#Jotted Down || Peter Musings

[amischiefofmuses]

Tag drop - Don't mind me.

[iamgonnagetyouback]

Hi I just saw a really cute tiktok by lilys.niche. And in the video she acts out 2 Ravenclaw student arguing if the marauders are together or not. And I thought it was such a cute idea. But to do marauders x reader. And it’s them talking reader/the marauders around and collecting evidence. And you just see cute moments that can either be friendly or romantic. I don’t know. I just thought it was a good idea, and your such a good writer I thought you could have fun with this. Thank you for your time. And have a nice day.

i loved the idea as soon as i saw it; so here it is!!

𝟷.𝟹𝚔 || 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄

♡ ︎ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Winora and Elira are on a case to reveal the truth behind your relationship with the Marauders.

♡ ︎ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: None

♡ ︎ꜱʜɪᴘ: poly!marauders x Reader

Hogwarts was a big place, but somehow rumors spread faster than a snitch. For weeks now, whispers about you and the Marauders being more than just friends had been bouncing off the stone walls of the Ravenclaw common room. And no one was more dedicated to solving the mystery than two curious, determined Ravenclaw girls: Winora and Elira.

Winora, with her quill poised and her notebook ready, had turned this investigation into her personal project. Meanwhile, Elira was the silent observer, collecting 'evidence' like a seasoned detective. The two of them were often seen trailing you and the Marauders, whispering to each other and exchanging glances every time something happened.

The First Clue: The Courtyard

Winora scribbled furiously in her notebook as she nudged Elira. “Look, look!” she whispered excitedly, pointing toward you sitting on a bench in the courtyard. Remus sat beside you, a thick book open between the two of you as you leaned in, your heads almost touching.

“They're studying,” Elira noted, her brow furrowing. “That’s hardly romantic.”

“Ah, but did you see how he just smiled at her?” Winora countered. “That was not a friendly smile.”

Just as Elira was about to respond, Sirius sauntered over and dramatically flopped across your lap, earning a giggle from you and an amused roll of the eyes from Remus. You playfully shoved Sirius’s shoulder, telling him he was crushing your legs.

“See! That’s evidence!” Winora pointed, eyes wide. “You don’t just casually drape yourself over someone like that unless you're together.”

“They are very touchy,” Elira mused, jotting down a note.

The Snack Incident: The Great Hall

The next piece of 'evidence' came during lunch. You were seated between James and Peter, laughing at something James had said. Sirius sat across from you, tossing a piece of bread your way, which you caught effortlessly.

Winora and Elira were a few seats down, pretending to be engrossed in their own lunch while secretly eavesdropping.

“You’re like, my favorite person in this entire castle,” Sirius declared dramatically, making you laugh as he shot a wink your way.

“That could so be romantic,” Winora whispered, nudging Elira.

James leaned in, too, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Oi, don’t steal my girl, Pads.”

You playfully shoved his arm away, but you were smiling the entire time. “I’m not your girl,” you retorted teasingly, but your tone was light, as if you were used to this kind of banter.

Elira scribbled down a note. “Alright, that’s definitely suspicious.”

The Midnight Stroll: The Astronomy Tower

Later that night, Winora and Elira followed you and the Marauders up to the Astronomy Tower. They hid behind a pillar as the five of you sat in a loose circle, looking out over the darkened grounds. You were wrapped in James's jacket, as you had forgotten yours in the dorm.

The Marauders seemed relaxed, talking about nothing in particular, but every now and then, there was a moment that made the girls' hearts race.

Like when Sirius, mid-conversation, leaned back on his elbows and lazily rested his head on your lap. Or when Remus tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear with a soft smile. Or when James pulled you closer when you shivered from the cool night air, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. Or when Peter kissed your cheek out of nowhere (which you didn't object to.)

Elira nearly squealed. “Did you see that?! She’s resting her head on James's shoulder—while Sirius is on her lap and Peter is kissing her cheek! That's practically a declaration!”

“Shh!” Winora hushed her. “We need more solid evidence.”

The Big Reveal: The Gryffindor Common Room

Winora and Elira sat on the couch by the fire, pretending to study while keeping one eye on the Marauders and you.

Sirius was sprawled out beside you, feet kicked up on the armrest, while James and Peter were playing wizard chess nearby. Remus sat in the armchair beside you, reading. There was nothing particularly romantic happening—until Sirius lifted his head and peered at you.

“Y/N, darling,” he drawled. “Would you rather snog me or Moony over there?”

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips. “Neither.”

“Ouch,” Sirius clutched his chest dramatically, as if wounded. Remus, however, shot you a secretive smile over the top of his book.

Winora and Elira exchanged glances.

“Okay, but what if you had to choose?” James called from the chessboard. “Just hypothetically, of course.”

“Not gonna happen, Potter,” you teased, throwing a cushion at him.

James chuckled, catching the cushion with ease. “Yeah, well, too bad for you—you’ve got four boyfriends, so I guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was a playful, knowing smile on your face. “Lucky me.”

And that was when Winora and Elira's jaws dropped.

“Four?” Elira whispered, her eyes wide.

“They’re all together?!” Winora gasped, flipping open her notebook to furiously scribble down the final conclusion.

Case closed.

taglist: @anawritez-posts

[bates--boy]

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ᴍᴜꜱᴇ(ꜱ) ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ?

This muse started out as an ask blog, actually! I don't really know what drew me to adult!Peter from the beginning; maybe it's because I really liked underappreciated characters, or maybe I saw how little canon material there was of older Peter versus material for his canon age (which was still very little back in the day.) But I think it was the latter, because it meant that I could shape adult!Peter into any person that I want, which was how my portrayal went from bland, goody two shoes upstanding citizen to a nervous wreck constantly facing a plethora of childhood trauma and trying his best.

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ?

I do have rules about not writing rape or incest ships, but it is mostly carried over from my previous rp blogs. In fact, it may be hypocritical of me to even have this rule if you know about the Infamous Fic. I still have reservations about writing this topic, though, because far too many writers and RPers don't treat the subject matter as the horrifying thing that it is, and it's a fetish for some writers, which like... okay, write the rape porn, empty of nuance and trauma or whatever, just do it over there.

I guess another thing I don't like to write is writing against a villain or overpowered character. Over the years, I had sometimes found it to be tedious at best, and unpleasant at worst. Hell, my character canonically is super powerful, and even I don't overdo it. I would never ask a writer of a villain to tone it down, though. It's just one of those things that require curating your dashboard or whatever.

ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ?

With that being said, it is wild how much I write Peter getting into arguments or fights. He's a firecracker baby, an asshole of the highest degree, and it's refreshing to find writers who can do a good back and forth, who can write a fight that actually drives the plot and thread forward, and lead to revelations about character motivations beyond "My character is evil, get used to it."

Another thing I like to write is scifi. But I never get my scifi threads. :c

ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ?

I mostly start with the canon material and a little bit of history and go from there. Like, "What could possibly go wrong with an immortal child mostly abandoned in a derelict fort in the middle of the sea? How does constantly being kicked out of places that you know you belong in, being ignored by your primary parental figure during your formative years, and being told implicitly that you're no used to anyone after the war, fuck up a child? What skills did Peter develop as he survived in both an abandoned fort and in the middle of a war zone? Where is the breaking point, and how does his reaction to reaching that point change overtime and with shifting motivations?"

Sometimes, it just comes to me.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ɪɴ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ?

It depends on my sensory load. I mostly like listening to music while I write, because it helps me to put in all the emotions I need for a scene to really make it hit. But if I had a sensory overload all day (talking to people, being in bright and overcrowded spaces, etc.) or if the scene in the thread is chill, I just write in silence.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘʟᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴘʟɪᴇꜱ ᴏʀ ᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ?

I try to plan as much as possible, and even jot down ideas for a thread, but I mostly wing them.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ?

Yeah, I do! Especially unconventional ships. (In fact, one of my old shipping partners and I had our muses having a baby together.) Sadly, my former shipping partners had left the fandom and the RPC, and most of the fandom characters I'm interested in shipping Peter with are not popular, so there aren't any writers to ship with, especially for a character as difficult to love as my canon-divergent Peter.

ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱ/ɴᴀᴍᴇ?

In this sphere, I'm known as Droid! In another sphere, I'm known as Decada! I don't know why I chose those names!

ᴀɢᴇ?

Ageless. [knees crack, back aches]

ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ?

[redacted]

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴏʀ(ꜱ)?

Teal.

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴏɴɢ(ꜱ)?

Well, I've been singing "Do You Hear the People Sing" for a couple days, now, so it's probably that. Oh, and "Colors" by Coheed and Cambria.

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

Kon-Tiki (2013)

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ?

Abbott Elementary

ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴏɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ?

Chocolate Covered Dreams by The Breed

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴅ?

I'm gonna have to agree with Vera on this one, but I really do love savory stuff.

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ?

I would say Summer because I like going out, being able to walk without needing an umbrella or having to layer, and that's when most events like concerts or parades happen. But, god, the sweat! The fucking sweat! I am a fat fuck and it is unpleasant to sweat in every crevice of my body. So, Autumn.

ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ?

I used to. The same mun who had written Peter's baby mama. She had also written this adorable and spunky child OC and she and Peter were two peas in a pod! We would gush about how adorable and sweet their dynamic was, and it was heartwarming to see what she had posted about her personal life. (Can you tell that I miss her?)

tagged by: @nezumivc103221 (ay yo, thanks!) tagging: @latvianpoet @the-expatriate @sicilitude @heta-micronomics @gebrochener-adler

[sensesdialed-a]

(via https://open.spotify.com/track/4z3eCIpMNMqy02VbRaWTRz?si=FymqoxjOQdy1xOAc4Hovuw)

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

contains spoilers for what if? episode 5

Read on ao3

Tony drums his fingers on his desk, eyes quickly scanning over the code in front of him. It’s nearly perfect, but he’s come to expect that from Peter Parker. The few mistakes Tony spots aren’t even major, a mistyped number or a backwards phrase. Just evidence that Peter was working on it as it came to him.

Tony smiles to himself. That kid is going to grow up to be something amazing. He’s nearly surpassed Tony with his intelligence, not to mention his kindness and selflessness. The world will change because of Peter.

As Tony is quietly musing his protegee, a soft snore comes from the couch in the corner. Tony glances over to see Peter fast asleep on the couch, curled up on his side with a soft Spiderman blanket draped over his shoulders. A soft smile crosses Tony’s face. He should get Peter upstairs soon.

But the kid’s had a long day and it’s Friday so Tony turns back to the monitor and continues reading over the code. Peter’s been trying to make his own AI. The one in front of Tony is rudimentary, nowhere near the level of FRIDAY or Karen, but by the looks of it, Peter is well on his way to creating an AI like that.

Tony spends a good twenty minutes looking over Peter’s code and correcting the errors he sees. Though he makes sure to jot down all of the errors, knowing Peter will want to know what he changed. Then Peter’s snores stop.

It’s usually a sign that the kid will be waking up soon, but Tony’s gut tells him that something isn’t right. He swivels around in his chair and finds Peter still fast asleep though the boy’s brow is furrowed, his breathing is faster, and his knuckles are white with how tight he’s clutching the edge of the blanket.

Tony sighs in sympathy. Nightmares have, unfortunately, been a constant for Peter. According to May, he’s had them since after his parents died, though they’ve only gained in frequency since then. Tony’s borne witness to a handful of these nightmares and due to his own experience with them, has gotten quite good at calming Peter down after.

So, Tony gets out of his chair and kneels down beside the couch, right next to Peter’s head. Tony puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gives the kid a gentle shake. “Time to wake up, kiddo,” Tony says gently. When Peter doesn’t stir, he gives him another shake. “Come on, bud. It’s just a nightmare. Everything’s okay-”

Tony’s comforting words are cut off as Peter wakes up with a gasp, eyes wide. before Tony knows what’s happening, Peter swings his fist out, clocking Tony solidly on the cheek.

Peter’s super strength knocks Tony completely to the ground with a sickening thwack!

“Oh my god!” Peter shouts. Tony groans as he sits up, clutching his head. “Mr. Stark, I’m so sorry I-I didn’t mean to I promise!”

“It’s okay,” Tony assures him, opening and shutting his jaw to make sure nothing broke. “That was a good hit, Happy would be proud.”

To Tony’s surprise, Peter’s eyes fill with tears and the kid balls himself up into the corner of the couch. Tony frowns and gets up slowly, telegraphing his movements as he sits down on the couch a foot or so away from the kid.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Tony asks gently.

“Just a stupid nightmare,” Peter tells him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s clearly not.”

Peter shakes his head, “You’ll think I’m being silly.”

“I won’t, I promise.” Tony takes Peter’s hand in his, giving it a light squeeze. “Whatever it is is clearly upsetting you.”

“I had a dream,” Peter begins, looking at their hands, “that...that everyone got turned into zombies. And there were only a couple of us left, Happy, Dr. Banner, Ms. Van Dyne, Bucky, Okoye, Ms. Carter...” Peter trails off, shaking his head, “And we had to fight all of you and one by one everyone left kept-kept dying and they were turning on us and-”

Peter cuts himself off with a shaky inhale. “Oh, kid.” Tony wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders and draws him into his side. Peter lets himself fall into Tony, turning his head against Tony’s chest.

“I know it’s not real,” Peter says quietly, tears making his voice thick. “But it...it felt like it was and it felt like I was losing everyone I loved all at once.”

