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hana1379 · 5 years

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Anna’s Appreciation Post

A year ago I plucked up my courage and posted my first fiction here, it was trash really maybe after some corrections I’ll post it someday but anyway that was the time when I really got into fanfiction like I could spend the whole day on Tumblr reading everything I could, writing whenever I had time (I was able to write almost 7k words fic in two days which is a success for me, now it would take me 2-3 months) and of course I started to follow wonderful people who are masters in what they’re doing.

So in order to celebrate my one-year activity in Marvel fandom, I made a list of 26 blogs I really love, admire or simply like. I know I’m gonna expand it or do the part 2 because 26 out of over 100 is simply not enough.

Disclaimer:

I put here works I especially enjoyed and since I was neglecting Tumblr for the past six months I simply forgot many of the titles by those amazing authors, I put here those who I recalled

I tried to write about every author so you may notice I wrote more about one but less about other this stems from the fact that I don’t know personally any of those authors although I wish I did, I simply based on interactions with others and of course also my Tumblr-avoiding-time is showing through this. So please don’t take it personally.

I probably repeated myself too many times but you have to forgive me.

I’m still unsure about putting any links here but we’ll see.

!The order of the list is random. This is not a ranking, it’s just a list!

And sorry if this appreciation doesn’t look like should but I tried.

@suz-123 is always ready to help anybody, helped me (I was that whining anon a couple of months ago about a small number of notes. Thank you for that!). Her writing is phenomenal and she’s one of the few who made me cry while reading fanfiction.

Favorite work: Too Soon

@persephone-is-here-omg a wonderful person who wanted to help me when I messaged her out of the blue. Always defending others when they're being attacked (I started following her after somebody attacked another blogger)

Favorite work: Bed Time (it’s realy filth)

@skishenanigans Ary is amazing. She is one of the firsts blogs I started to follow and her willingness to fight for ethnic minorities and with racism amazes me. She is the one who awakened my daddy kink so yeah I blame you.

Favorite work: Dark Paradise and One Time Thing

@jaamesbbarnes and @sgtjbuccky How could I separate those two friends? Doriane and Salina are one of the sweetest people here. Their work is always full of teeth-rotting fluff. I love them.

Favorite work from Dori: Curves and Edges and Soft Touch Favorite work from Salina: Always be you and Symphony

@papi-chulo-bucky Del's blog always makes me smile, she is a wonderful and a funny person and her hoeing hours are delightful

Favorite work: It’ll Last Longer

@bucky-plums-barnes Gen runs a wonderful and an interesting blog, every day she has headcanons or drabbles for different situations (I don't know how to call it) for example, daddy's Wednesday or spinoff Fridays. That's a shame she wakes up when I usually go to sleep.

Favorite work: To Build a Home and One Call Away

@softlybarnes Becca is also one of the firsts blogs I followed, her writing is really amazing and I think her series was the first I have ever read. Psst If you still want to learn Polish just hit me up.

Favorite work: Blue and Names

@221bshrlocked what to say about Maggie? I envy her talent and the smoothness she writes with, her masterlist is so enormous that I honestly haven't seen the half of it but I promise I will one day.

Faviorite work: A Real Man (from That Haircut masterlist) and Behind the Walls

@sebashtiansatan again one of the firsts blogs I followed and a hell of a writer. Really like this blog.

Favorite work: Happy Anniversary

@after-avenging-hours I don't like to repeat myself but again one of the first blogs I followed. I don't think in Sam's masterlist there was a writing I haven’t read although the masterlist is huge.

Favorite work: Hunter Bucky series and Late Night at the Office

@ursulaismymiddlename the author of the first work on which I cried like a baby while reading it. Love the writing and original ideas.

Favorite work: Pretty, Shiny Things (that’s the one which made me cry) and Home Coming

@moonbeambucky Tara is a hell of a writer. Everything she writes I read with a blush.

Favorite work: Regrets

@prettyyoungtragedy Maya is funny and caring. She's one of my favorite bloggers.

Favorite work: Accidentally in Love and It’s Complicated

@sherrybaby14 I like that Sherry isn't afraid of what she's doing. I mean you're not stumbling upon darker fics all the time and I really admire Sherry for that. Non-con and dub-con is not everyone's pet subject but under all this halo is interesting stories and wonderful writing.

Favorite work: Winter Smut

@angryschnauzer How couldn't I mention a famous Schnauzer? When I was new in this fandom and with reading fanfiction at all I stumbled upon fic called On The Fence, I read it and wanted more so I think I went through the whole masterlist with w Patrick Star shocked face. I still do that whenever I read anything from Schnauzer because every work is so good and explicit but that’s good.

Favorite work: Hard Drive and On Your Knees

@bitsandbobsandstuff Kris entranced me with her stories, I hate Sundays but her Safe With Me was the reason I was eagerly waiting every Sunday for another chapter. To me this story still is canon.

Favorite work: Safe with Me and Cracker Jacks and Kiss Cams

@sad-af1121 I remember Sadaf from when I was really active as a kind and a funny person. If you want to visit a solid blog and really nice blogger- go to Sadaf's. All of her writings are really good and series are captivating.

Favorite work: Million Dollar Man

@caramell0w Cara IS a writer she is a hell of a writer. She published two of her books and I still lament that they're not available in my country but to those who can buy it knowing Cara's writing skills those books are amazing.

Favorite work: Pen Pals

@myattemptatfanfic I'm ashamed that I even don't know your name but I know your work very well. It was one of the firsts multi-chapter stories I read and it was a year ago but I'm happy you're back.

Favorite work: Big Girls Don’t Cry

@plumfondler "Easily one of the best writers for smutty goodness" end of the quote. I think that sums everything up, everything Ellie writes, she creates perfection.

Favorite work: Snowed In

@gaybybirth Huge masterlist and even bigger talent! How am I supposed to pick something from your works when I haven't even seen the half of it? Another person who I envy the smoothness with Molly writes.

Favorite work: What Are You Thinking About? and Let Me Show You How It’s Done

@hufflebucky I don't know much about CJ, I started following her recently but I know already that she is a brilliant writer and I hope to read other works from her.

Favorite work: Wine and Dine Me

@theycallmebucky The very first blog I followed, I can't count how many times I went through this author's whose name I still don't know masterlist. Every work has something that makes it memorable.

