There is a girl I know from Twitter. I hate her. She reminds me too much of myself. The way she speaks about herself, announcing to the world that she hates her own body just so somebody else could love her. Disregarding her own likes and dislikes, trying to fit in a box that she thinks is cool, is now made into a comfort place for her. She likes to believe her life is a cruel dystopia and she loves to fight these demons that don't even exist in reality. I can read her emotions. I can understand how she feels. And I hate it. Maybe because I used to be just like her. And I regret that now.
An excerpt from the Alex Rider selkie au I'm working on!
Come to the water, young one,
Where it is safe and warm.
Come to the water, my little seal,
Where you won’t be found.
Come to the sea, little seal,
Where you are from.
Come to the sea, little one,
Where I wait for you.
Like many selkies, she gave up her life in the sea for a human one. There aren’t many selkies left, and with no one to share it with, the ocean becomes quite lonely. And she had always longed for a pair of legs, ever since she had seen how humans created cities and buildings everywhere they went. She wanted to explore them all, and that is how she found herself on land, walking through crowds of humans and marvelling at the trees that towered over her. With time, the loneliness faded away and she found herself falling for the charm of a human, and she built a new life for herself. She told him of the sea, and diving for clams, and basking in the winter sun, and thought that perhaps, she would even tell him of her sealskin.
She had never thought that this world, with all its marvels, came with new and unexpected dangers, too. Like sharks cutting through the current, they would come for her husband, and for the first time in years, she brought out her sealskin, taking it away from its hiding place. The dark, mottled grey fur was just as soft as she remembered, and lay next to her little one’s white and gleaming fur.
With a weary sigh, she bundled them up, and looked over to her son, sleeping peacefully in his cot across the room. Hopefully, she could leave the furs bundled up where they were. But if the time came, she would be ready to fall into the waves of the ocean once more.
"No! No! No!" Gregory sceamed in protest "It's not necromancy, it's animation! There is a difference!! Animation is beautiful! It brings things to life -
..."- things that never aught to be alive." Said the captain of the gaurd as he closed the door of his cell, screeching, leaving only the moonlight to scare away the darkness. "You can tell it to the Lord in the morning."
Gregory sagged into the corner, resigned and dug his head into his arms and legs. "It's animation...' A muffled sob took over him.
'It's only animation...'
'...there is a difference...'
"Nooooo! Stoooop! Stop hiting him, please! Please stop!" Cried the woman that was his mother.
"I'm not hitting him! I'm only waking him up. There is a difference!" Said the man that was his father "Boy, what part of 'before dawn' did you not understand? Before dawn means that you are in your boots, in the barn, ready for work BEFORE dawn! Not in bed like some lazy mutt!" He slaped him so hard that he almost took his head away from his neck.
"Noooo! He's just a dim-witted boy! Stop hurting him please!" She was at her husband's arm trying to get him away from her son. When he quickly turned around the brute force of him knocked her away on the floor. He squatted down next to her and filled his hand with her chin. His voice was a manacing whisper. "Woman, you will not tell me how to diacipline my son. It is because of you he is like this.
The candlestick was burning low as he stood up to take it. The shadows danced across his face as he turned to Gregory. "I'm not done with you yet". On his way out he roughly pulled the woman from the floor on to her feet and half draged her out. The night echoed with screems. So load... So loud...
When Greg awoke he was back in his cell in the corner. It was dawn. He overslept... again.
"Danny, we're not going to Disneyland." His father told him when he was but eight. "It was just a jape. You'll understand it when you're older."
Daniel rememberd how those huge hunks of walking men and goofy characters died in his mind's eye, falling like old lifeless rags to the ground. Someone turned out the electricity on all the rides. A ghost town it was, of metal, plastic and cheep lights that by night drew the moths and children alike to their hypnotic glare. A bygone era of the 90's, the era of shortlived dreams.