Tony says nothing, his just gathers Peter into his arms and holds him, resting his cheek on the top of Peter’s curls. Peter clings to him tightly. Out of Peter’s sight, Tony allows himself to cringe at the pain coursing through his right cheek.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” Peter says after a long moment.

“It’s okay, peanut,” Tony tells him. “You were scared. I did the same thing to Pepper when I was having a nightmare. I’m fine, maybe I’ll get a bruise. You know women find those very attractive.”

“Eww,” Peter groans, just like Tony knew he would.

Tony chuckles and kisses the top of Peter’s head. “Oh! I’m almost done looking over your code. It looks really good, kid.”

Peter looks up at Tony eagerly, “Really?”

Tony nods, “Yep. We can test it tomorrow if you want.” Peter smiles so wide Tony fears his face might crack in two. “I take it that’s a yes.”

“Duh!” Peter leans back into Tony’s side with a content smile.

Tony holds him for a moment, letting Peter soak up the comfort he knows the kid still needs. “I think it’s time for spider baby to go to bed,” Tony says when Peter yawns.

Peter’s face falls immediately. “I don’t want to have another nightmare.”

“I know,” Tony brushes back a strand of his hair. “But you need to sleep. FRIDAY will tell me if you start having a nightmare and I will come wake you up, okay?”

“Fine.” Peter pouts a little as he stands, Tony follows suit. Tony snags the Spiderman blanket off the couch and tucks it snuggly around Peter’s shoulders.

“Sweet dreams,” Tony says, planting a kiss on Peter’s forehead before giving him a gentle push to the door.

Peter gives him a look, “You should go to bed too.”

Tony rolls his eyes, “I will. I’m going to finish looking over the code and then I’ll go straight to bed.” He puts a hand over his heart and three fingers up next to his head, “Scout’s honor.”

It’s Peter’s turn to roll his eyes, muttering something about Tony never being a boy scout, but he does turn and walk towards the door. “Night, Mr. Stark.”

“Night, kiddo.”

[tinydooms]

1 for Rick Evelyn and Jonathan please

Coffee on the Orient Express

The Simplon-Orient Express, just outside of Paris, late 1929

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you lot.”

Rick looked up as Jonathan dropped into the seat across the table and leaned back against the soft red plush. Alex, seated on a velvet cushion beside his father, bawled, “Hallo,  Uncle Jon!” As a just-turned-four year old, he was going through a shouting phase. A countess, a marquis, and someone who was probably an exiled Russian prince or something looked around disapprovingly. 

“Hullo, Alex,” Jonathan replied. “How d’you like the train?”

“I like it a lot!” Alex shouted. “Dad and me goed to see the driver!”

“That’s excellent,” Jonathan said, even as Rick murmured, “Not so loud, kiddo.”

He cast a glance around the dining car; everywhere eyes dropped back to plates or newspapers. Rick sighed. He doubted that he was ever going to get used to traveling first class, even on trains that weren’t as swanky as the Orient Express. Even Evie and Jonathan were a little cowed by it; though they had been raised posh, their mixed-race status had oftentimes barred them to “polite” society. Rick, a working-class boy from Chicago, was still oftentimes wrong-footed.

“This place is giving me the creeps,” Rick said in an undertone. “Look at this.”

He raised a finger, hand still resting on the table, and a waiter materialized out of nowhere like some kind of liveried djinn. Even though he had expected him, Rick started. 

“How can I help monsieur?”

“Could we please have a hot chocolate for the little one, and two coffees? Thanks, awfully.”

The waiter bowed and dematerialized. Rick gave Jonathan a wide-eyed look. 

“Spooky.”

“Well-trained,” Jonathan corrected, grinning. “Keep saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and you’ll probably get special treatment.”

Rick snorted. He caught a crayon that Alex was rolling along the table and sent it sliding back towards his son. 

“Half these people must be royalty,” he said. 

“Nobility,” Jonathan replied. “Royalty usually have their own trains. Not all of them: don’t look now, but that’s Agatha Christie having tea in the corner.”

Under the pretext of picking up a crayon, Rick glanced over at the lady in the corner. She looked perfectly ordinary in an expensive suit and a red fox fur stole, jotting notes down in a small notebook while she drank tea from a porcelain teapot. 

“Think she’s plotting a murder?”

Jonathan considered. “It’d be an interesting setting for it. Different from the isolated country house, but not so isolated that the killer couldn’t get away if he wanted.”

“Who would kill someone on a train?” Rick mused. 

“Someone who thought they could pin it on someone else, especially if there were stops in the night and the body wasn’t found ‘til morning.”

“Hmm,” Rick murmured. “There’d have to be a twist of some kind, of course, to make it stand out.”

“What kind of a twist?”

“I dunno, I’m not a writer.”

Both men chuckled. The waiter reappeared at their table, handing around coffee and hot chocolate and a cookie for Alex. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Rick said, nodding to him. “Alex, what do you say?”

“That lady’s gonna murder someone!” Alex whisper-shouted, pointing his crayon. 

The waiter followed the line of the crayon to Mrs. Christie, still scribbling in her notebook, and smiled. “Eh, bien, little monsieur, the lady kills people in her books.”

“It’s not nice to kill people,” Alex said solemnly. “Even in stories. Thank you for my cookie.”

“You don’t think she heard that?” Rick murmured, embarrassed. 

“No, monsieur, the lady is absorbed,” the waiter said, smiling at him. 

“Five pounds says she writes a novel about the Orient Express,” Jonathan said as the waiter walked away. 

“I’m not betting you five pounds to guess the setting of Agatha Christie’s next book!” 

“Doesn’t have to be the next one,” Jonathan replied. “Five pounds, the murder is set on the Orient Express and the detective is Poirot, not Marple.”

Rick scoffed. “Honestly, I’d rather see how Miss Sayers and Lord Peter Wimsey handle it.”

“It’ll be Mrs. Christie and Poirot; she sends him abroad more than Sayers does Wimsey. Five pounds. Deal?”

Rick made a face. “Deal.”

They shook on it. 

“And don’t you let him forget it, Alex,” Jonathan said, picking up his demitasse of fine coffee. 

Alex, chewing his cookie, nodded. “Mrs. Christie is going to murder someone on a train for five pounds. Got it.”

Not quite five years later

The letter arrived at Jonathan’s London flat on a bitterly cold January morning, post-marked Cairo, containing newsy letters from Evie and Alex, and a note from Rick. Inside the paper were a newspaper clipping of an ad for Agatha Christie’s latest Poirot adventure, Murder on the Orient Express, and a cheque for five pounds. All the note said was, “Damn it, Jonathan”. 

(Author’s Note: Agatha Christie first rode the Orient Express in late 1929, hence this story’s date; Murder on the Orient Express was published on New Year’s Day 1934. Five pounds at the time is roughly $350 in today’s money.)

[bananaofswifts]

By : Callie Ahlgrim and Courteney Larocca

Taylor Swift released her eighth studio album, "Folklore," on Friday.

Swift surprised fans by announcing its release just one day in advance — and less than one year after the release of her acclaimed seventh album "Lover."

"Most of the things I had planned this summer didn't end up happening, but there is something I had planned that DID happen," she wrote on social media. "And that thing is my 8th studio album, folklore. Surprise!"

She described "Folklore," stylized in all lowercase, as "an entire brand new album of songs I've poured all of my whims, dreams, fears, and musings into."

Much of the 16-song tracklist — 17 on the deluxe edition — was cowritten and produced by The National's Aaron Dessner. Smaller pieces were cowritten by Bon Iver, Jack Antonoff, and someone named William Bowery. Antonoff also produced five songs.

Insider's music team (reporter Callie Ahlgrim and celebrity and music editor Courteney Larocca) listened to the new album on our own, jotting down our initial thoughts track by track.

Almost immediately, we were forced to reckon with the fact that "Folklore" might be Swift's best album yet — potentially even better than "Red," which previously seemed like it couldn't be topped. We were stunned with the mature, poetic, stunningly understated collection of new songs.

Here is what we thought of each song on "Folklore" upon first listen. (Skip to the end to see the only songs worth listening to and the album's final score.)

"The 1" is the best album opener Swift has had in years.

Ahlgrim: "I'm doing good, I'm on some new s---" is a wild way to begin a new Taylor Swift album. This is going to be different.

This is easily the best intro song she's released in years. "The 1" far surpasses "I Forgot That You Existed" on "Lover," "...Ready for It?" on "Reputation," and "Welcome to New York" on "1989" in terms of sheer quality.

It's also an engaging scene-setter; I find myself gently rocking back and forth, eyes closed, smiling without realizing. It's only the first song and so far, I am totally grasping the woodsy aesthetic of this album. I'm already ready for more.

Larocca: I would argue that there hasn't been a strong album opener on one of Swift's albums since "State of Grace" on "Red" in 2012. "The 1" breaks that curse.

I was vibing from that very first piano note, but when Swift comes in and warmly delivers the first line of the album — "I'm doing good, I'm on some new s---" — it became evident this project wouldn't be anything like the rest of her discography.

As far as "The 1" goes as a standalone song, it's incredibly solid. Swift has a breezy attention to rhythm as she paints a tale of a the-one-who-got-away romance. I truly, truly love it. This might end up being an all-time favorite track.

"Cardigan" is beautifully influenced by Lana Del Rey.

Ahlgrim: I heard "Cardigan" first because I watched the music video before I listened to the album.

Right off the bat, I was struck by the Lana Del Rey melody in the chorus; I jotted down "folksy 'Blue Jeans.'"

Swift has actually cited Del Rey as an inspiration in the past, so this makes sense — and that particular shade of nostalgic, haunting glamour really works for Swift's voice, so I'm overall very impressed with this direction. I am more than amenable to a "Red" meets "Norman F---ing Rockwell!" album experience. On my second time around listening, sans music video, "Cardigan" already feels richer coming after "The 1."

This time, I'm struck by small lyrical details like "Sequined smile, black lipstick," a clear callback to her past eras, and "Tried to change the ending / Peter losing Wendy," an effective way to evoke young love and innocence lost.

I also think the song's central refrain, "When you are young they assume you know nothing," is clean and sharp and — especially given Swift's public struggles with sexism and years-old contracts — extremely poignant.

Larocca: I had the thought that Swift listens to Lana Del Rey after hearing "Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince" on last year's "Lover," but now I know for sure that Del Rey is an influence on Swift.

While "Cardigan" isn't what I thought this album would be like sonically, I'm overjoyed at how clearly singer-songwriter this album already is. I've been waiting years for Swift to make a lyrical marvel set to acoustic, warm, folksy instrumentals and it's here.

(And while I expected something different sonically, I am not mad at all by the backing instrumental choices here.)

"The Last Great American Dynasty" proves Swift is a natural storyteller.

Ahlgrim: Personally, I love Storyteller Taylor, so this is quite literally music to my ears.

There are so many delicious details here to unpack. The first verse, with its subtle sexist whisperings about Rebekah Harkness ("How did a middle-class divorcée do it?" and "It must have been her fault his heart gave out"), is a truly savvy way to set up for the song's eventual reveal.

Rebekah spent her time partying with friends, funding the ballet, playing card games with Salvador Dalí, somehow "ruining everything" — and her Holiday House was "free of women with madness" until Swift herself moved in.

That twist in the bridge is poetic genius. When the final chorus adjusts to the present day, underscoring the parallels between Rebekah and Swift, I'm forcefully reminded of an iconic bridge when Romeo finally proposed and changed everything — but Swift has evolved past daydreams of pure white dresses and fathers giving permission.

Larocca: I'm immediately taken back to 2012's "Starlight" when "The Last Great American Dynasty" starts. Thankfully, this song ends up being a lot better than "Starlight," which always felt more like a filler track on "Red" to me.

I love a lot here: the casual use of "b----," the acute attention to detail ("She stole his dog and dyed it key lime green"), and every version of this line: "There goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen."

I had a marvelous time listening to this song.

"Exile," featuring Bon Iver, is one of Swift's most successful duets to date.

Ahlgrim: Swift and Bon Iver, aka Justin Vernon, are two of the best songwriters alive today, so this song was destined to be breathtaking.

Swift has historically had difficulty allowing her voice and vision to coexist with a featured artist; her collaborations often leave me feeling like she should've just delivered the whole song herself.

But Swift and Vernon were able to weave their lyrics together so gracefully, I was left feeling grateful for his presence. His rich, rustic tone and those iconic hummed harmonies lends the regretful song an added coat of sincerity.

The production here is generally fine, but the layered instrumentals in the ending really bring the song together. I love a dramatic exit.

Larocca: When I see a "featuring Bon Iver" on a track, I instantly assume Vernon is going to come in with his high falsetto. So it was almost jarring that the song starts with Vernon sounding like a lumberjack dad who hasn't left the woods in a decade.

That didn't end up being a detriment, though. Swift sounds delicate on her verse, and their vocals contrast nicely later on the track.

This one also brings to mind her collab "The Last Time" with Snow Patrol's Gary Lightbody. The line "I think I've seen this film before and I didn't like the ending" is also reminiscent of "If This Was a Movie."

I'm obsessed with the clear influences Swift's previous discography had on these tracks, which have also so far felt completely unique to her catalog.

"My Tears Ricochet" is an extraordinary display of Swift's songwriting powers.

Ahlgrim: First of all, "My Tears Ricochet" is an incredible song title. Let's take a moment to appreciate that.

In fact, pretty much every line of this song is arresting.