Favorite work: A Dash of Jealousy and A Woman Like You

@buckychrist this pure soul who was so kind that she was willing to help me writing a fic (I still have it in my drafts maybe someday I'll post it). Hayley is really incredible with everything she writes and she is a wonderful human being.

Favorite work: Grown So Cold and I love this (sorry it’s on my blog but I couldn’t find it)

@trashpanda-barnes Shay, as I noticed merely minute ago as I'm writing this, is the biggest Jamie and Brienne shipper I know (I happen to be the second) but anyway Shay is a really kind and warm person, she is always so nice to other people and in my opinion, Shay deserves the world.

Favorite work: Confessions and Unspoken

Sorry for any grammar mistakes and typos and thank you for the time you took to read this!

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army-author · 5 years

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Oh. My. Gosh. Just finished Written On Our Veins and was that one of the best stories I've ever read or what? I'm still in tears! So marvelous! You are an exceptionally gifted writer-- gosh! I can't even fathom at how you put such a masterpiece together! It's divine.

Awwww :’) Thank you so so so much! I’m so glad to hear you enjoyed it! ‘Written On Our Veins’ was one of my favourite fics to write, so I’m really glad it brought you joy (and some tears too, sorry about that!) I’ll always hold this story close to my heart, and I’m glad that other people get to enjoy something I’ve created!

(I’ve answered your other messages under the ‘read more’ section, since there was a lot to reply to 💖)

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: I’m screaming! Red Faced was so precious and hilarious! “She knows too much.” Like, straight out of an action flick before the line, “She must be eliminated.” I’m dying from how wonderous this story was! Gosh, Christmas Hobi stories are literally my favorite. No joke. He is the epitome of Christmas, I swear. So I’m just going to go into my little shell here and squeal and die some more, don’t mind me. I love your stuff! Ah!

Asdfghjklll thank you once again! Seeing all this love in my inbox made me so so happy! I’m really glad you liked ‘Red Faced’. Christmas and Hobi really do go hand in hand, he’s just so filled with sunshine, he warms up all that December snow :’)))

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Metallic Snow was sooooo fluff and sweet, I think I got diabetes! I think I came across this story some time ago, but never got to finish it as it was probably one of the ones that was left on my page as I walked away for a day or so to go about my life and tumblr and my phone conspired to refresh my feed and just go back to my home… But anyway! I’m just so glad that I found it again! Fate brought me back. Lmfbo.

Aw, it makes me so happy to hear that you found ‘Metallic Snow’ again, and that you like it! It truly was fate!!!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: I’m crying. A Story Book Ending was marvelous! My heart can’t take just how perfect your rendition of The Nutcracker was, with some liberties, and a gaurded Hoseok. Like, my head is spinning and my heart is in a flurry of emotions. I’m still reeling from the magic you wrote into the story– your own. Phenomenal! You’d better bet your butter balled butt that I’ll be reading the rest of your Hoseok works, even if it kills me! Heartache and all. Lol. Because that’s just what great Hobi stories do.

Ahhhh thank you :’’’’) Man, your comments are all so nice, and kind, and I’m crying over here, reading through all this! It makes me so ridiculously happy that my writing can have this kind of effect on you! I really loved writing ‘A Story Book Ending’, the nutcracker story is fun to re-write because of the magic and fantasy of it all! I’m so happy that I was able to capture some of that in my own writing!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: I’M CRYING. Soulmates or Strangers was so sweet, sugary and fluffy that I am fanning my cheeks and clenching my poor, bitter, lonely little heart! That ending had my heart in my throat, swelling to three times it’s size, leaving me gasping–choking–for anything to alleviate the bittersweet ache in my heart that I self-deprecatingly crave. I’m a mess. I’m a puddle of mush– a blob of goo left behind by your sugary tales of romanticism. And what is this pistachio latte and where can I find one?!

Aw man! Thank you so much! This message is so sweet as well, you’ve left me clutching my heart, overcome with love! I’m so happy my writing can have this effect, because as a writer, it’s my goal to stir up all these emotions in my readers! :’) Thank you so so much for your kind words!

(Also, pistachio lattes are so so good!!! There’s a small Itallian cafe in the city I study in, and it sells these lattes, and they are just… so delicious!)

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Give Me Sunshine left me feeling so warm and fuzzy! Thank you for writing such sweet little pieces! (Even though it’s the sweet fluff that hurts the most, so I’m left with some residual nausea as well. Don’t ask me why– I’m a wreck. Don’t look at me.) But all because you’re such a fantastic writer and I have loved everything I’ve read of yours so far! I’ve come away smiling like a fruit loop and that’s because of you– so thank you! And Hoseok. But the Hoseok that you write, so it’s all you lol

Aw man, ‘Give Me Sunshine’ was one of the first fics I wrote for this blog! I’m glad it’s still getting love even now! I’m so glad you enjoyed it! :’) It makes my day to know I made someone else smile!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: I am sufficiently crying now. Like, my head is grating, stomach in knots, bile rising, throat constricting… Sorry, Mama was remarkably written and well drafted, as all the other works of yours that I’ve read, but something about this angst had me feeling like I was being personally attacked, and yet– not. Lol. I know I wasn’t. Like, it hit so close to home on some things, and then shot way out into left field in the same moment. Anyway, phenomenal use of writing to the readers subconscious’.

I think ‘Sorry, Mama’ is still one of the saddest fics I’ve written, even though I’ve written fics where worse things happen. It was quite a personal story for me, which is probably why it’s so filled with emotion. Anyway, I’m so sorry that I made you cry, but I guess I’m also glad my writing was powerful enough to get that reaction?

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Just read Anniversary (Hoseok’s Scenario) and that’s literally just what I needed after reading that pile of steaming angst that had me up to the bathtub’s brim in salty tears. Lol. Anyway. This was so precious and sugary sweet! I loved it. Always!

Aw yay! I’m glad I was able to repair the damage after ‘Sorry, Mama’!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: BAHYE SATAN!! White Chocolate Chip Cookie has so many emotions stirring up inside of me for only having 400 words and I can’t handle this! Don’t look at me. I love white chocolate chip cookies, and cuddles, and warm blankets and hot chocolate and– GIXKYDKHU. NO. NO NO NONONO. *cries in the club* Why must you torment my heart, so? I know it’s my own fault for reading the cavity-inducing fluff, but when you put it out there, and it’s so phenomenal– I CAN’T RESIST THE TEMPTATION! You are satan.