Almost thirty years later and he still didn't get the joke. Then again his father always did tell jokes that only he found funny. He would laugh his condesending ass off everytime they went for a drive together.
Well, he's not laughing now, nor will he ever. He's dead. Mom wanted to have an open casket for the funeral. Such a tasteless display.
It has been years since he last saw him, but now he seemed smaller then he remembered, shrunk. His hair is not as thick as it was, just a few wisps here and there. When a person dies the hair keeps growing, at least that's what he heard. Maybe one day his father's hair would grow so long and wild, sprouting out of the coffin that it'd be complately legitimate for it to vie for it's own independence. "Heh!" That brought a sharp smile to Dan's face.
there goes the echoes
of a gunshot, a whistle, a shout
from somewhere in the woods,
permeating all throughout;
maybe these tranquil-colored walls
resemble the wilderness
but the only spaces
where uncertainty lingers
are in the hollow of my eyes
and the tip of my fingers;
bloodshot and unsteady—
this is how I'll begin
three puffs of smoke,
do you see through the screen?
Whoops, I’m late. I pulled out my old notebooks and got way distracted reading some of my old stuff. That was a trip. Today was busy but I managed to hit par. I can’t believe I haven’t missed a day so far.
Sonia closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “Hang on,” she said, “you’re telling me you saw a woman that looked just like your mom? Exactly like her?”
Melody looked at the door before looking back at her cousin. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Isn’t that weird?”
Sonia sat back, frowning. “That’s definitely weird, Mel,” she agreed. “Not that I mind, but why did you come to me?”
Melody pursed her lips before speaking. “I was thinking,” she started, “and I realized that sometimes it feels like there’s someone nobody wants to talk about.”
Sonia tilted her head. She got up and locked her door before coming back down and leaning in. “You noticed that too?” she asked her voice low.
Melody’s eyes widened. “So it’s not just me!” she said, her tone matching her cousin’s.
Sonia shook her head. “Sometimes, when my dad talks, it seems like he’s about to mention someone before he stops and acts like it didn’t happen. My mom too, even though she does it less.”
Melody nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. My dad does the same thing sometimes. So do our other aunts and uncles.”
“So, you think it’s some sort of family secret,” Sonia said and Melody nodded. “Okay. What do you want to do?”
Melody bit her lip. “I need to know who that woman is, Sonia,” she said. “And I-we-need to know if she’s related to our family. And if she is, why does nobody talk about her? Ever.”
Sonia smiled and leaned forward. “So we investigate,” she said. “See what we can find.” She paused for a moment. “And we keep this between us for the time being.”
Melody considered it for a moment. “That’s probably for the best for now,” she agreed. “We don’t tell anyone. Not my brothers, not Jaden, not Ian. Definitely not our parents.”
Melody took a deep breath. “So, where do we start?”
Sonia raised her eyebrows and gave her cousin a small smile. “The photo albums, of course,” she said. “I know where my parents keep ours. We can start there the next time nobody’s home.”
“And if we find nothing there?” Melody asked
“Then we start prying subtly,” Sonia answered her. “A question about a slip up here, one there. We could ask some of our older cousins too if we can’t figure anything out. See if they know anything.”
Melody nodded. “You and me, then,” she said. “Let’s do this.”
Happy post a wip Saturday bitches! I told y'all last week it was some fluffy winterspider slow burn and that is what you have (btw this whole fic is EMBERS okay?? There is no fire, just hot coals and you're adding one singular leaf per chapter)
Bucky had seen kids like this one. Built like an udon noodle, and full of too much fury and not enough life preservation skills. Granted, if Steve were here he would be going on and on and on about hypocrisy and how "one could say the same about you." But that didn't change anything.
The only difference between Steve and Peter-- well, Steve pre serum and Peter, is that one of them had crew-cut blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes, and the other one has an unkempt, untamable, mop of brunette hair and chestnut eyes...And maybe a little physical prowess.