Much of it feels both familiar and rare, like you know exactly what Swift is singing about, but hadn't thought to put it in those words before — which is, in my opinion, the mark of any good piece of writing but especially a breakup song. You can relate to the emotion, if not the particular details. You can hear the pain. It almost plays like a funeral march.

What a gift it is, what an exhilarating experience, to feel like you're listening to a poem being recited in real-time.

Larocca: Any true Swiftie knows that track five is reserved for the most vulnerable moment on the record, so I went into "My Tears Ricochet" ready to be sad.

I am endlessly impressed with how Swift managed to bake the word "ricochet" into this song so effectively. She also ditched her traditional song structure for this one, and instead built the track from peak to peak, utilizing clever lyrics along the way to tell an epic, devastating story, almost obviously calling back to the most beloved track five of "All Too Well."

I'm calling it now — this one is going to age like a fine wine. As all of Swift's best breakup ballads do.

"Mirrorball" is several strokes of genius.

Ahlgrim: This song gives me intense Clairo vibes, and I mean that as a very high compliment.

It's so fun and refreshing to hear Swift slip into different musical styles, and this shimmery take on alternative-bedroom-pop highlights her soft vocals and nuanced songwriting supremely well.

Also, my Leo sensibilities are fully under attack by this bridge: "I've never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try / I'm still on that trapeze / I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me." Oof! Just tag me next time.

Larocca: This one is so pretty! Swift's vocals sound better than ever as she spins on her highest heels across a glittery daydream.

"I'm a mirrorball / I'll show you every version of yourself tonight" might be the thesis statement of this entire album. So far, "Folklore" feels both diaristic and vague; detailed and completely anonymous.

Fans will be debating for years whether this album is about Swift's own life, or if it's simply really great storytelling pulled directly from her own mind. In the end, it doesn't really matter.

Because as all of Swift's best songs do, these songs will attach themselves to listeners in completely new ways, showing them elements and stories from their own lives.

"Seven" is pure whimsical magic.

Ahlgrim: This is playing make-believe in the garden when you're too young to feel self-conscious; it's poetic and nostalgic and full of awe in such an unpretentious way.

I wouldn't change one thing about this song. Swift's whispery high register sounds divine, and at this point in the tracklist, her rhythmic delivery in the chorus hits like a shot of espresso.

Right now, I'm wondering if it's possible for Swift to maintain this intrigue and momentum for another nine songs. There hasn't been a misstep to speak of, and I remain wholly beguiled. Can it last?

Larocca: The beginning of "Seven" sounds like Swift listened to Marina's "Orange Trees" on repeat before showing up to her songwriting session. Fortunately, "Orange Trees" is the only song I like on Marina's "Love + Fear" so I will gladly accept this inspiration.

Swift continues to impress with both her vocals and her sense of rhythm on "Seven." I also personally love space imagery so the line "Love you to the moon and to Saturn" is a standout line.

"August" will go down as one of the best songs in Swift's extensive repertoire.

Ahlgrim: I'm immediately catching hints of Phoebe Bridgers and girl in red in Swift's delivery. And I simply adore the idea that Swift has spent the last few months sitting at home, daydreaming about summertime humidity and listening to music by queer indie-pop girls. 

In an album full of songwriting expertise, this song has some of Swift's best lines yet: "August sipped away like a bottle of wine / 'Cause you were never mine" actually hurts me.

In my notes, there simply sits this valuable insight (yes, in all-caps): "WANTING WAS ENOUGH. FOR ME IT WAS ENOUGH TO LIVE FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL." This song has my favorite bridge on the album so far.

In terms of production, "August" is exquisite. It's lush and layered without feeling overwhelming at any point. It builds to the perfect level then recedes, like a wave. 

Also worth mentioning: It can now be considered a historical fact that any time Swift mentions a car or driving in one of her songs, it's a perfect song.

Larocca: While listening to "August," I texted Callie and said, "I can't wait to finish the album so I can relisten to 'August.'" It's an instant favorite. 

This is also the first track on the album that seems directly inspired by our current state. Not because she's expressing fear or singing about being bored at home, but because she so easily slips into a reflection of a relationship that ended years ago with a newfound wave of wistful nostalgia. 

When quarantine started, it seemed like a million lifestyle articles came out explaining why everyone suddenly felt compelled to text their exes and why we're so invested in looking back instead of forward right now. 

"August" validates those feelings with zero judgment, letting its listener know that yes, it's totally normal for you to be overanalyzing that quasi-relationship you were in back in college that never made it past graduation. Am I projecting? Maybe, but that's debatably what Swift's music is best utilized for.

I'm also going to be thinking about this song's bridge and outro for the rest of my life.

The National's influence can be felt on the stunning "This Is Me Trying."

Ahlgrim: "This Is Me Trying" quickly strikes a more sinister tone than its predecessors — still nostalgic and wistful, but carrying an edge, like a threatening secret.

Ironically, this one was co-written and co-produced by Jack Antonoff, not Aaron Dessner, though I can really hear The National's influence here. I'm getting strong wafts of songs like "Pink Rabbits" and "Dark Side of the Gym."

Based on Swift's own words, we can speculate that "This Is Me Trying" is a fictional tale, built around the image of "a 17-year-old standing on a porch, learning to apologize." And, as previously stated, I'm a big fan of Storyteller Taylor, so I'm into it.

The song's darker tone mingles really well with Swift's imagery; when you're a teenager, and you make a mistake, it can feel like the end of the world.

Larocca: "This Is Me Trying" is precisely what I imagined this album sounding like when I found out Swift collaborated with the National's Aaron Dessner and Bon Iver.

But I'm glad she was strategic about her use of echo and also finally paid attention to the tracklisting from a sonic standpoint. This haunting soundscape is reminiscent of 2014's "This Love" and comes in right when you need it after the yearning daydream of "August."  

I'd also like it to be on the record that the line "I got wasted like all my potential" ruined me and this song is a win for that lyric alone.

"Illicit Affairs" is a glowing example of what sets Swift apart from her peers as a songwriter.

Ahlgrim: The expert songwriting on "Illicit Affairs" reminds me of the as-yet unseated queen in Swift's discography: "All Too Well."

Swift is a master of wielding specific details like weapons: "What started in beautiful rooms / Ends with meetings in parking lots," she sings. "Leave the perfume on the shelf / That you picked out just for him." These are the sorts of images that set Swift apart, and they're especially strong when she punctuates their delivery with a little growl in her voice.

This song has real power. I have chills.

That power is magnified in the third verse, similar to how "All Too Well" builds to a crescendo: "Don't call me 'kid,' don't call me 'baby' / Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me."

Certainly, "Illicit Affairs" is more restrained than Swift's iconic arena rock ballad, but goddamn that last verse hits hard.

Larocca: The way that she says "him" in the second verse shook me out of my skin in the very best way. And "Don't call me 'kid,' don't call me 'baby' / Look at this idiotic fool that you made me" will go down as one of her best breakup lines of all time.  

It's been a minute since Swift delivered a painstakingly beautiful breakup ballad, and the fact that this album is littered with them is, simply, a gift.  

"Illicit Affairs" has growing power and will likely become one of those tracks that fans form a strong emotional attachment to over time.

"Invisible String" is Taylor Swift at her most Taylor Swift.

Ahlgrim: "Invisible String" is a feast of Easter eggs and callbacks.

"Teal was the color of your shirt" reminds me of the line about Joe Alwyn's blue eyes on "Delicate," and her reference to a dive bar is similarly familiar. "Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs" recalls the push-and-pull on "Exile."

"Bad was the blood of the song in the cab" is undoubtedly a reference to Swift's 2015 single "Bad Blood," while "One single thread of gold / Tied me to you" feels like a nod to Swift's description of love's "golden" hue on the "Lover" album closer "Daylight."

This song is sprightly and sparkly and certainly nice to listen to, but its real strength lies in these details.

Swift is weaving many different stories on this album, many connected by a sort of "Invisible String," tying different pieces of her life and your life and other lives together. It ends up feeling like a growing plant with far-reaching roots, or a sentient treasure map.

Larocca: I'd be lying if I said there weren't multiple points throughout this album where I worried that Swift and her boyfriend Joe Alwyn had broken up. 

Thankfully, "Invisible String" is a rosy, wide-eyed ode to love. The plucky guitar paired with Swift's soft vocals is a sound I want to live in, which is fitting since this track feels like coming home. 

Every small detail, from the nod to Alwyn's time spent working at a frozen yogurt shop in his youth, to the color imagery that paints every inflection of Swift's adoration (especially the single thread of gold) come together to lay the holy ground Swift's relationship walks on. 

Also, the image of Swift mailing Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner gifts for their expectant first child brings about an unbridled sense of joy.

"Mad Woman" is yet another highlight.

Ahlgrim: Every time I think I've heard the peak of this album's songwriting potential, Swift manages to surprise me. 

Case in point: "Do you see my face in the neighbor's lawn? / Does she smile? / Or does she mouth, 'F--- you forever?'" Whoa.

And another, for good measure: "It's obvious that wanting me dead / Has really brought you two together." I texted Courteney, "Did she really just say that??"

This song is sublime on its own, but the way it ties back into the perception of female freedom and "madness" on "The Last Great American Dynasty" makes it even better. "Mad Woman" is definitely a personal favorite so far on this album, if not in Swift's entire catalog.

Larocca: "Mad Woman" will forever hold the honor of being the first song in which Swift says "f---" and for that, we should all be thankful. 

I was also so wrapped up in the storytelling of this album, that it took a minute for this to even register that this is likely about the Scooter Braun and Scott Borchetta / Kanye West and Kim Kardashian West ordeals of Swift's past. These callouts used to be so obvious, that I greatly appreciate the subtlety and restraint here. 

It almost feels like these feuds were a lifetime ago, but this track does an excellent job at showcasing how anger and pain can leave an indelible mark on you. Swift went mad years ago, and that's just an accepted part of her narrative now. 

But for the first time, her rage sounds like freedom.

"Epiphany" doesn't stand out.

Ahlgrim: There are some really interesting vocal moments on "Epiphany," but so far, this is the only song I haven't felt captivated by. It's a bit snoozy, and a bit too long.

This song clearly references war, the loss of a loved one, and the coronavirus pandemic, which makes it lyrically intriguing at best — but distressing at worst. I don't mind letting the overall effect waft over me, but this won't be a song I revisit outside the context of the album.

Larocca: "Epiphany" is the only track on "Folklore" that didn't immediately grab me. It's essentially a war drama in song format, so some people might like it, but I truly couldn't care less about war movies or war songs! So it's not my favorite, but it makes for pretty background music. 

"Epiphany" does have another benefit though: Now, whenever some random dude erroneously claims Swift "only writes songs about her exes," fans have a clear song in her discography that they can point to and be like, "That's not true. This one's about war." 

That's not to say Swift needed that — anyone who has been paying attention understands she's quite possibly the best songwriter of her generation.  

This just happens to be further proof of that fact.

"Betty" is a charming callback to Swift's country roots.

Ahlgrim: "Betty" is like the best, sauciest song from Swift's 2006 debut country album that no one got to hear. It has sonic and lyrical similarities to hits like "Our Song" and "Tim McGraw," plus some name-dropping stuff like 2008's "Hey Stephen," plus a little harmonica thrown in for good measure! I love that for us.

"Betty" also appears to complete a three-song story, recalling details from "Cardigan" and "August" to close the loop on Betty and James, a couple in high school with some infidelity issues.

Looking back, it feels like "Cardigan" was told from Betty's perspective, while "August" was told from the perspective of a sort of "other woman" character. Now, we get James' side of the story. This is high art, folks! This is peak Storytelling Taylor!

"Betty" is also, like, very gay? I know it's easy to assume that James is a male character, but Swift herself was named after James Taylor, so she could be referring to herself. The song also references someone named Inez; James and Inez are the names of Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively's daughters.

Plus, in retrospect, the idea of whispering "Are you sure? Never have I ever before" during a summer fling seems pretty gay to me.

I'm not saying the story of Betty and James would be better if it was written about sapphic lovers, but I'm not not saying that.

Larocca: This one is gay, and if you try to tell me otherwise, I will simply ignore you. 

But Courteney, it's from the perspective of a guy named James. James and the other character, Inez, share the same names as Reynolds and Lively's kids (will leave it up to you to decide if that means their third daughter's name is Betty). James is their daughter. Get out of here with your antiquated ideas about which names connotate which genders. 

To me, the James named in this song is a woman and a lesbian and this song is for the gays. I will not be saying anything else or accepting any feedback on this opinion, thank you.

"Peace" is honest and raw.

Ahlgrim: This song's intro sounds like LCD Soundsystem had a baby with "The Archer." The gentle guitar riff is also lovely.

With Dessner's echoey production, Swift's voice sounds like a warm little fire in a cave — fitting, since she sings in the chorus, "I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm."

OK damn, I'm getting really emotional. This songwriting is beautiful and haunting. "Peace" perfectly captures the ambient dread of feeling your partner slip away, of wondering whether love can be enough. 

Larocca: If you're a "Call It What You Want" stan, you're going to love its mature older sister "Peace." 

I will hereby forever be thinking about the parallels between "But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm" with "He built a fire just to keep me warm" and between "Family that I chose, now that I see your brother as my brother" with "Trust him like a brother."

Also, "Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?" has the same emotional impact as when Swift changes the lyric in "The Archer" to "I see right through me" and that's meant as the highest form of compliment. 

Swift's vocals are so crisp, that guitar riff is so stunning, and these lyrics are so gut-wrenchingly vulnerable. A perfect song, through and through.