I love cookies and cuddles and warm blankets and hot chocolate too! Which is why I loved writing this fic so much :’))) I’m so sorry for putting the temptation there for you, heheh!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: But you’re also an angel. >.

I’m conflicted too! Am I an angel? Or a devil? You’re giving me very mixed signals haha! But no, sorry to disappoint, I’m not a Korean man! I’m just a girl with a lot of stories in her head :’)

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Oh my gosh. Okay, you really need to stop. (But please don’t.) Kissing Santa was so freaking precious and my stomach is in knots and I am dying on the inside and– NO. Just– no. Lmbo. The whole scene was just perfect, my heart is overflowing in warmth and cotton candy and sugar plums and I just want to cry into hot chocolate by a fireplace wrapped in a blanket. You are too marvelous at this!

Ahhh I’m glad you liked it! I have a soft spot for domestic family aus, so ‘Kissing Santa’ was a lot of fun for me! Thank you so much for all the compliments, I’m blushingggggg!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: The Nutcracker was remarkable; phenomenal; splendiferous! I love Christmas so much, and along with it The Nutcracker, especially Tchaikovsky’s musical suites composed for the theatrical/ballet adaptation. I just love how you refer to Hoseok as the Nutcracker, himself, making it all the more romantic and enchanting. I know the Christmas season has passed, but I honestly would celebrate Christmas all year round, just for the feeling and tidings it brings. But, then it would become dismal.. 🤷🏼‍♀️

I love Christmas so much too! Especially the build up to it, it never fails to stir up all these happy and nostalgic feelings for me! And yeah, Tchaikovsky’s music for the ballet is so nice, I like to listen to it when I’m writing! :’) I’m so glad you enjoyed this story!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Ecstasy is For… was brilliant; magnanimous. One in a million. Wh-what? I’m not crying! You’re crying! I should really stop. I’m getting too deep! Lmbo. My emotions are clouding my judgements and now reality is mixing with fantasy! Who is what and what is why?! Just kidding. No, but seriously, your work is truly remarkable. I adore everything I’ve read, even if I wind up crying like a messy toddler. Lol.

asdfghkllll I can’t handle all these compliments, my heart is going to explode!!! :’’’))) Thank you so much!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Uuugggghhhhhh. Lucky Black Cat is so precious and cute and I want cuddles and coffee. Lmfbo. Everything about it was to die for! My poor little heart is putty in your writer’s hands.

‘Lucky Black Cat’ was a lot of fun to write! I love supernatural/ witch aus, and adding a barista au on top of that is just perfect. I’m glad you enjoyed it, that makes me super happy!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: Oh my God. Growing Pains is so fluff and precious and hilarious and I just CAN’T with how fabulous it all is. That freaking ghost. Lmfbo. There’s some show or book where this old ghost haunts a dorm (or was it simply a house? Idk) but he was a funny old guy who liked to tease the couple, but was also a pervert, so he liked “to watch”, but they’d usually catch him and yell at him to get out. I wish I could remember! Lmbo. Anyway, that’s kinda how I picture this guy.

Oh my gosh, that old ghost sounds so funny! I’m laughing at you imagining the ghost in ‘Growing Pains’ that way! I mean, when I was writing it, I was more imaging the ghost as being well meaning, and wanting to get two hapless souls together, but this interpretation is way funnier!!!

@folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog said: UUUUGGGHHHHAAAA…! Silence to My Noise. Just. Ugh! So cute. I mean. I can’t. Oh God. My heart! The flutters!

And MY HEART is fluttering from all the love you’ve sent into my inbox! I’m crying from all of your kind messages! I really appreciate all of them! They brightened up my day, and I’m really grateful for the time that you took out of your day to read all those stories, and to tell me what you thought of them! It fills me with joy to know my stories can have these kinds of effects, and it’s inspiring me to write all the more! Thank you so so much! I can’t quite express how happy all of this made me, just know I’m smiling like crazy right now!

#answered #folkpunkrock-littlewing-blog #<3

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fewflowersdeliveredtomorrow-blog · 5 years

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Very Simple Things You Can Do To Save Flowers Delivered Tomorrow

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jokeranonymous · 5 years

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As the asklimit is not in the way I can continue. Lynn is a phenomenal writer and shows her excitement quite well on what interests her, with an a+++ snarky oc you just got to love writing with her. PASS IT ON AND BRING ON THE LOVE!!!

@timidplum

-{kshghkfhnlkjdhgk ALVEN WHAT IS THIS SHENANIGANRY -- omg I can’t even akjdhghdkhj. YOUR PLUM IS TOO CUTE AND SINDRI TOO SASSY.

#timidplum #;outofmasks #-{AAAA ALVEN YOU GONNA BREAK ME AKDHJGHDKG

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thesweetblossoms · 5 years

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A Ship Called Repose

Thoughts on Space

The differences in between living in a big or a small space, impacts the quality of life, the ability to generate ideas, to encumber happiness, to design imaginary or real worlds, and is the three dimensional stage to play out the rapidly flickering scenes in ones life.

It is in our bespoke covens, nests, tree scraping lofts, Connecticut colonials or gargantuan cloud kissing condos, where we find replenishment, sanctuary and respite between the daily hustles, or where we bind ourselves to our sun bleached and white cotton sheeted beds to heal, or where we wander carelessly into the garden to pick roses, dahlias and sunflowers.

Our home is also the location of our most frequently visited chair, in which we lounge to read, or watch film, or to sip tea, to write poetry, or to carelessly surrender to intense reveries. It is our private corner of the world, a well deserved, personal, protected cavern, that we are given fleeting, yet certain time to create; to draw, write, design, research, dance, paint, craft or more.