Bucky sighed and placed his metal hand on Peter's shoulder. With a calm, steady, voice he looked him directly in his eyes--something he hadn't done to anyone in a very long time--and told him;
"I've had to save too many stupid twinks from too many back alley fights. I'm getting too old for this." Peter's face morphed into something of confusion, and then sadness, and then anger, and then mirth. Like he was filtering through everything, trying to randomly generate the most fitting emotion. He chuckled, placed his hand on Bucky's forearm, and smiled up at him.
"You're 105. You're too old for everything."
Bucky laughed deep, hearty, and a song to Peter's ears.
"We should really call the cops." Peter giggled back.
"Yeah, I think so!"
In that shared moment, that laughter, he could almost see those sapphire eyes and that blonde hair smiling down at him-- not up, down.
He could almost see Steve.
God only knew how much he missed him.
Then again, God only knows a lot of things.
And Bucky is the farthest thing from God.
Bucky does know, however, that he doesn't need Steve right now. He doesn't need Steve to be here for him, and he doesn't need to be here for Steve.
All he needs to be is next to Peter.
Because that kid has got a lot of learning to do and who's he going to do it from?
I am so sorry y'all have been starving for marvel as I hyperfixate on other things lol 😫🥺
Sam sits off to the side of the campsite, away from Haley’s group, practically vibrating under his skin with fury and impatience. They shouldn’t even be here; Dad’s sure as hell not; but if they’re going to be here it’d be a lot easier to get this job done without civilians hanging around. Every minute—every second—that ticks past makes him feel that much further away from Jess’s killer.
He can’t even muster the usual empathy he has towards the people they help; all he feels towards them right now is resentment.
He tries to ignore Dean coming to sit beside him, but his head swivels the slightest bit of its own volition before he can stop himself.
“You wanna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?”
“No, you're not fine. You're like a powder keg, man, it's not like you. I'm supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?”
Sam rocks a bit, needing to get the energy out so he doesn’t raise his voice talking about Dad and finding Jessica’s killer and how they need to just get these people to safety and get back to the real mission.
But, as usual, Dean is somehow able to talk him down. He’s earnest; confident in their assignment; in Dad’s absentee orders. Gives him one of those sincere big brother speeches Sam never quite expects, despite knowing from experience Dean’s always seen into him better than Dad ever could. Sam has never really been able to puzzle out how Dean can be so patient and insightful when he has such an impulsive personality; he feels simultaneously endeared and vexed.
“How do you do it? How does Dad do it?”
“Well, for one, them,” Dean answers, looking back towards the group around the campfire. “I mean, I figure our family’s so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others.”
That, Sam really can’t argue with.
“And I’ll tell you what else helps: killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can.” Dean gives the barest of smirks.
Sam can’t help but smile, something in him warming.
And then the wendigo starts yelling for “help.”
Sam watches the road stretched out before him, the day’s events playing through his mind. He thinks of the stomach-dropping moment when he’d realized the wendigo had taken Dean; when he found Dean’s broken Molotov cocktail on the forest floor. He just lost Jess, and he was about to lose Dean, too. But it only lasted a couple of seconds at most before an absolute conviction had filled him.
He wasn’t going to lose Dean. He was going to find him. And then he had.
And then when Sam and the Collins siblings had been trapped by the wendigo… as much as Sam’s heart had been racing, body thrumming with fear and adrenaline, he knew—knew—Dean was going to get there in time.
And then he had.
Dean shifts in the passenger seat, and again Sam’s head is drawn that way like it’s on a tether.
“He took the smallest one first. He put it at the bottom. Then he took the slightly bigger one and put it on top of the first one. He kept doing that until there were no more. What he had, in the end, was an upside-down pyramid. Perfectly balanced, with no chance of falling. Being quite proud of himself, he called his wife to come and see. When she came, she nearly feinted. Seeing all her seven children arranged in such a way, she lost it. A week later, she was a single mom of seven.”