"Hoax" is unlike any other album closer in Swift's catalog.

Ahlgrim: I don't know if Swift is going through a traumatic breakup, but if she isn't, the woman is one convincing creative writer.

The National makes some of my favorite music to cry to, so when I heard Aaron Dessner had co-written and produced much of this album, I knew I was in for some glossy cheeks. Until now, I think I've felt too captivated by Swift's artistry to really let myself get there.

But finally, "Hoax" is making me cry.

This is heart-wrenching stuff for anyone, but for a fan and student of Swift's work, this is like reading a friend's diary entry.

"Don't want no other shade of blue, but you" must be a reference to "Delicate," in which Swift sings: "Dark jeans and your Nikes, look at you / Oh damn, never seen that color blue." Later, she croons, "You know I left a part of me back in New York," perhaps regretting the move to London that she detailed throughout "Lover." 

"You knew it still hurts underneath my scars / From when they pulled me apart," recalling the public shaming she endured and demons she exorcised on "Reputation." "But what you did was just as dark." Like I said before: Whoa.

Personally, I love having a good cry set to moody music, so I appreciate Swift's soul-bearing. "Hoax" is one gut-punch of an album closer.

Larocca: Swift has a habit of ending her albums on an uplifting, hopeful note and I always eat it up. But if "Folklore" hadn't made it clear by now that it should be consumed differently than any of her previous works, "Hoax" brings that message home.  

Instead of reveling in all the ways that love has made her stronger, happier, or more whole, "Hoax" deconstructs everything Swift has learned about love and leaves a bleaker picture about how maybe even the best of relationships hurt. 

But at its most tragic, this love still isn't something Swift will ever let go of: "Don't want no other shade of blue but you / No other sadness in the world would do."  

Finishing a Taylor Swift album has never been so devastating.

Final Grade: 9.7/10

[teriwrites]

the big manuscript search tag

I’m compiling a bunch of different tags from @cecilsstorycorner and @akindofmagictoo so this might be a long one!

My words to find: lonely, cup, drown, routine, deep, feather, rich, contact, kick, sun, pair, whisper, king, chord, chip, prove, mix, spin, water, color, need, fade, everyday

...yeah, that’s really long, so I’m going to throw the results in a read more to spare all your feeds from a wall of text

There’s a few words that don’t appear in one project or another, so I’m going to use both Castle on the Hill and Beneath Alder Creek! Because of that, the order won’t be quite the same

Castle on the Hill:

Lonely:

For the first day of break, Hans spent the entire day lounging around his house. His mother said nothing about it, except to suggest moving to a new spot every few hours so that he wouldn’t cramp up. She was in and out of the house a lot, which Hans took as a good sign. The harder days were those in which his mother spent most of it upstairs, locked away in her room. Hans had been allowed to join her, if he wished, but he’d preferred not to see her in such a state. Still, it had led to many a lonely afternoon.

Cup:

The following morning, Peter made the short trek over to the familiar cafe for his second date with Ursula. Despite having left five minutes early, Peter arrived to find Ursula already waiting at a table, with a cup of coffee in hand. He beelined for the table and tossed his blazer onto the back of the chair across from her. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” “No worries, I enjoyed the walk,” Ursula said brightly.

Drown:

“You seemed pretty smitten with this tutor girl,” Peter mused. The sounds of a dramatic breakup on the television nearly drowned him out. He fished the remote from the coffee table and muted the television. Klaus looked between Peter and Georg, who were both sending him matching smug expressions. Georg dramatically batted his eyes at Klaus, who shoved him in the shoulder and nearly sent him toppling over the side of the couch. “Come off it,” he dismissed with a snort. “I barely know her. She’s a fox, sure, but I’m not going to lose my head over a girl I’ve met once. Klaus Müller is always on the make.” Georg leaned forwards to look at Peter. “He’s speaking in the third person again.”

Routine:

“Alrighty, now that that’s out of the way, who wants to tell me what year the European Economic Community was established?” Prof. Dietrich asked brightly, shifting back into his regular routine of starting a lecture with an oral quiz. Josef avoided the man’s eye contact, choosing instead to pretend to be desperately jotting down notes. “Herr Weber? How about you give it a shot?”

Feather:

The rest of the class shifted their attention back to the lecture, but Josef’s face flushed as he fished out his notebook from his bag. He could practically hear the stories that would be circulating later. Josef Weber, the snobby inheritor to his father’s auto company, got scolded in front of a whole class. Wouldn’t that just put a feather in quite a few caps?

Rich:

“Tell me why I didn’t decide to work as a janitor,” Klaus muttered. “You’d never succeed as a janitor; you never even had to clean your own messes growing up.” One of Klaus’ arms snapped forwards and a smack that was aiming for Georg’s shoulder instead slapped smartly against the wooden back of his chair. With a sharp intake of breath, Klaus straightened in his seat. As he rubbed at his knuckles, Klaus shot back, “That’s rich, coming from a lawyer’s son.”

Chord:

“It’s a little complicated right now,” Hans said calmly. “Look, I’ve talked it all over with my mother, and she agreed that it would be best for me to stay here. It’s not that long, Josef, don’t look at me like that.” The doubt etched into Josef’s features was enough to warrant the comment, and he shook his head to try clearing it. Nothing in Hans’ demeanor pointed towards it being a lie, but something in the idea struck a false chord in him.

Water:

Though he'd managed to subdue most of his panic, Peter felt it all rushing back. A sudden pain at his hand drew him out of his thoughts, and he realized that he'd been aggressively stirring the pasta, and some of the water had splashed out of the pot.

Fade(d):

As Hans spoke, Professor Abend’s face lit up with recognition, which quickly faded into a solemn mourning. The exam lay on the desk between the two, forgotten. “I knew I had a Faust in one of my classes, but I never thought to make a connection,” Professor Abend said in a low voice.

Beneath Alder Creek:

Deep:

A deep breath, and then Winnie followed through, dragging her other foot into the creek. The water rose halfway up her calf, and continued to rise as she made her way forwards. To her thigh, then her hip, and finally up to her waist. It was the second dress she’d soaked that day, Winnie thought with a wry smile, and, in her distraction, she failed to notice a large rock in the creek bed. It could hardly be considered a fall. Winnie pitched forwards, plunging her face into the creek for only a moment before she caught her balance and straightened up. But she’d opened her mouth as she tripped, and her rise was met with a violent coughing fit. Loose strands of hair clung to her face, making it impossible to see, and Winnie pushed forwards carefully by feeling along the bottom with her foot. The progression was slow, but Alder Creek was by no means wide, and it wasn’t long before Winnie found the water beginning to ebb away. As she pulled herself out of the creek, Winnie brushed the hair from her face and finally opened her eyes. Looking to where she’d seen the fairy ring, she froze.

Contact(ing):

Contacting the fae was no easy feat; they only made appearances of their own volition, not subscribing to any convenient timetable. While it was said that certain holidays brought the mortal world closer to their realm, years had passed before any signs revealed their presence. By then, the couple had been so eager that they’d wasted no time in seeking out a deal. They were the fourth and fifth victims within the fifteen years. Nobody had been so hasty since.

Kick(ing):

Back into the bog. Winnie no longer worried herself with her skirts, allowing them to drag through the stagnant water. It was a mistake, she soon discovered, as the drenched fabric weighed her down and made the progress even slower. With an exasperated groan, she stomped at the ground, kicking up a spray and lodging her boot into the mud.

Sun:

Time steadily passed as they traveled, though how quickly or slowly it went by, Winnie couldn’t say. She could feel the blisters beginning to form on her feet, the slight ache in her shoulders where she’d slung her bag, the warmth that spread across her back as the sun’s ceaseless rays washed over them. When she fell slightly behind Taliesin, he was shining so brightly that her eyes began to burn, and she had to quicken her pace to keep in step with him.

Pair:

The first thing Winnie noticed was the boat they were standing in. It was like a skiff, sitting low in the water and directed by a pair of oars. The figure rowing seemed to be wearing some type of headgear, a hazy and elongated shape still a little too far to make out. Taliesin moved back from the shore, forcing Winnie to do the same to provide space for the skiff to breach.

Whisper:

“Don’t stare,” Taliesin reminded her in a whisper. He raised a hand in greeting, and the figure dipped their head slightly, though how they could’ve seen it without eyes, Winnie couldn’t say. “Hail, Ferryman!”

Prove(n): 

Turning away from the Llion, the group soon found themselves returning once more to the thick fog of the wetlands. Winnie took the middle, knowing better than to have Taliesin and Enid side-by-side. In one hand, she took the long sleeve of Enid’s robes, and in the other, Taliesin’s cloak. He dragged his feet the whole time, still sulking, and it took all of Winnie’s self-restraint not to let go and leave him behind as punishment for his pettiness. Being proven wrong did not suit the golden man.

Mix(ed):

It was nearly a week later when Winnie found herself back at Alder Creek. The water level had dipped back to its usual shallows, which lazily drifted by. Winnie could see her face reflected as she stared down, features blurred in its [flowing surface]. The hem of her skirt had dipped into the water, which lapped at Winnie’s bare feet. Her shoes were somewhere behind her, abandoned, a sign of her troubled mind. For the most part, Winnie had abandoned the practice of walking about barefoot - how her mother would’ve shouted if she’d seen her. The thought of her mother brought a fresh wave of mixed humiliation and frustration as the events of the day replayed through her mind.

Spin:

A light flickered in the trees. When Winnie looked up, she stared at the sight. Taliesin was crouching on a branch, catlike, with his hands holding the branch between his feet. Somehow, he did not sway but remained perfectly still, patiently watching Winnie spin in circles to look for him, all with an amused half-smile.

Color(s):

The opening of the cavern shifted through several colors, like an ever-changing kaleidoscope of light through a prism.

Need:

She offered Enid no response, so after a stretch of silence, the statuesque woman continued. “This is out of some attachment to the Dusk fellow, then.” Winnie bristled at her tone. “Of course it’s not. I merely need him to ensure that my brother and I are able to depart the Fae safely.”

Not found:

King (Apparently my writing does not support monarchies lol)

Chip

Everyday

This was excessively long, so I’m going to leave it an open tag. The words for anyone who feels like it are king, chip, and everyday because I’m sure somebody out there has them, even if I don’t. 

[mirrorballparkers]

i have to send this bc of that call out post *ahem* you have the biggest crush on peter so whenever you’re in class you try n sneak lil glances of him but the one time he catches you staring and you both end up blushing messes h

this is the sweetest :( i love hims 🦋🐶🧚🏻‍♀️

━━

10:55 am. honors english class; tuesday afternoon, mid october.

he’s wearing that blue midtown high sweater, that is much too big for him, but it works - it works because he looks cozy, warm, and too adorable. you love the way he hides his hands inside the sleeves, due to the cold air radiating through the vents and waving through the medium size classroom.

the little habits he had were everything; the way he’d srunchbhis nose up after making a tiny typo on his paper, the blue ink smudged across his fingers, something you noticed happened nearly every day. but it was never something he noticed, so without knowing, he’d walk around the rest of the day with a bunch of blue ink plastered along his fingers and hands.

peter decided to go with glasses today, leaving contacts out of the equation, he was too tired to put them in this morning after a late patrol, then coming home to cram some last minute studying in. you thought he looked a little geeky, but also resembled a warm little puppy during the fall; the combination of his flushed cheeks, either from being near you or from the frigid air, the way his freckles laid across his nose and his cheeks, something you adored. his freckles were astronomical, they resembled little flowers, to you; you wanted to count them, all of them.

it was quiet, not too quiet, your teacher liked to play soft orchestra music in the background in order to get your motivation for writing started. the assignment today was to write a poem about new beginnings, how they were important each month, and each season; you longed for a new beginning this month. (perhaps, you’d have the chance with peter?)

your finger graces across your brown notebook, which you often used to write your poems in, so this wasn’t foreign to you; but today, your mind wasn’t agreeing with you. it didn’t want to write. your eyes always adverted to that boy with the pretty brown eyes next to you, always finding your heart beating a different poem itself; it was the best one, yet.

11:00 am. not a single word written, not even a trace of thought, just peter. always peter.

peter often wondered how you could write so well, being one of the best writers in your class. he thought words were simple, yet they touched his heart. you’d write what he was always thinking, and he admired that. he also admired your simplistic beauty; it was out of this world, it was fey.

he’d always write about you, anonymously of course, for you were his muse. was it creepy? to him, possibly ned, yes. but, if you ever found this out, your heart would be beating as fast as his. like some sort of duet.

with the hopes of getting some inspiration to jot at least one single word down on the paper in front of you, you glance over at peter. it was never a quick glance, you always gazed at him with wonder and with fervor. somehow, while staring, you found out more about the boy with the tantalizing eyes; reminding you of moonlight and a love song. you found out how good he was, how pretty he was. not just his features, but his heart.

a quick glance can never go unnoticed, and today was that day.

peter’s head turns slightly, and once his eyes land on yours, you’re paralyzed with embarrassment.

basically, you fucked up.

peter bows his head, too bashful, wondering how and why the girl of his dreams was looking at him with such adoration. was this all a fantasy?

suddenly, the butterflies were too much to handle in your belly, and your cheeks were starting to burn. you weren’t sure if it was embarrassment, or if it was because your english teacher had finally turned the heat up.

you felt a sense of awkwardness, uncomfortable (not because of him, because you just felt like a creepy stalker staring at someone you’ve barely spoken to.) and without thinking about anything but how stupid you looked, you just giggle quietly, and wave at the pretty boy next to you.

hey, nothing wrong with saying hello to a boy as dreamy as peter parker.

he tries not to smile too wide, and bites the bottom of his lip, waving back at you. he thought your blush was adorable, your bashfulness was adorable. you were adorable, and he wanted to kiss your pink nose so terribly at this very moment.

you grip onto your fluffy pink pen, turning away from him. it was a start, maybe a shy start, but it was a start anyway.