Perhaps, it is with this knowledge, that I often notice, that the brightest, shimmeringly awakened and unrepentantly positive people, are the ones that are unequivocal determined, focused and hellbent on creating happiness in whatever space that may find themselves dwelling within. They are unopposed to tiny quarters in a hive of a city, with spatial possibilities limited to a single pair of shoes or a lone pot, or they may be unalterably content with a suburban semi detached Spanish colonial townhouse with many rooms and a southwestern sunset facing balcony, or, they may be well aware of their fortune to live in a minuscule Parisian flat with a dainty crystal and tapered candle lit chandelier, black and white marble tiled floors, large silver decanters filled with old garden roses by a plum pink velvet settee and French windows left open to receive bare breezes perfumed with magnolias, or even, they may call a Cadogan Lane London attic room with piles of robin eggs blue linen and gilt edged books, a scraped cherry wood writing desk by the window, a canopy bed, a English tea and Italian coffee station, their home. For as long as we are surrounded by space, often, with a few entities that enhance it, for myself, a blue apothecary vase with a single christening gown white cosmos blossom, a cornflower blue and white striped wool blanket, a Japanese misty blue ceramic cup with Earl Gray tea, a smattering of flickering votive candles, the company of candid palos verdes, date palms, and saguaro, with their slumbering frames, struck by decanting silver, from the mid November waxing gibbous moon that falls like a prayer over the desert. It is a sanctuary.

A Ship Called Repose

I recently learned of an U.S hospital ship named Repose, it is where, the elderly mothers of one my co-workers served as a nurse during the Korean War. The practice of naming ships, is an emotional, elegant and imaginative art. It consists of infusing planks of wood, steel, cotton sails, twine, and netting, with a personality, a thought, a memory, a vision, a dream or an idea. There is a mysterious transmission of energy when one names an inanimate object, imprinting a particular charm, through the names meaning, symbolism or poetic nuances. The way something is addressed, influences its adventures, demeanor and personality, as it sails through treacherous mists, mischievous icebergs, and restless plates under the sea.

Saving A Life

Isn’t it amazing how a friend could save a life? For example, a friend could call up at a random time in the afternoon and ask to meet up to hang out and drink coffee, cajoling one into accepting the invitation at the cost of changing an original plan, only to find out later, that the spontaneous meeting, caused one to be be away at the time of a monstrous and horrific attack at a public venue, thus actually, unknowingly and blessedly, rescuing their friend from a fatality. Of course, friends save one another in less dramatic scenarios; easing and tempering the stings of the everyday, like a balm of aloe upon a burn, they do it perhaps over long years of friendship, from surprise sweet 16 birthday parties at midnight, and continuing the birthday wishes, onto their second marriages, or even through newly introduced sparks of companionship, by sharing novel perspectives, cultures and worlds, or sometimes the level of nurture, is so entrenched it is barely discernible, when the friend contacts you without fail, every few months, to catch up, or to share a happy story, or it could be from a level of safety and confidence, that is the mark of friendships that are taken for granted, like the ones you know exist even if you haven’t seen them in a long time. Friends are our lifelong security blankets, encouraging ones hobbies and artistic pursuits, applauding or supporting ones life’s choices, attempting to provide sound advice on a decision, yet respecting ones actual choices. On a dull Tuesday, a friend could exonerate you from mild depression or blanketing numbness, by inviting your to their wedding, even many years after law school is over, or they could be the graceful omen enroute, coming to meet you at the airport for an afternoon, in Hong Kong during a stopover, to catch up, eat delicious Chinese food, before you fly to Vancouver, or they could saturate your scene with the rich fragments of their own, by inviting you to travel to Cambodia to visit them while they are working at the UN War Crimes tribunal, or it could be a sudden, hurriedly planned meeting at the plaza bar at the Scottsdale Princess, when you find out that they see visiting, from Bangladesh, for a three day, international cotton conference, and you are lucky enough to meet them by a blazing fire, with French 75 cocktails, phenomenal sunset over the desert backdrop, savoring varied conversations, of snippets that color the past, or updates regarding the current happinesses, goals and distractions, or dreams and ideas for the future. I realize that, like much else in reality, friendship manifests in a chain, so that when you save one friends life, you also save another.

Upon A Rocket

I believe that comparison with others steals from our own light. Noticing and tallying others accomplishments is a futile and unnecessary waste of time, acting as a distraction from our successes, fortunes, or individual circumstances. For we seldom understand the true picture of another persons struggles, motivations or habits. We often only see the casual, brilliant and lauded results, as the long effort, the heart ache, the doubts, the resilience or the ability to carry forth despite setbacks are obscured. For very few share the stories of their previous projects that barely made an impact, or the initial forays that left one disheartened, or the lack of traction even after immense numbers of hours and intense energy expanded on an activity. Without these insights, any iteration we observe or are privileged to see from the individuals highly curated, strategically placed and positive tinted news is less meaningful. Unfortunately it is a disturbing facet of human nature to try to inspire envy or jealously in others, as we often feel better about ourselves in context to other people. Yet, when we undertake any activity with an audience in mind, we are negating various rich, complex and nuanced aspects of the scene that is difficult to enjoy as well as show off at the same time. For hardly any picture, conveys the magical, hypnotic and charming qualities of an early morning sunrise, or the dark relief from the first sips of milky coffee, or the way the Sunday afternoon light transfixes and ignites the garden chrysanthemum, cosmos, tuberose, tomatillo and basil blossoms. We never know the denial of extra hours of luscious slumber, the eschewing of dark chocolate and pistachio cake, and the many sets of push ups that a dedicated person may do consistently and regularly to enhance their body image in a pair of designer skinny jeans. The will to persist, to chip away at a goal, to come up with new ways of thinking, to continue at a seemingly thankless task, or pick up again on a project, even though growth seems eons away, is not apparent, for we only see the celebrations, the accolades, the start up venture capital infusions or the news of an highly valued exit. While it is true that some aspects of competition are unfairly stacked, such as the access to capital, or a network of influential people, or the fortuitous luck of being placed upon a rocket that is about to launch off, yet, often the truest successes come from more intricate details, such as ones relentlessness, positivity, endurance, work ethic, clear sighted and undeterred vision. Therefore, rather than stew in any misgivings, or suffer the jaded tinges of envy, we should focus on the moment we have in hand, this precious, often fraught, ridiculously scant, and unfathomably poignant window of time, we realize that we are masters of our reality, that what we see or experience might be just as crazy, brilliant, mystical or awe inspiring if only we would look at it, patiently, clearly, with wonder, in a new way, with every new breath, rather than squandering our thoughts and energies on others.

