow and successfully removing his hand from your shoulder.

You spun on your heel, not waiting for his reaction before bolting down the street. The lights casting an eerie yellow glow onto the tiles and you faintly heard the shuffling of feet behind you before you went sprawling across the sidewalk, having tripped over yourself in your haste to get away. Dammit.

You pushed yourself onto your elbows, managing to shuffle forward an inch or two before an unmistakable whoosh sounded over your head. Your chest hit the ground and you clenched your eyes shut on instinct because what the hell, before a voice rang out, this time clear and jeering.

‘Hey guys, what’s going on?’

You rolled over, leaning back on your hands and watched as Spider-Man- The Spider-Man- landed in front of you with a thud. The men growled and you felt something acidic and cloying hanging in the air, gripping your windpipe, smothering you- you recognized it as fear.

‘Out of the way, Spider-Boy,’ The one who grabbed you practically spat the name.

‘Spider-Man,’ The hero grumbled before flinging his wrist towards the pair, efficiently webbing the spokesman’s hand to the wall behind him.

He grunted and strained against the bonds but they held fast and you felt an overwhelming sense of relief that barely lasted half a moment before the second was approaching, a blade gripped between his fingers.

Shit.

‘Woah, woah, woah,’ Spider-Man held his hands out in front of him. ‘Are weapons really necessary?’ The man let out a yell before charging and swinging his knife, Spider-Man lept over him easily and he stumbled forwards towards you. A scream lodged in your throat but he was pulled back by a web and fastened to the wall, the same as his friend.

Spider-Man turned to you then, and all you could think was What the hell just happened, what the hell just happened, what the hell-

‘Are you alright, miss?’ He kneeled down in front of you, hand reaching out slowly, tentatively, as if trying not to spook a frightened animal. The sounds of the men struggling against their bonds fell deaf as you stared up at the red and blue clad hero, taking his hand and allowing him to help you up.

‘I’m-’ Something bright flashed in the corner of your eye, and you let your gaze to focus on the first man for a moment before- ‘Look out!’

You shoved Spider-Man out the way just as a gunshot sounded across the street and nothing made sense. Nothing made sense.

One minute you were stumbling forwards- the only thing in front of a hero and a bullet- and the next you were flush against his chest, something sticky wrapped around your left hand. The air around you broke as the bullet whizzed past, barely missing you.

Holy mother of-

Spider-Man’s wrist flung forwards twice more, securing the man completely before wrapping an arm around your waist and suddenly you were rising up up up-

You landed on the roof of a nearby building with barely a sound. Your heart was racing, your eyes were tearing, what just happened?

The arm locked around your waist disappeared and you toppled forwards, hands unwinding and feet dragging across the tiled ground.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Those definitely weren’t the words you’d expected to hear. You turned around slowly, eyebrows furrowed, chest still heaving.

‘What?’

‘Are you absolutely insane?’ Spider-Man stomped towards you, brandishing his hands in a way that made you think of Peter Peter Peter.

‘I don’t-’

‘Honestly, Y/N, what were you thinking? You could’ve been killed,’ His voice cracked on the last word and you balked at his tone, shaking your head because why on earth were you being yelled at by a superhero and why on earth were you thinking of Peter while doing it?

He grabbed you by the shoulders shaking you gently, the eyes of his suit growing and shrinking and growing and- how did he know your name?

Your hands flew up to your shoulders, covering his as the question flew past your lips. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘I- what?’

‘I didn’t tell you my name- how did you know?’ He snatched his hands back as if he’d been burned, stumbling away.

‘You- you said it, down… there…’ He finished awkwardly and you could practically hear his cringe, but you didn’t find it in yourself to care.

‘Do I know you?’

He shook his head before pointing over his shoulder in a hurried gesture. ‘I’d better get going, be careful next time and-’

‘Peter.’ The name left your mouth before you could fully comprehend it and don’t be stupid of course it’s not Peter. Of course it wasn’t Peter, it couldn’t be.

But Spider-Man froze, his body going rigid and suddenly- suddenly- everything made sense. Peter’s disappearances, his tired eyes, his random bruises. Spider-Man’s concern, him knowing your name- hell, even his voice.

Peter. It was Peter, all along.

He glanced over his shoulder at you and you neared him slowly, hands reaching towards his mask, fingers dancing across the hem before pulling it up and off and Peter.