11:05, you started to write about your dream boy. words flowing like honey, body temperature going up every time. now, you were both making little attempts at looking at each other. all of a sudden, peter was now passing you little notes with sweet messages.

after breaking the ice by passing the notes, peter decides it would be best if he got to know you better. he wanted to keep talking to you; but he wanted to hear your voice. the voice as smooth as honey, as sweet as anything in this world. it made him feel like, maybe, there was good in this world. there was hope, perhaps.

so, i was thinking, we could maybe continue this conversation after class? but, like, not using notes because it’s a waste of paper. could i maybe...give you my number? c:

your heart skips a beat, feeling like you were, in fact, bringing one of your poems to life. but even better. you try not to look like such a lovesick fool, and turn your head towards peter, who was already blushing the moment your eyes met his dreamy ones.

“sure, i’m down.” you whispered, receiving a little hush from your teacher. you both giggle nervously, and due to peter’s spidey senses, he could hear your heartbeat now. and, gosh, was it perfect. the most beautiful song in this world.

this felt so kid-like, but also so cute and right at the same time. you glance over at peter, who just happened to be already looking over at you with a joyful, too cute for words grin on his baby face.

peter nods, carefully and diligently ripping a little piece of paper from his notebook, jotting his phone number down.

you thank him silently as he hands you the little paper with his info on it. you hold it tenderly in the palm of your hand, and on it read a little message, that was too sweet for words:

i already think you’re sweet...can’t wait to talk to you more, here’s my number:) - pete

it was crazy. one little awkward glance resulted in moments filled with fairytales; you couldn’t quite believe it, peter was your one and only true fairytale. it was better than anything you’ve ever read, because it was real.

━━

blurb night 9.2.19.

[silverfootstepswrites]

Middle Ground [5]

“You alright?”

Naruto offered his hand. Sakura wiped the blood from her nose on the back of her hand. She cracked her neck before she accepted his help and let him pull her to her feet.

“Ow. Trolls hit hard!” she griped, rubbing her shoulder. Naruto bent over to retrieve her holy symbol. He rubbed the golden falcon clean on the front of his shirt before he handed it over. 

“Well...” Sasuke said, eyeing the remains of the monsters. Especially the charred remains of the same ice troll that had knocked Sakura to the ground. “To be fair, so do you,” Sasuke remarked. He spotted a knife sticking out of the snow and dug it out with the toe of his boot. When he held it up questioningly, Tenten raised her hand. 

“Throw it!” the halfling urged. 

“Please don’t,” Asuma and Sakura replied in unison.

They found an old abandoned fortress to stay in for the night. The frozen gate groaned open after a little bit of finagling from Kakashi’s tools. They took cautious steps into the courtyard, weapons still clenched in their hands. After a quick once over, they relaxed a little. The stone walls did nothing to stop the snow from drifting down on their heads, but they did block the wind that had been buffeting them since morning. 

It was decided that Sasuke would head in first with Kakashi to check for any other occupants. 

“Wait! Leave us a fire before you go! It’s cold!” Naruto exclaimed. 

Sasuke paused. Just before ducking into the darkness. He made a face as he turned around to look at them. “You’ve got a cleric and a wizard sitting there,” he retorted.

“But you’re... like... literally a fire dude. I mean-” Naruto pointed at the flame hovering in Sasuke’s open palm. “You’ve got fire. Like, there. Just... whoosh.” And Naruto mimed tossing it underhand. 

Sasuke turned to Sakura who just shook her head. “Go. Before you kill him,” she sighed.

Dinner consisted of some of the dried meat and half-stale bread that still remained after their last stop in a real town. They huddled around a big fire they set in what probably once served as a dining hall. The tapestries high up on the walls were so coated in dust that it was hard to tell. 

“As long as you keep the fire going in your room, you shouldn’t die overnight. Although I would avoid that if possible,” Asuma warned them as they passed a flask of mulled wine around. They each took a swig before they handed it to the person beside them. 

“Yeah, that’ll probably piss Sakura off if one of us died and she had do burn a spell slot reviving our frozen asses,” Tenten snorted. Everyone snickered at that. 

“Who says I’d burn a spell slot?” Sakura answered before she took a sip of the sweet wine. Naruto made an “ooh” noise. As Sakura turned to her right, Kisame accepted the flask. He pretended to accidentally grab her hand instead of the drink.

“Well, guess we’ve all gotta keep warm,” he commented. And while no one was looking, he tossed a wink her way. Sakura rolled her eyes. 

Not long after, everyone bid each other good night. Sasuke had reported that the residential areas of the fortress were clustered into different sections. Neji and Tenten headed off to one side, hands held under their heavy cloaks. Naruto threw one arm around Sasuke’s shoulder and the other around Kisame’s as he dragged them to another wing. 

As the sounds of chatter died down, Sakura headed in the direction of the central wing. From her experience, the more exposed a room was, the colder it would be. While a room on the top floor would have the best view, she wasn’t willing to sacrifice her toes for a pretty scene. She found a decent place not too far from the cobweb-filled pantry. Unwilling to spend an hour chasing out any pests, she swept a quick flame around the corners of the bedroom to scare off any critters and burn off all the cobwebs before she tossed the remaining heat into the fireplace. The magical fire quickly pushed the cold out. 

She spent some time banging years of dust and cobwebs off the huge bed. After she arranged her cloak and bedroll on top of it, it made a halfway decent place to sleep for the night. 

Sakura shed her boots before she crawled onto the bed. She pulled her journal out of her pack and began jotting down the usual list of injuries of the day and what she had used to treat them. 

It was a while before there was a knock. The draft from the hallway blew in when Kisame opened the door. A shiver rippled through Sakura as she glanced up from her journal. Kisame locked the door behind him. He appraised the place, nodding a little.

“This side is nicer,” he remarked. He rubbed his hands together as he took another step inside. 

“You know, you’re probably the least subtle person I’ve ever met,” Sakura accused. She closed her journal before placing it back in her pack. But when she looked up again, Kisame didn’t look at all apologetic. In fact, he smirked at her. as he yanked at the clasps of his cloak.

“Whatever. You wanted subtle, you should’ve gone for the rogue,” he replied. The very thought made her giggle. 

Although Sakura liked to poke fun at Kisame for a lot of things, one thing she couldn’t deny was that he was very good at warming her up. This occurred to her as she lay curled up against his side, both his cloak and his arm draped over her. They weren’t in the habit of cuddling, but the added body heat was nice.

Sakura knew he wasn’t asleep. His eyes were open as he stared up at the faded old canopy.

“Hey,” she said. Her finger tapping one of his ribs. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you own my soul or something now?” she asked.

He turned his head to her, frowning as he processed her question. “What?”

She didn’t have to elaborate because his expression then shifted. His eyes widened for a moment before he began to laugh. “No. My dick doesn’t seal contracts,” he snorted.

Sakura slapped his chest. “Hey! I’m just asking,” she defended herself. Kisame’s laughter quieted. He seemed to think about something before he spoke again.

“I mean, normally, no. I guess I could make an exception for you.” Flashing his teeth in a grin.

Sakura slapped him again. This time, it was hard enough that he gave a quiet “ow” in response. 

“I thought you promised not to make it weird,” she reminded him. 

“Aw, Come on. I’m a paragon of normal....ness. Normal shit. Whatever,” he petered off, stumbling on the wording. And when she sniggered at him, he made a big show of being offended. 

“Guess that’s my cue to leave. I know when I’m not welcome,” Kisame sulked. But when he started moving, Sakura grabbed the front of his shirt. 

“Are you kidding? It’s freezing. You’re my hot water bottle for the night.”

“Oh.... huh,” was all Kisame said as he froze. A moment passed. And then he laid back down. “Yeah. Makes sense,” he decided, arm curling around her again. 

They were off again in the morning. And while everyone grumbled together about how cold it was, they were eager to keep moving. Sakura walked next to Tenten, who was more than happy to chat with her.

“You sleep okay?” asked Sakura. 

“Yeah. I elbowed Neji in the eye, though,” Tenten answered. And then she added, “Sorry,” as she looked over her shoulder. The corners of Neji’s mouth pulled up. 

“It’s quite alright. It was just an accident,” he assured her.

They had expected to run into fewer monsters as they left the coast, beginning a long trek through the mountain range that bisected the continent. They were both wrong and disappointed by that wrongness. 

“You can’t walk five steps without a bear chomping at your ass,” Kisame grumbled, swatting away mosquitoes with angry swipes. Luckily, those mosquitoes disappeared at the higher elevations. But so did any sensation in their fingers and toes. Some days were warmer and some were colder as the elevation dipped and rose with the jagged sides of the mountains. 

Fortunately, there were usually villages wherever they went.  Most of them were happy to share whatever they had with the outsiders who brought news of the outside world with them.

“You haven’t seen anything like that up here?” Naruto asked after describing the ice troll they’d encountered just a couple days ago. 

“Fortunately, no. We’ve just got a nasty wyvern sleeping in the ravine out west,” the mayor mused, stroking his wispy beard. As Naruto turned to Kakashi with a pleading expression, the thief pushed his face away. 

“No,” Kakashi said in a flat voice.

“But Kakashi!”

“No,” Kakashi said again.

Naruto’s head whipped around in search of Sakura, who also said, “No” in the same tone.

They kept their stays in these little settlements short. Just long enough to buy some food and to dry their clothes before they set off the following day.

After several days more of travel, the temperatures began to rise as they made their way down a dip in the mountain range. The snow began to fade. And they could see grass covering the ground instead of giant mounds of snow that Tenten had to angrily kick through to move forward. The weather was still cold, however. Something that Naruto commented on one night as they found shelter in a network of caves carved into the side of a stone cliff. 

“Can’t feel my ass. I think it fell off,” he grumbled.

“Don’t worry. There wasn’t much to begin with,” Sakura scoffed. And then she thanked Asuma with a smile as he handed her a mug of tea. 

It took a long moment. And then Naruto made a face of revulsion as he whipped his head around. 

“Hey! I’m not a piece of meat! Eyes up here, lady!” Naruto scolded, pointing at his face. Sakura glanced at him before she took a loud slurp of her tea. 

“Not much to look at up there either,” she muttered. 

"Ouch,” Kisame said, smirking. 

“Fine. Then who’s the most handsome here if it’s not me?” Naruto demanded. 

Sakura cast a glance around their group. She considered her tea for a moment. 

“Me,” she replied before she sipped her drink again. 

The following day, the party found themselves in a big mining town. Big enough that there was a messenger service. Sakura broke away from her companions at the first chance to write a letter back home, updating them on her whereabouts and where she would hopefully be in the next few weeks. 

At dinner that night, they listened to the murmur of conversation in the humble but clean bar. An older woman sitting at the bar mentioned how odd it was that the river had run dry. From somewhere across the room, a toothless old man lamented about how bandits were roaming the roads. And then a young man burst into the room, dripping blood from a cut on his forehead as he gibbered about a mad boar in the woods. 

“.... You think they give discounts for staying for a while?” Asuma asked Neji. Who sighed and got to his feet to go ask the innkeeper just that. 

All things considered, this wasn’t a bad place to stop for a while. The town comprised of a mixture of humans and dwarves, with a few half-orcs here and there. They had all come to mine for the precious ores buried deep in the sides of the mountain. And while the innkeeper didn’t offer them a discount, he did offer them a fair price for all their rooms.

Hunting down the rabid boar only took a couple days with Sasuke’s tracking skills. Tracking down its furious mate, however, took nearly a week as it tore up crops and attacked travelers. 

Next, they investigated why an entire river would run dry. They braced themselves for a variety of threats. Tenten suggested monster beavers. Asuma conjectured that it was the work of evil druids living in the woods. In the end, however, it was just another settlement in the north that had damed up the river for their own mining operation. 

“So, like, this other town below you isn’t getting water,” Naruto explained.

“Uh-huh,” the leader of the mining operation grunted. 

“And if they don’t have water they can’t cook or drink. Or do laundry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, like.... can you... not have a dam?” Naruto tried asking.

“Nuh-uh.”

Naruto glanced back at the rest of his party. Sasuke shrugged. Kisame mimed punching over and over again before Kakashi and Sakura grabbed his arms and pulled them down to his sides. Naruto turned back to the miner.

“Please?”

“Nuh-uh.”

Naruto looked back at them again. 

 Tenten heaved a sigh. She reached into her belt to pull out a very large knife with jagged teeth. “Fuck this. Let’s just fight ‘em,” she declared. 

“Uh, ok. Cool,” Naruto agreed as he grabbed his weapon too. 

Sakura glared at Naruto as she tended to his wounds that night. Naruto pointed at Tenten who sat with her feet up by the fire. 

“It wasn’t my idea this time!” he reminded her.

“If Tenten told you to jump off a bridge, would you?” Sakura scolded him. 

Naruto thought for a long time. “Well, maybe she saw some dope loot or a secret area. Tenten’s pretty sharp,” he replied.