Immeasurable Songs

There is a calming ritual of sitting with someone and lingering in the tonic of silence, of hearing the soft inhales and the unhurried exhales, secured in a mutual understanding and respect for a respite from conversation, a common affinity to merely sit together, yet in solitude. This level of comfort may arise over many years acquaintance, or sometimes, immediately, when one encounters a similar fan of muted worlds, a kind of understanding of the desire to seek the healing powers of the inaudible realms, or a desire to learn more from the universe sans sound.

Quotation Marks

Words take a special meaning when surrounded with quotation marks. Even the simplest words such as “magic” or “healing” or “love”, for when, these words are heralded and chaperoned by symbolic punctuation marks, these take on a new character, as if they are inexplicably more potent, as they are being used as a reference, that another mind or energy spoke, wrote or thought of them, that they are relevant, mulled, contemplated and considered. Sometimes, the most beautiful thoughts and ideas have already been thought, and repeated again, they take on different nuances, shades of meanings and emotional responses.

Hummingbird Winged

It is the Sunday before thanksgiving, I am sitting in my petite balcony garden after yoga, the approaching midnight sky is the color of spilled indigo ink with distant, snowy clouds streaked like a seven layer chai. The chorus line of palms are at rest after a tender, hummingbird winged, gold nectar and emerald leaf flecked autumn day. Higher among the fading lines of mist, the moon reveals tipsy constellations, it is the aftermath of contented leisure hours, twining with the mysterious, faint visions of the future. Below me, in the quad the floating lunar emanations, remain steadfast, upon the frothing, atmospheric sea, while its cache of silver, traces poems, charms and shadows across the grass, lantana and oak trees rooted beneath. My votive candle’s, fragile, gale tempered filaments, scintillates the dreaming marigolds, sweet alyssum and jasmine plants, engulfing me in a minty, sand edged, bittersweet, hopeful and potent perfume, yet, I feel the sinister edge of darkness, the unwelcoming palos verdes, eucalyptus and mesquite trees, and I pull my thick blanket higher over me.

Walk Through Walls

Darling reader, anything that you find challenging or difficult, instead of lingering on the seemingly impenetrable impediments, tell yourself you see only possibility and accomplishment, turn the obstacles into a heady challenge, savor the strenuous activity, or the long winding, uphill, and peril ridden road, as acknowledging the barriers let’s us see them clearly, while extinguishing them increases our confidence and skill.

Scattering Petals

Why would the universe follow any other rulebook for life? For living entities follow certain, inherent, irrevocable and immutable rules. It is like a flower, after it is planted, it becomes a seedling, it buds, it produces nectar, it makes new seeds, then in dies. But what stage are we at the current moment, within the universe as well as in own animation?

Mermaid Totem

My love for seashells began when my I was a serious, curious and extroverted little girl. The bewitchment carries itself past the invisible channels of palm swept, seaweed sprayed and dune grass steeped memories; of the lavender, peach and marigold painted sea at Coz Bazaar beach on the Bay of Bengal, opening to the Indian Ocean, to the mists and mountains soaring above Hong Kong bay and to the many picnics to the azure, eucalyptus crowned Sydney beaches near our Darling Point home during my childhood years in Australia. But, the obsession cantors past early reminisces, streaming closer to the present moment, from experiencing the sand, flotsam and stone gilted shore at many of the edges, curves, points, coves and angles, where the earth conspires with the sea. These precipices into watery realms, include, Costa Rica, Montauk, Martha’s Vineyard, Bali, Jamaica, Dominican Republic, Marbella, Cassis, Malibu and many more. Yet, currently living in the Arizona desert, the distinct energy of the sea is richly palpable, perhaps as being situated in a land that was once the ocean bed, itself, embedded with copper, quartz, aquamarine, chollas and prickly pear cacti, adds context as well as offers faint hints to the secret, hidden possibilities, undulating unknowns and shaded mysteries of the seemingly bottomless seas. Or perhaps, because, here, between low mountain crested valleys, beneath sea level, I am ruthlessly separated from the waves, denied, even, murmuring laps, from Toronto’s Lake Ontario, Vancouvers Burrard inlet, or Manhattans East River. Therefore, the organic, tender, emotion ridden shells, seem like fragments of my soul, drifting into reality, like a slowly gliding seagull, as a tangible, barely pink, amber, lilac, spotted, striped or shaded objects. These fragile conches, pearl grazed scallops, sand dollars, cockles and junus volute shells leave no sense unturned. They transfix me upon their sight, causing me to pause, breath and notice their indelible energy, or I lift one up like I did as a little girl to my ear, to hear the wondrous rush of my blood, or the sea, for they could be the same, or I’ll stroke a piece, my preferred totem to awaken, for my emblem is unquestionably a rose and a shell, or I’ll lift one to my nose to imbibe the lingering perfume of the obscured, inimitable, hypnotic, salty, mineral and brackish composition, but on moon drunk nights meant for alchemy, enchantment and romance, I may nibble upon a fresh oyster and submerge recklessly, softly and irreversibly into Neptune’s star drowned kingdom.

Palm Fronds

While sipping down my tea hurriedly, eager to rinse, wipe and store my nebulous pink striped Paris cup in the cupboard, in order to move onto the next activity, a chamomile infused realization wanders into my mind, and I recognize how guilty, I am of moving too quickly, risking the passing of chance, predestined, or dream like elements of experience, without grasping its beauty, solace or grace. Yet, sometimes in the rush to seal deals, to create products, to appease the economy, in providing childcare, in nourishing our own homes and bodies, we unknowingly numb ourselves to those charms that linger in a space devoid of velocity. So when we are at leisure, with no motive to create, to work, to think, scheme or organize we might let our consciousness slip into different layered realms that comprise reality; our eyes might see drifts of jeweled pollen falling in a denuded, musical shower, in waves, swirls and pirouettes, laced with the future, infused with wild herb nectar and faraway gypsy songs, while backlit by copper, amber and dewy flecks of the sun, or we might notice the poetic energy, tension and unheard music, surrounding the extinguishing of a candle flame, by a moon swathed November breeze, or we might be reminded that taking a walk and cutting dove white sweet alyssum, prom dress pink snap dragons, palm fronds and a sultry bird of paradise stalk from the apartment grounds is the ideal choice among other more fruitful seeming plans, activities or intentions. Slowing down to arrange flowers, is one of the greatest joys of these often meandering, yet mostly galloping hours. Colluding with blossoms, requires, a level of calm, so as not to shock, insult, or perturb, these subtle characters, our breaths also, must match the identical level as theirs, our minds must be clear, meditative and open to appreciate the haunting loveliness of petalled whorls, the shy cups, or fussy temperaments of botanicals that linger so briefly among us. I enter spaces beyond the present when I handle flowers, perhaps a dimension, beyond or before time. My other concerns drift away, like lilacs in the early spring, while languorously deciding which of my carefully cleaned antique, ceramic and apothecary vases to fill with comfortingly heated water, then, unhurriedly deciding which leaves below the water level to strip, or which flowers to place in the heart of the bouquets, which blooms to add as a supporting cast member, or if a fern leaf is necessary as an alluring accent, next, I am unfazed by larger contexts, rooted to the earth, while considering the scene before me, deciding where to place these flower and water symphonies, by our beds, on the dining table, on the coffee table, consoles, work desk, by the sinks and more. I discover my heart with these collaborative creations with nature, these gathered translations of ecstasy from my garden, or from the terrain whereupon I currently dwell, found on atmospherically charged, romantic hikes in the desert.