His eyes were red, his eyebrows furrowed and god it was Peter.

Your mouth curled into a silent oh as you rested your hand against his cheek. Oh god. He winced. ‘I know I should have told you, I’m sorry, please don’t be mad,’ he choked out. Your heart shattered in your chest. It splintered for this boy in front of you, who gave every bit of himself- this boy who never received anything in return.

You shook your head, tears brimming your eyes. ‘I’m not mad Peter,’

Finally, his gaze snapped to yours- filled with surprise but guilt, still. ‘You’re not?’ His voice was soft, barely a whisper and crack crack crack went your heart.

You knew you had a right to be - every right to be. He lied to you, scared the shit out of you, but he saved your life and so many others and- ‘Of course not,’ You shook your head again, gaze flitting between each of his brown eyes. ‘Of course not. I just-’ You paused, swiping your thumb over his cheek and worrying your lip between your teeth. You could faintly hear the sound of sirens, coming to scout out the comotion no doubt but you held Peter’s gaze. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ He mumbled, clutching the back of your shirt. His brows were pinched together so forcefully you thought they might jump apart.

‘Who took care of you?’ A question flickered in his gaze. ‘When you were hurt?’ You refrazed and his eyes grew cloudy, like he knew where this would lead.

‘I take care of myself,’

‘Not anymore,’ You didn’t bother leaving room for discussion, but Peter- to his credit- still stuttered out an objection, his hands on your shirt tightening before drifting to your waist, eyes pleading pleading pleading.

‘No, Y/N,’ He shook his head, suddenly panicky and nervous. ‘I can’t involve you in this, I can do it myself.’

You dropped your hands, pushing on his chest to stumble from his grasp and shooting him an incredulous look. His fists hovered in mid-air, as if you were still in the loop of his arms. ‘Not up for discussion.’ Was all you said.

‘Y/N-’

‘No,’ You snapped, suddenly angry and sad and hurt and scared and so much more. ‘Don’t you dare, Peter Parker. You have been running rogue as a superhero for a year-’

‘Nine months,’

You pulled your fingers over your mouth in a zip it motion. ‘By yourself, now you’re going to let me help you.’ You finished. His hands sunk to his sides, a look of hopelessness on his face. ‘Anytime you’re hurt, you will come to me.’ He opened his mouth and you held up a single finger, staunching any flow of words from his mouth. ‘Period.’

He let out a tiny huff of a laugh and it was enough to bring a reluctant smile to your own face before you were stomping towards him and pulling him to you with more force than you knew you contained. Your hands gripped his shoulders and he hesitated- seemingly surprised- before his arms banded around your waist, face pressed into your neck. His breath ruffled your hair and one of your hands drifted to tangle in his own.

‘Peter,’ You whispered, he hummed quietly in response and your tears returned full force. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been doing this on your own.’

‘I’m sorry,’ He mumbled, you only gripped him tighter.

‘Don’t apologize,’ You could feel him shaking under your grip and the wetness of stray tears touched your shoulder. ‘Don’t ever apologize.’

He nodded, the only reply he could muster as his lips ghosted over your collar bone- a silent thank you. You pulled away, hands on either side of his face, y/e/c meeting deep brown.

‘We’re in this together now,’ You said. ‘Whether you like it or not,’

He nodded, half of a smile appearing on his lips. ‘Together.’

[rexlessrix]

Life is the struggle of trying to survive.

Money makes a difference, like having 1 eye in a world of the blind.

When your broke its hard just trying to survive.

almost as hard as it is to not loose my mind.

1 of the reasons i like to get high.

I am forced to fight every day and every night.

fight to be alright.

but i dont know where i can lay my head tomorrow night.

so alright? i dont know, maybe, i might

of i am lucky ill see next week.

all i know is that right now i got to boost this shit or i am not gonna get to eat.

i just want to take a seat.

i have been walking in circles for 3 days with nowhere to go and im dead on my feet.

Walking with a good woman who doesnt want to be here with me.

she talks so much shit i wish she would leave.

i know im feeling weak.

but shits dead so i am not gonna waste my breathe trying to speak.

i know you dont want me

and i know your gonna leave.