Tenten’s smug expression melted. Hand on her chest, she sighed, “Aw, Naruto.”

“It’s spreading,” whispered Sasuke with dawning horror. 

“What is?” Kisame asked.

“The stupidity,” Sasuke replied.

Lastly, they tackled the group of bandits terrorizing the roads. They were difficult to pin down as they moved all over the mountainside, shaking down locals and pillaging carts loaded with goods and supplies.

"We should try to talk first. If they’re affiliated with a guild, I might be able to negotiate,” Kakashi suggested. 

“Or have Kisame rip their arms off,” Naruto offered instead. 

Rubbing his nose, Kisame pretended to be bashful. “Aw, Naruto, that was one time.” And then he laughed when Tenten punched him in the arm. Less so when Sakura punched him in the same spot. With much more force as she whispered, “Don’t encourage him.”

It took several days of Kakashi asking questions and Sasuke checking tracks in the woods before they managed to find the bandits’ base of operations. 

Following Kakashi’s lead, they strolled straight into camp. Like half a dozen bowmen didn’t immediately have their arrows pointed at them. 

“If this goes badly, Kakashi, my ghost will murder your ghost,” hissed Sakura as they approached the man sitting on what appeared to be a chair made from bones. Naruto made a noise of disgust when he noticed it, elbowing Sasuke until he looked too. Naruto nodded when Sasuke also made a face, sticking his tongue out. He tugged on the back of Sakura’s cloak. She followed both their fingers to stare at the horrifying piece of furniture. 

“....yuck,” she whispered. 

“Seriously,” Sasuke grumbled.

“Nasty,” Naruto agreed.

 It took Sakura a second to realize that Kakashi had started talking. She grabbed Sasuke and Naruto each by the elbow, turning them toward the stern faces. 

“You have to understand. Business is business. I can’t just stop making money,” the man on the bone throne was saying. As Sakura peered out past Naruto’s arm, his expression changed.

“Although...” the bandit leered, licking his lips as he eyed Sakura, “I might be more willing to move my operations... for a price.”

“Gross!” Naruto blurted out.

The bandit’s glance trailed over to Naruto. And then to Tenten standing on his other side.

“Or that one. Either is fine,” the bandit added.

“Oh, gross!” exclaimed Tenten.

“Alright, let’s kill this guy already,” Sasuke muttered as his hand inched toward an arrow in his quiver. Naruto was already reaching for his axe.

“Oh, come on. It’s a fair trade. A little something for a little something,” the bandit insisted, getting out of his seat. “A little roll in the hay for my trouble.”

Before a blood vessel could pop in Naruto’s head, Kisame growled, “Listen. That’s not gonna work for us.” Sakura’s eyes widened. 

“Ha! Why? You bangin’ this one already?” the bandit barked. His band burst into guffaws behind him. “Or maybe you’re all taking turns with her?” The howls of laughter went up an octave. Naruto’s face turned purple. Before he could start swinging, Sasuke yanked him back by the shoulder. Out of the path of a bolt that shot from Sakura’s crossbow. It jammed into the throne, knocking one of the skulls loose.

The laughter cut out as wide eyes swiveled toward Sakura. Her cheeks were bright red as she loaded a new bolt into her crossbow. Yanking the string back into place with a tug that made the muscles in her arms flex. When she lifted her weapon again, her eyes shimmered a little.

“Let’s get one thing straight, you rat-faced little bastard,” snarled Sakura. She kept her crossbow aimed at the head bandit. Slowly, she swung her other arm around to point at Kisame. “I’m the one that’s banging him. Not the other way around.”

Kisame, who had been advancing with his sword held in both hands, froze. As he took in her words, he looked offended for all of three seconds before he shrugged and then conceded with a nod. “Okay. Fair.” 

There was a stunned silence. Some of the bandits turned to mutter among themselves. 

“... Pay up, Asuma,” whispered Kakashi, turning around to look at the bard. Asuma’s guilty gaze flickered to Sakura before returning to Kakashi. 

“How about after we deal with this situation, Kakashi?” Asuma replied through clenched teeth. 

“Fine by me. I’ll take gold or diamonds,” came Kakashi’s cheerful reply. 

The fight ended quickly. Mostly because Sasuke lost his patience and summoned a pack of wolves to assault the many bandits. And Neji helped by setting fire to the ones who had been eyeing Tenten. And Sakura really cleaned things up when she summoned a cloud of biting locusts to blanket the remaining bandits. All the while Naruto ran around smashing the blade of his axe into everyone he could reach while screaming at the top of his lungs about respecting women. Which, while not very educational, was still touching.

When the grateful townspeople offered them a chest of gold, Naruto turned it down without a second thought. 

“No, that was personal. Good riddance,” Naruto growled, wiping the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand. He stole glances at Sakura, who hadn’t really said anything on their way back into town. With her back to him, it was difficult to tell how she was feeling.  Sasuke also cast a few wary glances her way. When he met Naruto’s eyes, all he did was shrug. He did, however, glare, when he noticed Kakashi and Asuma exchange a few gold coins.

On their way to the inn, Kisame jogged a few extra steps to catch up to Sakura. Naruto cringed, raising his hands to stop him. Kisame ignored him as he casually leaned in, knocking his arm against Sakura’s.

“You blew it,” he mocked her.

“I know. Shut up,” she grumbled. 

Kisame looked down as he felt a light punch against his hip. It was Tenten, who shoved him out of the way. 

“Go be annoying over there,” Tenten ordered before she grabbed Sakura’s arm and dragged her to the bar to get something to eat. Tenten’s glare made it clear that none of the others were welcome to join them at their table. Not even Neji.

After a hot meal and about half her drink, Sakura slouched. Finally relaxing a little.

“Well,” she sighed. Tenten looked at her, mirroring her grimace.

“Well,” Tenten agreed.

Tenten reached out and patted Sakura’s arm. “Better than someone walking in on ya, I guess,” she offered. Sakura made a noise of disgust at the very thought. She took another swig of her drink. Across the room, Kisame grinned at her, intolerably smug as he had been the entire evening.

“Lemme just ask one thing,” Tenten said.

“Yeah?”

"He’s good to you, yeah?” Tenten pressed. A knife suddenly in her hand as she glanced Kisame’s way too. She always had a blade hidden somewhere on her, though, so it didn’t surprise anyone. Including the bartender, who just sent over a serving girl with more drinks.

Sakura shrugged one shoulder. “There’s nothing to not be good about. He’s... fine.”

Tenten considered her blade once. And then she nodded. “Good,” she decided as she put her knife away.

After a while, Tenten began to yawn. With some urging from Sakura, she headed up to her room to settle in for the night. Which Tenten only agreed to after shooting a warning glare at the people around her. 

It didn’t take long for a big blue hand to slap down on the table. The force of it made Sakura’s drink slosh a little.

“I’m fine?” Kisame repeated. He set his own drink down on the table and slid into the seat across from hers.

Sakura rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

He leaned his forearm on the table to stare at her. “I’m sure you meant fine like fine wine. Or fine dining,” he went on.

Sakura gestured toward him with her tankard. “Maybe I meant ‘fine’ like ‘I’m going to crush you into a fine powder if you keep bothering me’,” she suggested instead.

“I’d like to see you try, Doc,” he scoffed.

“You’d love it if I did,” she retorted. He snorted into his ale. Wiping his face on the back of his hand, he stared up at her.

“.... You think so?” he asked, his voice lowering.

Rolling her eyes, Sakura kicked the leg of his stool.

Across the room, two sets of eyes watched their exchange. 

“Are they fighting? Should we say something?” whispered Naruto, ducking behind his tankard. Like that would make him less visible.

Sasuke took a bite of his bread, shaking his head. “No, you idiot. They’re flirting,” he stated with his mouth full of food.

Face scrunching up, Naruto swiveled his head in Sakura’s direction again. 

“That looks kind of aggressive to be flirting,” Naruto pointed out. Tilting his head to one side. 

Sasuke ripped off another bite of bread. “Yeah. Well, it’s Sakura.”

“....Yeah, makes sense,” Naruto agreed. 

Not too long after, Sakura got out of her seat. She stretched her arms over her head once. Then, hand on her hip, she looked at Kisame. 

“Be nice. If I wake up in the middle of the night because you start another bar fight, I’ll be pissed,” Sakura warned. 

Kisame flashed his teeth. “I’m always nice,” he assured her. 

“Alright. Good night,” she laughed before she crossed the room, heading up the creaky wooden stairs. 

“Can I talk to you?”

Kisame lowered his tankard to find Sasuke standing next to the table. 

“Oh boy. Here we go,” grumbled Kisame. Sasuke’s scowl deepened.

“What?”

Sighing, Kisame propped his cheek up on his hand. “Yeah. I get it. You’re here to threaten me about not messing with the Doc, right? Alright, let’s hear it.”

Sasuke grimaced. “What? No.”

Kisame lifted his head. “Really?”

Sasuke nodded, the disgust showing more and more on his face. “Why the hell would I threaten you about Sakura?” he demanded.

Kisame blinked. He scratched his cheek. “Uh. You know. Defending her honor. Warning me not to screw it up. Y’know. Shit like that,” he listed.

Sasuke looked flabbergasted at the very idea. He took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. “Okay, well, first of all, why does honor have to do with any of that? And second of all, that’s stupid because if you screwed up, Sakura would set you on fire. Literally. She’ll end your life,” Sasuke retorted. 

Kisame chuckled at the mental image that conjured. As he took another gulp of his alcohol, a thought occurred to him. He turned to Sasuke to scrutinize him. 

“Then what’d you come over here for?” he inquired.

Sasuke took a seat across from him. “I was gonna ask you about that disarming strike you did to that bandit before. I want you to teach me.”

-----

Despite their earlier exchange, Sakura was unsurprised when she heard a knock on her door. 

“What?” she replied. 

“Rude lady. What if I were someone fancy with a ruffled collar?” Kisame scolded as he pushed the door open. He shoved it shut, scowling when it jammed just a little against the warped frame. 

“Your rooms are always much better than mine. Mine’s cold,” he griped, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He sat on the end of her bed, bouncing a little to test the mattress. And then he laid down, letting out a sigh of relief at the softness.

"Perks of sewing people back together. Maybe you should try it, Mr. Rip-Limbs-Off-For-Fun,” she retorted. 

Kisame didn’t say anything. So she didn’t either. She hunched over her journal, scribbling into it about what she had done during the day’s journeys. Which included summoning a plague of insects and reattaching Naruto’s pinky.

After a while of ignoring him, she glanced over her shoulder at Kisame. He lay on the bed, feet hanging off the end. Arms crossed behind his head.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” she told him.

“I figured. Think I’ll sleep here.... to avoid the draft,” he replied.

That made her stop. While that was unusual, she didn’t exactly hate the company either. She went on writing. 

“Whatever,” was all she declared. And Kisame seemed to get it because he didn’t move.

Eventually, as the candle began to flicker, Sakura began to nod off sitting at the desk.

“Come to bed,” Kisame said.

Sakura blinked. She had thought that he had fallen asleep a long time ago. She marked the page with a scrap of paper. With a sigh, she shut the book. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that his eyes were closed.

“Move over, you big lump,” she ordered.

He grumbled something but scooted to the side.

“Ugh. You smell like ale,” Sakura scolded as she sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled her boots off, one by one. She lined them up before she swung her legs onto the bed. She stretched her arms over her head, feeling her tired limbs relax a little.

The bed frame creaked.

“Hey.”

She tried to ignore him.

“Hey.” He nudged her this time.

“I will sacred flame your ass,” she warned.

“Always talking about my ass. You don’t have to be coy, you know,” chuckled Kisame.

“Take a shower before you try to flirt with me,” she scoffed in return, rolling onto her side, her back to him.

“Why? So you can watch?” His laugh shook the mattress. 

“You’re an idiot,” Sakura groaned. 

“Don’t lie. You’ll miss this charm when I’m gone,” Kisame teased.

And they both went quiet as those words sunk in. 

She didn’t push his arm away when he draped it over her waist. 

[queen-mabs-revenge]

So with issue 87, I'm officially done with Silver Age Spidey and I kind of want to do a mini image dump of some of the political commentary that started to crop up in earnest the last 20 or so issues. Gotta go back and grab some screenshots, but it's really fascinating to watch the comic start to touch the outside world overtly as its cultural phenomenon grew. I've been dashing through these issues bc I'm in the first consumption grip of 'Must. Know. Everything. Now.', but I wanna jot down my first impressions.

Like, one of the more blatant ones was Peter stressing about Aunt May's medical bills and being informed by the doctor that her Medicaid would cover most of it (Medicaid bill passed in 1965, began in NY in 1966, and issue 83 published in 1970).

And then Peter musing about public sentiment against the Vietnam war as Flash goes back to combat (literally every reference to Flash having been drafted has me with my heart in my throat).

That plus the whole thing I posted about before with the Stone Tablet story and the focus on Randy Robertson caught between his father's ideas and the more radical activism for racial and social justice happening at school.

And again emphasis on the fact that the Robertsons are the first time in the series you see a parent and child being intenstly honest with each other.

And I'm going through be forever bitter at whatever fans wrote in about not liking extended stories, because Hobie Brown's story as he becomes the Prowler grazed at the ideas of the struggles that a working class black man (without a support system like Randy) would have in 1969. He deserved that lamentedly scrapped 3 issue story.