My Paris Apartment

If you don’t write down what you want how ever will you get it? For there is a power of self actualization through the craft of embedding words onto a blank page, but it must be balanced with the risk of being presumptuous or arrogant, for in one bewilderingly scant life, we have far too many barriers to achieving all the dreams we might be capable of birthing. But throwing caution to the cascades of drifting clouds, my list of delicately simmering desires, include living and working with my family in Paris, or spending hours painting in a light saturated watercolor botanical studio, or traveling to outer space to see our earth hanging indolently like a drop of opal upon a scrap of ebony velvet, or to play the piano hauntingly at an ancient English country house with views of a mature and exuberant stone walled rose garden, or to eradicate poverty with new financial technologies, or to be able to defy gravity and fly over oceans, deserts, hills, caves and meadows, or to discover an edible wildflower that allows us to travel in time, or to visit hidden, secluded, gem like islands on earth and lazily swim in untainted waters, or to develop theories on consciousness, love, memory, pain and reality, to maybe buy a Bottega Veneta purse, to dance a little bit every day, or to fall deeper in love with the mystery of being alive.

Toronto in November

I returned to Toronto after an absence of nearly a year and a half, during which my memories had matured slightly, yet remained tenuous and raw, lingering in that bittersweet space time continuum of recent experiences, that slightly hazy window of closely trailing past, that appears relentlessly fresh, even though, in actuality, a couple hundred of days have passed so quietly, steadily and unalterably by. I took the train from Union Station passing King Station, the old Toronto neighborhood, where, I had lived for more than two years, the days often beginning with croissants from St Lawrence Market and capped by evening coffee and legal study sessions at the King Edward Hotel. Though my purpose for a late November excursion to Toronto, was to attend a Professional Practice and Conduct course at the Law Society of Ontario, I made use of all my precious free hours to return to a few of the places that had unfailingly enraptured, charmed and inspired me, during my time in one of Canada’s most dynamic cities. I had coffee at Fika Café, before, savoring every second in the the wild, incense smoke enfused, bohemian, gorgeously designed and free spirited ambiance at Kensington Market, I continued a food and wine oriented trip by sipped green tea and dim sum on Spadina, dined upon mesmerizingly evocative Thai food at Sabai Sabai, feasted upon, redolent, scrumptious and creamy mushroom and chicken crepes at Coquette cafe, reacquainted with the much loved and delicious lemongrass beef at Ginger and imbibed delicate coupes of Cava at Constantine at Yorkville. I stayed with my sister who cooked our mothers chicken palif recipe, appropriately substituting cranberries for raisins, medium rare steaks and salmon cakes, and plied me with bottles of sauvignon blanc, wine from nearby Niagara vineyards, and foamy, rich and frothy cappuccinos, she also made breakfast omelettes, parathas and turmeric stained potato bhajis. I also relished engorging the Law Societies tantalizing spread of incredible buttery croissants, clementine danishes, hazelnut tortes, mocha marble cakes and more with foreign barred, future Canadian barristers and solicitors. During, my visit, I also was able to indulge in my beloved Toronto pastime of lingering and reading books at Indigo, relishing the incredible evening downtown energy while, perusing books on floral design, makers and lifestyle. The sartorial elements also shaped my visit to my childhood hometown as I carefully considered and choose from the beautiful and minimal tops and dresses that my sister lent me, experimenting with her aesthetic of clean, modern, and flowy pieces from COS, bright J Crew emerald green cropped pants, Peter Pan collar shirts, a Harvard maroon wool coat, and seal gray suede boots, effectively letting me relive the persona of a Torontonian in multiple overlapping dimensions of dress, culture, food, and other lifestyle categories.

Memories of my visit to Toronto in the attenuating days of 2018, isn’t complete without mentioning the friends I met there, including coffee fueled brunches with apple cake desserts with childhood friends from our navy blue and white school uniform days, or hanging out with old friends from UofT with bubble tea or negronis, to making new friends at the Law Society course while deliberations upon exceedingly difficult, heartbreaking and perplexing conundrums regarding legal confidentially and privilege that lawyers contend with. For each friend, of many moons, or of the latest season, acts as a channel to experience the momentous and unique energy of the particular scene: the present in a prosperous North American city, with early snow, mixing with banana yellow falling leaves, sunset-pink rosebuds enrobed in frost, plant, macrame and old book lined coffee shops, people buying chips and other sundry items at Shopper Drug Mart, fusion cuisine, newly debuted ballets, concerts and basketball games, each frame enriched by the people that comprise the town.