So on top of being in these streets i feel like im bout to wake from a bad dream

wake up in a nightmare

alone in the dark my soul lost to the infinity

of all the wasted opportunities.

panic sets in and its hard to breathe

even if she is a nightmare i pray she doesnt leave.

I might not always want but i always need

her voice to drown out the sound of the demons that have been hounding me.

Yep, life is tough

no love, no luck

looking back i cant even begin to tell you how it got so fucked up.

when i think about all that i lost i cant help but to feel disgust

hell i dont even know what to say

how can i explain

without sounding ashamed or worse like im placing blame

nothing will ever be the same

and I'll never hide the scars or be able to disguise the pain.

i fell victim to the game

or at least the taxes you gotta pay

im trying to prolong the moment hoping she will stay

knowing that when my sack runs out she is gonna bounce that same day

hard to wrap my head around it

cant even say shit about it

nothing changed it the same as i found it

i know your not a whore

thats just how it sounded

but i dont want to fight so just forget about it.

walking down a long cold winding road

barren and empty because i am all alone

empty because the crystal devoured my soul

left a hole i could not ever fill so i will never again be whole

ill be honest im grateful for the cold...

lets me pretend im not alone

the ache of it is the closest thing to a friend i have ever known

so i wander forever lost

lost because i have never had a home

mad because i am smart enough to see how many real chances i have blown

almost as many chances as the number of empty dreams i have sold.

or bridges i have burned thinking it a necessity of life that long ago grew old.

forced to play a hand i should have long since thrown in as a fold

but sometimes life rewards the bold

and i have a mouth piece made of gold

i just couldnt see

until to late that i was walking down a dead end street.

i couldnt see ahead because i am ashamed so i was staring at my feet

i know what i want but im trapped by what i need

so caught in the struggle of endless futility

that peace is a fiction in which i cant believe

what does it matter if she loves you if you just cant see

yourself being worthy of love because of all your insecurities.

the confidence i portray is just part of the webs of deciet

weaving webs of nothing just like where they all lead

i need to fix this life i have kids that look up to me

but i am so broken inside i end up not doing a thing

so one by one the people i love, leave.

leaving would be better for you even if it is worse for me

but i cant blame you who wants to spend every moment of life arguing

stretching the miserable moments on into eternity.

quickly i learned that when dealing with the devil there is no bargaining.

caught in addiction this life is all part of me

so deeply entwined i know ill never get to leave.

welcome to my life.

i call it insanity

[serendipitous-magic]

What inspires you to write

Music! I listen to music near constantly (drives my family insane, especially since I’m living with them right now - they glare at me when I have earbuds in, which is always) and my brain just kind of automatically comes up with scenes that match the music. Sometimes things with characters I’ve been working with / thinking of lately (mine or other people’s), sometimes completely random scenes not really attached to specific characters, sometimes a “trailer,” etc. It’s pretty much how I daydream. 

My brain is running scenes and stories and dialogue pretty much 24/7 - it’s just how I process and contextualize life - but especially when listening to music, that’s when I tend to spontaneously come up with my best scenes. And then, assuming I remember them, I’ll eventually write them down, or when working on a particular story I’ll suddenly think, “Oh, you know what? The one jailbreak scene that I was daydreaming with the Spirit soundtrack would fit here! I just have to substitute this character for the main character, and this character would fit as the person who gets left behind...” And I transplant the daydream-scene into the story where it fits.

For example, this Southwestern Crime Syndicate Gay Romance Story Idea came about almost entirely as a result of me walking around in circles listening to We R Who We R over and over (weird combination, I know... I don’t know how or why that happened) and stitching together a storyline out of the scenes I was daydreaming.

Visuals and images also really inspire me. It’s why I have so many pinterest boards. I’m a visual learner. I think images (photographs especially) carry so many connotations that we pick up on. It’s fascinating to me how you can tell such a detailed story through images alone - like, seeing a pinterest board and scrolling through it and being able to tell, “Oh, this is a story about a zombie apocalypse, and the main character is a bi girl with pink hair who might have lost her brother perhaps?” Or being able to tell a whole story through a moodboard. 9 pictures, put together, and you have this whole web of meanings and connotations that play off each other. It’s really cool. I’ve often inspired myself when I hit a snag or a writers’ block by just scrolling through pinterest boards.