In his clipped single issue origin you see him struggling against a proper capitalist of a boss who patronises him as he's trying to let his creativity and intelligence thrive within the job he needs to survive, and I wish his story got the more time to linger on the details.

And, yeah, you start to get sometimes-humorous-sometimes-serious references to Peter's poverty being a systematic issue rather than a personal family issue.

(which is kind of fascinating when you look into the history of the attempts to unionise comics creators)

Like, there were pop culture references in Pete's quips since the beginning, but at a certain point you can tell that Spider-Man became an established enough phenomenon that it had to interact with the current events of the world and it's fascinating looking at how it's doing it.

[bates--boy]

What's one scenario or year that you want to rp?

;;- Whoooo, there are plenty!!

I want to do threads that delve into Peter's childhood, especially the Fort Roughs and adoption years, but unfortunately, I'm still a tad insecure about that area, so I'm holding off on that until I have plot points and stuff figured out.

- There's that Ballet AU Mam and I had talked about a few times. But my brain is fried so I keep forgetting to do anything with it and start it up.

- Okay, my heart is still stuck in 2014 and I've been wanting a Black Ops Zombie AU.

- I've been having a sci-fi space travel au in which the muses crash land into a new planet and have to survive while studyjng the terrain.

- There are,uh, a lot more. I think I even have a tiny notebook of ideas I jot down my rp wishlist and fanfic ideas on, but it's buried somewhere. 乁[ᓀ˵▾˵ᓂ]ㄏ

[tachyonpub]

Peter S. Beagle is such a fine writer, and grows finer with age

For B&N SCI-FI & FANTASY BLOG, Ceridwen Christensen delivers a loving profile of Peter S. Beagle and his most famous work in Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn, Immortal at 50.

Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn was first published in 1968—50 years ago!—but my entrance into the narrative was via the 1982 Rankin/Bass film adaption. Probably best known for stop-motion holiday perennials like “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the animation studio briefly had a sideline in adapting fantasy classics, among them J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit and Beagle’s (then and now) most revered work.

In the U.S. (and particularly in the ’80s), animation meant “for kids.” While neither The Hobbit nor The Last Unicorn were written for children, precisely, they both have charming, conspiring narrators, and are the kind of tales that can be read aloud beautifully. The script for The Last Unicorn was written by Beagle himself, and what resulted is lovely film, and a terrifying one, for children and their inevitable parents. It’s especially striking in the ambiguity of its conclusion—a happily-ever-after more than tinged with melancholy and regret.

When I finally picked up the novel, some years back, I thought I knew what to expect, and was wholly unprepared to be left poleaxed by its delicate beauty.

The Last Unicorn was only Beagle’s second novel, published when he was in his late 20s, but it is an unbelievably accomplished work; both winsome and wistful, happy and sad, longing and fulfilled. My notes, jotted down during that first reading, are just lines of oppositional adjectives, dichotomies that somehow resolve to wholeness within the text.

The ending of the novel feels final and true, but Beagle has written well more into the unicorn wood since The Last Unicorn was published half a century ago—even as he has adapted the original novel into new forms; see the film’s screenplay, as well as a quite beautiful graphic novel. IN CALABRIA details a pair of unicorns who are almost an inversion of first and last unicorn: wholly bestial, without speech, but with the glimmering immortality that does not and cannot know regret.

Last year’s THE OVERNEATH, a collection of short stories about a bestiary of topics, tells the stories of three unicorns, several other monsters, and two anecdotes in the life of Schmendrick, the last of the red-hot swamis. The first elucidates how he ended up with such a horrible name; in Yiddish, a language of the most nuanced insults, schmendrick means something like “one who is out of their depth.” The second finds Schmendrick just after his release from Nikos’ tutelage.

“Two Hearts,” a novelette that won both the Hugo and the Nebula the year it was published, and can be found in the collection THE LINE BETWEEN, is a sort of coda to The Last Unicorn—a telling Beagle resisted for decades. This fall arrives THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, 96 pages of pages of musings and ephemera that provide a glimpse of an early draft of the novel, written when Beagle was just 23; the promotional copy promises an encounter with a dragon.

Since I first read The Last Unicorn, I’ve fallen into other of Beagle’s works, and every time I read him, I am floored by his command of language, his sly sense of humor, his almost casual profundity. Just this year he honored by the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writer’s of America’s as a Damon Knight Grand Master, an award for lifetime achievement. Unfortunately, many of his books have gone in and out of print. Boy, but I would love to see lush, newly illustrated editions of his prodigious catalog, beginning with The Last Unicorn, his most enduring work. He is such a fine writer, and grows finer with age.

For more info about THE LAST UNICORN: THE LOST JOURNEY, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Thorsten Erdt

Design by Elizabeth Story

For more info about IN CALABRIA, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover design by Elizabeth Story

For more info about THE OVERNEATH, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover design by Elizabeth Story

For more info about THE LINE BETWEEN, visit the Tachyon page.

Cover by Ann Monn

[drkoestersmithrpg]

DAMN MIND

I jotted down all my notes for what turned out to be called Enthusiasm (it was originally going to be called Pityfuck) and there is one VERY important part missing so I can’t work on it before bed:

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

He went down on Peter like a feast.

Peter came with embarrassing speed, but hoped he would be given a pass under the circumstances.  

NOW HANDJOB – SAYS SOMETHING TENDER WHICH MAKES PETER HUG HIM AND THAT’S HOW HE COMES

 Only problem is I DONT REMEMBER WHAT TONY SAYS THAT WAS SO SWEET PETER LET GO AND HUGGED HIS HEAD dammit I’ll just write around it.  Maybe the muses will tell me later.

[chalabrun]

between the dirt & desperation, ch. 1

Word count: 3,753 Pairings: Symbrock Rating: T Warnings: None Summary:  Sequel to “Angry & Half in Love with You”, it’s been well over a month since Eddie moved away from San Francisco to start over in his hometown of Manhattan. Yet, it’s difficult to return to a normal life when what you were once addicted to becomes addicted to you.  A/N: This is a crossover between Venom (2018) and Sam Raimi’s Spiderman trilogy (2002-07)

( READ ON AO3 )

Cities had moods. They had character, and personalities. It was hard explaining to someone from the suburbs or a small town of 5,000 where everyone knew each other. Eddie had been born in the city of cities, the one that everyone from Helsinki to Beijing and everywhere in between thought of when asked to imagine America, even for the tiniest of moments. Even Americans themselves. Manhattan had a personality so large and old that the entire East Coast looked like it. Like the Big Apple could be any city from Maine to just a stone’s throw above the Bible belt and they wouldn’t be wrong. Not entirely.

New York was steel and teeth. It was craggy concrete that bubbled like rivers of dried and cracked lava through the streets. A raw, industrial creation. When Christ told his disciples to be fishers of men, he wondered if they’d anticipated it’d look anything like this, that the net they threw would bring people together in a new Noah’s ark. Expansive, secretive, old, haggard, but also alive. Old and new. Fast-paced and robust and industrial. It claimed chilly winter nights and congested traffic as its temple, old jazzy film noir and sleepless, caffeinated nights as its sacrifice.

San Francisco had always been different. A bright tendril of Los Angeles, soaked in sun. If the sun made its harbor in Hollywood, then San Francisco was where its rays touched first, but also where its shadows were longest. It didn’t have the steel and shadiness New York did. Or ever would. It felt like your favorite relative you saw on the holidays, of palm fronds and brisk walks on a beach crested by an ocean so brilliant it was bluer than the sky it was supposed to get its color from. Peeled away and without secrets.

Maybe that’s why he never really felt like he’d belonged. Why he finally up and left after the whole Life Foundation incident. And after divorcing himself from the Other, when it finally became apparent how utterly at the mercy he was at the symbiote, they had to part ways. Lest he lose himself on top of all sense of normalcy. Of Anne and Dan and how utterly suited and picture-perfect they were for San Francisco.

It’s why New York’s rough and tumble called him back like a siren, and he just couldn’t refuse.

“Hey, I think ya dropped these.”

The subway emerged from a long and ghastly dark tunnel that made your reflection too easy to see. The back car for the early morning train from Brooklyn was mercifully sparse, all things considering. The man in question had dropped a sheaf of photos the lights blocked its glossy contents of, until it became apparent as to what it was.

Opaque, wide eyes set in a mask made of webbing. Red like blood, like slaughter. Interrupted by a Pacific blue on the chest, crawling up the side of a skyscraper in stunning detail. Eddie became shell-shocked at the sight of it, mind phasing to a rapid negative of the photos. Blinking, it went away.

“Oh, sorry about that. Guess I’m still kind of clumsy in the morning.” The brunet who speaks with wide blue eyes and earnest, smiling thin lips is the picture of someone untouched, but not innocent.

Eddie remembered himself and smiled back. “Yeah, no, no. These are some killer shots, though. You the guy who’s been getting Spidey’s mug in the papers? Man, even I gotta envy that kinda skill.”

The other man chuckled modestly. “My boss tends to differ on that front. He thinks all my stuff is pretty mediocre.”

Eddie’s brows bounced in disbelief, sputtering, “You serious? This shit looks like you got Spidey to pose for you in a SoHo photo studio. And he thinks this is subpar? Man, I wouldn’t wanna be workin’ for him.” Handing the photographer’s material back to him, he added, “Y’know, I do investigative journalin’ myself. Hell, I just got hired on to the Daily Bugle just the other day. We might actually see each other around.”

A boyish and incredulous look crossed the brunet’s face almost shyly. “Wait, seriously? What are the chances of that? —Oh, I’m Peter, by the way. Peter Parker.” He offered his hand to shake. “I’m more freelance, but I guess this makes us coworkers, huh?”

“No kidding. Can’t say I’m adverse to the idea. You photographers are like the muses of us journalists. At least, I think I got that off’a fortune cookie somewhere. You headed to HQ or somethin’?” Smiling crookedly, he shook Peter’s hand a little too enthusiastically. Blame finally getting something resembling a friend on that. “Oh, uh—yeah, Peter. I’m Eddie. Eddie Brock. Real name’s a bit longer, but kinda pointless, y’know?”

Their hands finally released, Eddie backtracking to whether or not he’d shaken it for too long. Clearing his throat, visibly fidgeting, he awkwardly ushered Peter through when they’d finally made it to a mutually apparent destination. “Hey, uh—after you, Pete.”

Peter smiled thinly at that. “Bugle’s this way. It’s not all that hard to miss.” Completely oblivious as to the sudden change in demeanor, Eddie shrugged and alighted on the platform with the other. At least he wasn’t going it alone this time around.

“Will you shut that thing off! If I have to hear one more goddamn word out of that smug Daily Planet’s reporter’s mouth, someone’s going to get fired!”

John Jonah Jameson leaned back in his rickety reclining chair, proudly smoking a thick cigar, a smug and politically incorrect aura bleeding from it. Thick brows raised dubiously as he went through Peter’s crop of photos like an inspector of choice swine at the country market, sticking a knife in the fat to gauge its leanness of the meat. And by the way his cigar hung from his teeth, he didn’t look too impressed.

“This the best you’ve got, Parker? I’ve seen brats on Instagram take better selfies at 3 AM after getting the damn munchies.” Peter himself looked tense, jaw gritting but too subtle to be noticeable or angry. Even Eddie found himself morbidly fascinated by the exchange and feeling vaguely bad for Peter himself.

“It’s the best I’ve got, Mr. Jameson. I got better lighting, and everything,” Peter reasoned, bordering on protesting, splaying his inventory out more. “Like for that one scoop you were talking about. I got this,” he pointed to a photo of the Friendly Neighborhood Spider accelerating up a wall in the wake of a crime scene, “in exactly the kind of context you were looking for and everything.” Incriminating, but falsely planted. Just what sort of deal had they made, anyways?

“It’s crap,” Jameson rebutted bluntly. “You think stories are made from HD screenshots? Nah, I want in-action pictures, Parker. Hell, I think it’s why teaming you up with Brock here will do you some good. You’ve got promise, but I just don’t see it—”

“Sir, your wife she’s—”

“Tell her I’ll call her back! Can’t you see I’m busy?” Jameson barked to his secretary who shrunk back, gazing sidelong as though the employees at desks behind her back were a captive audience. Jerking his head towards Eddie, he quipped gregariously, “What do you say, Brock? You up to heading to Oscorp to interview Doctor Octavius?”

Eddie needed a moment to mull over the name, feeling a pit open in his stomach at the realization. Oh God. Oh no—this was turning into San Fran all over again. Exactly what he’d been trying to escape. Except—Eddie calmed his breathing. It didn’t have to be a repeat. He’d get the interview, get in, get out, and not stick his neck where it didn’t belong like last time. Easy.

“You can count on me, Mr. J. I’ll keep Petey here from takin’ photos that look too good, eh?” As if to prove a point, Eddie circled an arm around Peter’s shoulder and shook it for emphasis, Parker glancing at him in bemusement, brows furrowed.

“Yeah…what he said, Mr. Jameson,” Peter replied stiffly, shrugging Eddie’s arm off and offering him a distantly apologetic look.

Alright, that was something. Only one more head-ducking event to go, and he’d be in the clear!

Several days later of navigating his way through an apartment at various stages of unpacking, and Eddie cobbled together an outfit that seemed decent enough: a button-down dress shirt, crisp black slacks, penny loafers, a dark jacket, and tie. Dressy, but still informed the world that he wasn’t some Washington Post shill. Remembering his past mistake with Carlton Drake seared the reminder not to get involved, not to fuck this up. He did enough time with what happened and paid dearly for it.