Yoga In The Dark

One of the session in my legal course, mentioned above, dealt with wellness in the legal profession. The speaker delivered an interesting, persuasive and informational speech regarding, not only the resources available for lawyers who are undergoing stress, depression, anxiety, burnout or substance abuse, but also the paramount importance of availing help, advice, counseling or support at times of need, confusion, pain or despair. No matter the line of work we are engaged in, any individual may benefit from learning more about strategies for wellness and how to navigate uncertain, unhappy or turbulent times. Speaking to people about issues helps us to understand our experiences and to consider the elements with altered perspectives, to make the situation clearer for ourselves, to alleviate the burden of carrying ones problems alone, for as the lecturer mentioned, ones own mind can be an exceedingly dangerous place. One may also find a measure of solace in reading about another’s similar experience, such as those who might have survived divorce, a terrorist attack, an earthquake or other shattering calamity. But, beyond recognizing certain patterns in the way that misfortune is meted out, or finding recommendations and sound advice on how to circumnavigate the chilly roads that lay before us, when we discover that people before us have mirrored our sorrows, or fell off a stony precipice of poisonous emotions, have floundered upon unrelenting waves of doubt and uncertainty, or have found themselves in dire rapidly disintegrating sandbars, yet somehow, in some fashion, in the infinite mercy of random tears in the fabric of reality, surmounted and risen above their unsavory circumstances, we realize we are seldom alone in the darkness, and not for very long. Thus, I often seek the kind words endowed to us in the past, those paragraphs, acting as healing lifelines, reminding us to meditate, to drink forget me not ceramic blue cups of chamomile tea, to bathe in the stars unhampered by the third quarter moon, to design a floral arrangement of brilliant orange marigolds in a copper cup, to read about the paintings in The Wallace Collection, to do yoga in a palo santo, sound bathed and houseplant infused room, to make banana, vanilla, cinnamon, almond and kefir smoothies, to sleep and mediate in abundance, to dance a tiny bit every day, to play with children, to allot hours for a carrot seed oil facial, bright manicures and pedicures, and a dry brush followed by homemade rose coconut oil, or to talk walks to collect sprigs of eucalyptus while breathing pure, untainted air.

Tuberose Perfume

When I lean in to imbibe the heavenly, poetic, soft, scintillating, ecstatic, blissful, romantic and haunting perfume of a quietly unfurling tuberose in my petite balcony garden, I linger into a separate, singular, alchemical, hidden and unimaginably gorgeous realm within reality. It is merging of senses, but an exoneration from the barriers of our own, limited human understanding of time and space. For drowning deeper into the stellar performance of a tuberose in the late morning on the first day of December, in the desert, awakens, enlightens and mesmerizes us. We learn about drama, about healing, about the palliatives offered from nature, in its simple, pure, elegant, graceful, sensitive, hypnotic and intelligent spell.

I wish I could offer you the perfume or the tuberose blooming under the waning crescent moon, it is an exceedingly peaceful time and we are lucky.

#design #healing #lifestyle #love #gypsy #style #bohemian #flowers #perfume #wellness

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a-splash-of-stucky · 6 years

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‘17 became ‘18, apparently

*sigh*

i wasn’t planning on making one of these, but welp; life doesn’t always go the way you plan, right? if it’s already the 1st wherever you are - I hope that 2018 has been treating you well, thus far 😂

2017 was a big year for me. Well, that’s an understatement, actually -- MONUMENTAL, HUGE, MASSIVE year, is probably more accurate. I finished sixth form and graduated from the school I’d been at for over 10 years. I started uni (at Cambridge, no less). I lived away from my parents for the first time, ever. I moved to a different country, halfway across the world. I learned how to adult (still a WIP, I might add).

There were a lot of ups, a lot of downs. I had to say a lot of goodbyes, but I made many, many hellos. There were good times, there were great times and there were also not so fabulous times. There were many, many memorable moments over the last 365 days and I’m glad to have experienced them all.

I re-joined tumblr in March of this year and created this blog on August 26th. I posted my first piece of fanfiction in July of this year. I’m not lying when I say that writing has been on of the highlights of this year for me. I am beyond grateful to have started this blog and stepped foot on the fanficion journey, as the path has led me to great things and even greater people, some of whom I’d like to take a moment to appreciate.

Giving a few special mentions to the people who have made my year that much more special. I hope 2018 treats you better than 2017 did -- all the hearts and hugs and kisses for you, darlings

@buckaholic - Gabi, what can I say? I’m so happy that we found each other, babe, so incredibly happy for your friendship. I smile so hard whenever I see a message or an ask from you, you have no idea. Thank you (really, sincerely, thank you) for all the lovely things you say about my work -- I can never thank you enough for your extraness and over-the-top reviews. I love you a lot.

@retroasgardian - make way peasants, hoe royalty coming through!!! (just fyi - I’m never gonna let this go, i laughed way too hard at that ask). anyway. april -- i love you, your craziness and your uncontrollable thirst for Seb (lbr, can any of us ever be controlled around him?). Thank you for being who you are; I hope you never change.

@ughjoekeery - carolina you princess -- i love you a lot. i’ve said this before, but thank you for helping me start on this journey of fanfic-writing, i don’t know what I’d do with myself without it. i love you and your kind soul and I hope that 2018 is a good year for you <3

@moonbeambucky - Tara darling, what can I say? You are sunshine on a rainy day. Keep being amazing, keep breaking my heart with ‘For Love’ (but pls put it back together at some point) and keep being your utterly loveable self.

@hollycornish - put it this way, Holly: one of my saved tags is ‘holly is a babe’ and I think that pretty much sums it up. Thank you for all of your lovely comments on my work and the random asks that pop up in my inbox now and then; they truly make my day. I’m glad I met you this year, hunny.

@jurassicbarnes - Manu, I love you, plain and simple. I’ve admired your work for a long time, so I kid you not I squealed when I got the follow notif from you. But anyway -- thank you for being completely and unapologetically yourself, thank you for making me laugh from the things you post and most of all, thanks for being a great friend :)

@buchonians - Steph, you’re a queen. That’s...well, that’s basically all I wanted to say. I’m glad I met you, darling, because you have one of the sweetest (and sinful 😉) hearts I’ve ever known. I keep meaning to read more of your work, bc you’re a phenomenal writer, so let’s just say that that’s one of my 2018 resolutions, okay?

@valkyeries - KC, how could I make this post and not include you? Thank you so much for being a lovely person and an even lovelier friend. Thanks for being one of my OG followers and cheering on my writing from the start -- your love has truly been appreciated <3

@bitsandbobsandstuff - Thank you for all the insightful comments you leave on my work; they’re a real pleasure for me to read and I enjoy reading them just as much as I enjoy reading your work (...which I really need to read more of, ffs, Kris you’re such an awesome writer!). Keep being amazing, darling, and I hope the new year is a good one for you.