Real life. I mean, duh. What writer doesn’t use their own experiences as inspiration for their writing? Although maybe it would be more accurate to say, what writer’s life experiences don’t creep into their stories, whether they want them to or not? I’ll often find myself referencing someone I know in real life as a guide for how a character should talk or move, whether I quite realize I’m doing that or not. Or, as another example, a lot of my personality and thoughts end up in my writing whether I mean it to or not.

For example, especially several years ago, I looked back at some of my writing and suddenly realized there was a common theme in much of it: the characters would often feel trapped, caged in, made helpless by their circumstances, desperate to escape somehow. This was a reflection of some shit that was going on in my own brain at the time, but I never sat down and said to myself, “Let’s write out my issues through my characters, shall we?”

Another example: take a look at this bit from The Red Envelope, when Mike is talking about his and El’s breakup, and keep in mind it was written and posted in early 2018:

“They just function much better as best friends. Siblings in everything but blood. Plus, El needed some time on her own to carve out her identity in a world that was relatively new and foreign to her. She needed to make her own name in school, and in the town, outside of just “Mike Wheeler’s quiet girlfriend from Sweden” or “That kid Chief Hopper adopted that may or may not be related to him, it’s unclear.” And more importantly than that, she needed to find herself, within herself, outside of the lab.

...  It took him years to even figure out what was going on, and by then he was in a relationship with El, so he ignored it. Pushed it down. Pretended it didn’t exist, that everything was fine, that he wasn’t a freak that couldn’t choose a team. And he’s done a damn good job of ignoring it, if he does say so himself, except for that one night of confessions in El’s room with the TV on in the background and the door closed. He told her everything. She took his hands in hers, squeezed, and talked at length about the exact shade of Max’s hair. “

About a year after writing that (2019) was when I realized that I was, in fact, a lesbian, and I had to break up with my then-fiance (a guy). We are, now, best friends. It’s weird, though, how what went down with my ex-fiance sounds kinda familiar.

Podcasts, vlogs, and other “unscripted” interactions. Why? Dialogue. The way people talk to each other and interact very rarely sounds like “movie dialogue.” You know what I mean. When people talk, it’s not clean and put-together and polished. People start over in the middle of a sentence. They stutter, they use fillers. They weave in inside jokes. Often, close friends or couples will have their own mini-dialect - a sort of shorthand they’ve developed over the years that no one else really gets. Unless it’s a formal situation, where there’s a “script” of sorts, human language is often messy and contextual. 

So, I love pieces of media with real, unscripted interactions. It’s a fantastic way to get a feel for how people talk and play and joke and interact in real life. My favorites have been Buzzfeed Unsolved (the banter is always pretty great), Jenna Marbles, The Adventure Zone, multi-player Let’s Plays (like Markiplier’s old Prop Hunt stuff - yes, I know that’s old news in internet time!), director commentary on movies where there’s at least two people commentating, and some of the least-awful Youtube vloggers like Tessa Violet’s old stuff or Nanalew. Behind-the-scenes videos for movies or shows are good as well. You could also be a creep and just listen to random people’s conversations around you (assuming we ever get out of quarantine), or take note of things your friends say. I’m guilty of having random notes in my phone of things my friends or family have said. For example:

“Either your ass just spoke or you butt-dialed someone.”

“And in a brazen act of cowardice, he put down the chopsticks in favor of a fork.”

“Did a bad. There’s a fruit loop in the fountain.”

Etc.

Anyway, those are a few ways that I get inspiration for my writing! I’m sure it’s not everything, but those are the prevalent ones that came to mind.

[probadass]

Last night on earth

None of it matters and the sky has fallen

A catastrophic chasm of fire burns to ash

Tears of the weeping willow tree fall like angels from heaven

Pitter patter of acid rain eats away at the skin of the threadbare child

The river runs mighty with power and force as the salamanders lie in wait

The bird of prey locks onto a helpless victim, divebombing to intercept

The lawyer runs late for work, the maniacal laughter of the insane floods her mind

The beach ball on the waves bursts from the heat of the solar radiation

Ants keep marching, bees keep buzzing, crows keep hopping, snakes keep slithering

Venemous spiders weave a web of geometric crystalline wonder as drosophila snack on the flesh of the rotting fruit

My beautiful delusion ignores the conclusion

[isabeljack-blog]

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