Even if he’d turned a new leaf, that didn’t mean he didn’t lie awake thinking about the symbiote. He did. God, he did. It was just the little things, mainly. Buying chocolate and tater tots and wondering why the hell he had. Thinking something and pausing, waiting for a response. It was messing with him, but he had to move on. If Venom was really that hellbent on keeping him, it would’ve. But, it didn’t. He had to remember that and move on. All graceful, and shit.

That didn’t make the memory of their parting any easier. Why did it still come back and bite him in the ass? It had been a month, maybe more. Why did his heart still ache like there was an emptiness to fill?

“C’mon Eddie, get your shit together,” he muttered to himself after stepping off the platform in Midtown Manhattan where the Oscorp tower rose in rivalry to that of Stark Industries’. It was an enviable life, being able to live so richly and without much complication, building an empire off the wit, grit, and ambition that made the American Dream. …Eddie mentally jotted that down. That could make for a good opener in his article.

“There you are. Right where I left you.” Eddie smiled at the sound of Peter’s voice. Sweater vest over some dress shirt and crisp trousers; the glasses made Parker look like a classic point Dexter. Guess that made Eddie the classic rebel to match.

“Yeah, yeah. Least Aunt May spiffed you up pretty good, eh? We ought’a start going; looks like it might start soon, an’ all.”

After their first meeting, they’d met a few times at a bar. First, it was logistics. The sense and sensibility that came with networking that any New Yorker in any industry worth his salt knew how to do. Brock wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far otherwise. Then, it was real friendly talk. Bonding over being born and bred city slickers felt like a homecoming he didn’t ask for, but sorely appreciated. It was nice having friends that didn’t quite stick as much in San Francisco.

“You ready to head on up, or does your hair need more greasing?” Peter teased as they crossed the street in unison. “Could stop at McDonald’s, too.” God, the shit-eating grin. Parker had a real mouth on him when he wanted to. A real potshot when it came to sarcasm and its humor.

“Can it, wise guy. Let me look a little bit smart ‘ere.”

Little more words were exchanged when a familiar professionalism beholden to men in journalism overcame them both almost in tandem, greeted by a front desk secretary who gave them both guest passes specific to the press conference Doctor Octavius was holding in one of Oscorp’s more “public-friendly” labs. Fair enough, even though the investigator in him wanted nothing less than to pass through all restrictions and really see the seedy underbelly. No corporation made it this big without a few body bags along the way.

At the demonstration proper, an enormous curtain separated the small gathering of reporters and journalists like them from the class act behind it. Eddie folded his arms and Peter appeared equally pensive, but a lot less out of place amid shined shoes and news anchor smiles.

“So, this guy, this Otto Octavius—any idea what he’s got cookin’, or we just gonna be surprised?” Eddie turned to Peter to ask who was like a kid in a candy store. He was still in is later college years, far as he knew. Practically a friggin’ baby, which explained a lot. That put a couple years between them. “’Cuz I ain’t really the surprises type.”

“Well, yeah. That’s kinda the whole point, right? Besides, it looks like it’ll start soon.” Peter’s eyes were wide as saucers and totally affixed to the front row. “Let’s get up front. I want a good view of what we might see.”

A flutter of anticipation and nervousness flowered in Eddie’s breast, practically feeling preemptive adrenaline pump through his veins. “…If ya say so, Petey. Guess it can’t hurt.” Why did it feel as though a sense of foreboding hung over them like a cloud? Along with something damnably familiar? Eddie swallowed down a clout of nerves he hadn’t felt before, following it tow as Peter dragged him to the front where no one seemed to mind. The lab’s ampitheater slanted downwards, anyway, so it’s not like they were blocking anything.

Clutching his camera in hand, Peter looked as though he might unleash a barrage of snapshots in his excitement. Which suited him just fine. Not that the camera shutters weren’t going off already like Peter was trying to commit to memory via his camera. Eddie, meanwhile, ticked on the portable recorder he kept on his person at almost all times, checking the small mic clipped on his jacket’s lapel.

And just in the nick of time, too. The lights dimmed substantially from their florescent blaze. Across the stage did a middle-aged and stocky man come unto the podium, smiling in a way that did little to offset the brooding intensity beneath heavy, thick eyebrows. The face of a scientist who grimly saw the failing condition of the world and had many a sleepless night trying to contrive of ways to offset the inevitable flatline. Cartlon Drake had that look, he remembered. This man wore it more intensely, and that much was exceedingly obvious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we stand upon the brink. We live in a world where we’ve yet to explore the unknown while what we do is on the verge of collapse. And in response to it, it is the burden of those gifted with an aptitude of their calling to answer that call and play their part in saving this planet. The only one of its kind that we know of.”

With all the aegis of someone of his stature, of his eminence as a scientist, it still made Eddie feel wary of him. Even before the crawling sense of déjà vu, it clung to his tongue like gum and stuck there. What he wanted to speak out against before he even knew what it was. Clapping once, the maroon curtain rose and slowly did that sensation return stronger than it had ever before.

He should’ve known something out there was conspiring against him. Before him, in a cylindrical tube, was the symbiote. He could feel a low pulse that hummed softly, knowing exactly what it was doing: subduing the Other. Slowly did Eddie’s arms unfold, completely transfixed, and he had to resist every urge in his body to leap on stage and bash the glass in.

It was in pain.

Dr. Octavius gestured at the tank with a sweeping gesture, a dark humor in his smile. “I present to you the symbiote. Roughly a month ago as I’m sure you are all aware, the Life Foundation discovered these beings on an unsanctioned space flight. In San Francisco, innocent human lives were subjected under the machinations of Carlton Drake to try and bond it and others like it. Inhumane, and completely reprehensible.”

Venom stirred in the tank, almost in a stupor before rousing to life. Familiar, achingly agonized eyes widened in recognition of Eddie and the symbiote began writhing madly in the tank, inky tendrils crawling up its curve in futility, as if trying to escape to get back to him. His heart caught in his throat that throbbed sympathetically, every protective instinct in his body revving to high gear that wanted to spirit it away. As if knowing his thoughts, Venom thrashed in desperation and he swore he could hear it whimper and whine as though it were next to him, panicking once it knew he was here.

“It’s alive. Instead of subjecting this creature to the harms of bonding to a human host, we mean to study it, to replicate its properties without bringing harm to humans. Through this being, this symbiote, we intend upon harnessing its potential as both armor and protection and regeneration to benefit mankind. Think of it: a suit that could heal the infirm and disabled, helping them walk again. Or, sending people armed in this suit to hazardous places to save endangered lives in the wake of disaster. Even going beyond that, at no cost of life.”

While Octavius continued orating, Eddie tried to maintain his composure, but it was difficult with every passing second. His field of vision completely whited out save for his view of the symbiote, how it was practically ready to capsize the container in its desperation with Eddie so near. He hardly heard a word spoken until Octavius mentioned him by name, Peter’s perplexed look matching that dozen who stared at him in unison.

“Mr. Brock, is it? I’ll admit, I was surprised to find you among the list of those who were in attendance, but pleasantly surprised. Please, why don’t you come up here? Maybe you can hold their attention better than I can.” There was a murmur of polite laughter, though there was nothing humorous in the scientist’s eyes. If anything, it looked more like he was sharpening a knife and Eddie was the whetstone.

“Oh—right, yeah, sure thing, Doctor Octavius,” Eddie responded automatically, smile tense as he vaulted on the stage instead of taking the short set of stairs nearby. No one seemed to really mind, despite the formalness of the event. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, it was a struggle not to keep his eyes wholly trained on the symbiote that loosed a long-pitched whine at their close proximity.

“Now, as many of you may be aware, Mr. Brock was one of two known successful hosts that bonded with one of the symbiotes, notably this one. I’ll admit, I’m quite curious: what was it like, being at the mercy of this fascinating creature?”

Eddie swallowed thickly, Peter’s blue eyes intense upon him that he only surreptitiously met. With every moment under the limelight, he felt his self-control crumbling and a white-hot rush of adrenaline take its place. He was sick. He was so fucking sick and he hadn’t even touched the Other in over a month, their time together having been brief enough as it was. “See, that’s the thing. It’s not really a ‘creature,’ y’know what I’m sayin’? It’s alive. Maybe not our definition of alive, but it thinks, it feels—it knows what it is. Who it is.”

Disguising his adrenalized state as thoughtful pacing, he rounded away from Octavius who watched him hawkishly, conspiratorial murmurs ringing the crowd like mist, like gathering storm clouds. And he could hear it in waves. “Humanity often thinks we’re the only ones out there capable of thinkin’ about our place in the universe, of makin’ bonds so profound that even the sun feels cold to us.” A flash of red along the wall: a fire extinguisher. It looked heavy. Heavy enough.

In the calm before the storm, he placed his hand on the glass, barely aware of the flashing bulbs of the cameras. Venom reacted intensely, that familiar, savage purr as it pressed itself yearningly to the glass, a passion so heavy it weighed like blood. “’s alright. I’m here now, baby. I’ll get ya outta there.” If it could devour the oils from his fingers, the milky clear prints left behind, the lingering heat—it would. Starved, so starved, not even meat could sate that hunger.

“What was it like being its host, Mr. Brock?” one of the reporters prompted, a stern blonde with flinty-ash eyes. “Were there any detriments to your health? You look fine, by looks alone.”

Eddie cleared his throat, coughing into his hand. Octavius’ gaze was like irons on his, having seen it from the sidelong view he had of the tank. Eddie’s own faltered as he pretended to focus exclusively on the crowd, Peter’s enthusiasm faltering. Like he knew about the chaos to unleash.

Posturing to look as though he were preparing to answer the question, he instead bolted for the fire extinguisher and paid no attention to the sudden shock upon the crowd while Octavius’ smug darkness shifted to a frenzied possession. Lunging for the tank, Eddie manfully smashed the glass, taking several tries before there was a fissure enough for Venom to seep through and spring into Eddie’s arms. Despite the whizzing of bullets from the security guards stationed nearby, Venom craned up to lick Eddie’s lips in a semblance of a kiss, wanting to sink into it. To be enveloped and taken by that tar pit he’d feared.

“Eddiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee,” Venom crooned adoringly, wrapping around the blond with aplomb and all the anxiousness of before melting away. A massive black tarp of its nebulous miasma unfurled like crow’s wings around them, the bullets repelled uselessly. It nuzzled into his neck, content to stay there forever.

“Hey, Ven, we gotta get outta here. Y’think you can help me out here?”

A toothsome, wolfish smile of all fangs spanned its black lips, eyes narrowing in a feral cheer. “We’ll protect Eddie. We’ll keep him safe,” came its savage purr, all before the proximity between them closed with a harsh entanglement of mouth and tongue, Eddie forgetting to breathe and almost glad not to. Gradually, the eddies of his vision clouded away to a soothing blackness, one he never thought would’ve been.

And I’ll keep you safe, too—promise.

All he could remember last was rocketing into the very sky, smashing through skylights that rained down like shards of ice and incited a panic, Octavius enraged while the rest scattered. It was to be a state of emergency, sure, but little else mattered now.

All faded to black.

[thegirlfallsfromthesky]

4, 5, 10, 15, and 20 for the oc ask!!

@soulstcne

20 asks for OC writers

4) What’s your favourite headcanon about your muse?That Alex still has her Peter Pan soft toy from when she was little. He sits on her couch in her apartment. And, on clear nights, she still sometimes tries to see if she can spot a ‘second star to the right’, just in case.

5) What’s something only very few people know about your muse?LMAO SO alex’s original middle name was Christine, not Adelaide. The only people I can think of who might know this are @platedprimadonna and @thedemonhunterscousin. Want to know the reason I changed it? Because I got some dog-tags with Alex and James’ initials on them at a comic con AND I GOT ALEX’S FUCKING NAME WRONG ON THEM, I had AAA printed instead of ACA, so I had to change her name to match!

10) Do you ship your muse with any canon characters?Y E SThere are a couple of Alex/canon ships that I would die for, like Alex/Matt Murdock, Alex/Steve Rogers, Alex/Pietro Maximoff, and Alex/Raoul de Chagny (who looks very out of place in this list lmao), but none of them more than how much I love and adore Alex/James Barnes. I’ve shipped that since 2014, a few months after I started RPing and TWS came out. The Bucky blog I first started shipping with is inactive now but I remember very clearly just being like ‘oh shit this is v good content’. Alex and James just go together so well and writing it in any capacity just makes me happy, I have full fics about them, I jot down headcanons about them, I make them on the Sims, I want to commission art of them, they make me so happy. It’s still my primary ship four and a half years later, y’all know I’ll take literally any excuse to write it

15) Share a random headcanon about your muse!Alex loves Lush products and I know her favourite skincare, haircare, and shower products. For context: whenever they get me to train new sales advisers at work and to pretend to be a customer, I’ll sometimes pretend to be Alex because I get bored with saying my own preferences. Listing her skin and haircare products would take ages but shower-wise she loves It’s Raining Men shower gel and Scrubee so she often smells faintly of caramel.

20) This or that according to your muse:

Morning or evening? Morning

Marvel or DC? Right here’s where we’re getting meta: in her normal verses, obviously DC because she’s in the Marvel universe. But in an AU where they both exist, she would choose Marvel

Mayonnaise or ketchup? Ketchup

Books or movies? Movies

Red or blue? Blue

Black or white? White

Halloween or Christmas? Halloween