Also tagging a few other people who I don’t talk to as much (if at all 😅), but admire all the same. Thank you for what you do, thank you for being such lovely people and I hope the year ahead treats you with kindness. And uhh...sorry if I miss anyone off the list. It’s too early for my brain to be functioning properly.

@bookybuns @nataliarxmanxva @after-avenging-hours @emilyevanston @papi-chulo-bucky @manonblxckbexk @hellomissmabel @toongtii @amour-quinn @in-winchester-we-trust @bucky-plums-barnes @avaalons @captainsteve-rogers @chaoswandas @marvelous-fvcks

#blog recs #elsa's follow forever #friends #go follow these lovelies #they are all amazing humans #who deserve only the greatest in this world #goodbye 2017 #hello 2018

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movietvtechgeeks · 6 years

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Latest story from https://movietvtechgeeks.com/supernatural-various-sundry-villains-kill-darlings/

'Supernatural' Various & Sundry Villains: Kill Your Darlings

Okay, I’m going to be upfront, I was ready to be super underwhelmed by last week’s Supernatural episode “Various & Sundry Villains.” All of the promotion focused on the love spell, and frankly, we’ve been there, done that. In fact, I’m shocked that showrunner Andrew Dabb let this pitch go to script given that he wrote the controversial episode “Season 7 Time for a Wedding”, an episode that I can honestly say has only one truly redeeming quality: Leslie Odom, Jr. was in it. While this was arguably derivative of that episode, giving this the go ahead was risky on Dabb’s part. It paid off for writer, Steve Yockey, because this love spell outing was much better than the last. In the opening of this episode we meet the Plum sisters, and I hate to say this, but despite watching this episode three times I don’t actually remember their first names and I could barely tell them apart anyway, so we’ll just call the one Dean “falls in love with” Harley Quinn and the other one we’ll call… Harley Quinn’s little sister? Yeah, sure, why not? Between the cutesy valley girl verbiage and the bloody sledgehammer, I’m sure we were supposed to get an Arkham Asylum vibe off these two. At least, I really hope that was the intention. I’ll be honest, I was not impressed with these characters and I’m not sure if it was off writing, off casting, or off directing, but they felt really forced. From their overly stereotypical Millenial way of speaking to their overtly blatant mirroring of Sam and Dean (yes, we get it, one is younger and brainy, they other is older and protective, they’re obsessed with their dead mom and it could go badly, was that a hammer they were using or an anvil?) the Plum sisters, unlike their Winchester counterparts, came off as grating. Maybe they were supposed to? Again, I hope so. I will say that as a horror buff I enjoyed the return of Rowena’s mad dog spell and the demise of the Plum sisters at each other’s hands. I saw a lot of people say it was too much, too gratuitous, too gory. And perhaps it was, but given the movies I regularly watch and enjoy, well, I embraced it. While I will say I’m glad the love spell portion of the episode was short-lived, it’s always fun to see Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki show off their comedy elbow chops; Ackles with the perfectly timed glibness he brings to Dean Winchester and Padalecki’s Sam Winchester, ever the earnest Abbott to Ackles’ Costello, was subtle, stoic faced gold. Ackles and Padalecki got to play off each other magnificently in this episode; from Dean walking in practically floating on a love cloud, to Sam trying desperately to remind Dean they’ve been down this weird love spell road before, to Ackles’ delivery of “‘cause she’s got a sister”, to their tussle in front of the Impala (though, dang, these boys horseplay hard given the butt dent Sam left on the hood after Dean rushed him) the two actors smoothly show how well they work together no matter the material. But the star of this episode was Rowena. Her entrance was stellar, and she stole every scene. Ruth Connell is delightful in this role and for the most part (we’ll get to that later) I was glad to see her back because I was sorry to lose her last season, especially in such a cheap, off-screen way. I’m hard-pressed to fall for new characters, but Rowena is one that I really enjoy. Connell was able to give us comedy and tragedy in this episode, going from snark to desperation fluidly. I also have to give Steve Yockey heaps of credit for having Rowena not only ask about Crowley but allowing her to have an outburst about his death. Hearing her say that she’d rather have him alive than to have died a hero hit really close to home given that the lack of Mark Sheppard as Crowley has been quite the gaping hole this season. Take a note from Yockey, other writers, because I’m still waiting for Castiel to ask about Meg… Speaking of Castiel, he and Lucifer were locked up. Now they aren’t. And like, they had a whole big penis to penis measurement contest and Castiel for some reason tried to hurt Lucifer by telling him that Jack doesn’t even look like him, which… um, Lucifer is in the image of a seasons dead vessel so, of course, he doesn’t look like him. And also, when did you get to know so much about Jack, Castiel? I think maybe the writer accidentally gave Misha Collins some of Sam’s lines to say. If I sound like I was less than moved by any of these scenes, it’s because I wasn’t. The scenes weren’t objectively bad or anything, and not only has Mark Pellegrino has found his footing as Lucifer again, but he and Collins play extremely well off each other. Unfortunately, their scenes simply didn’t mesh well with the “A” plot and the dichotomy crashed the episode’s momentum. Although, I did enjoy both characters reminding each other what untrustworthy, hypocritical screw-ups both have been. Again, I appreciate it when Supernatural is self-aware like that because fallibility gives depth and interest. Now, you didn’t think I was going to review this episode and not talk about Sam and Rowena sharing their trauma, did you? Because that was a scene that many Supernatural fans have waited years for. In season 11, Sam was forced to not only work with Lucifer, but he had to allow Lucifer into his home, into his room, and wasn’t allowed to voice any grievances about it and while Padalecki did a phenomenal job adding little twitches and moments of tight body language and subtle distance, it was all too obvious that the writers were wary of taking Sam’s trauma seriously because at the time Lucifer was possessing Castiel’s body and the “Cassifer" version of Lucifer was played mostly as a joke throughout that entire arc, nothing but a bratty teenager throwing a tantrum, while Sam Winchester, the boy who had every reason to rip into both Lucifer and God, just stood on the sidelines silently like he was totally fine. But he wasn’t, he hasn’t been, and watching Sam and Rowena both delve into the trauma and abuse they experienced at Lucifer’s hand was fantastically written and acted. Yockey was able to give the characters just enough for them to convey, through their tone, inflections, and facial expressions how much they were, no are, broken by the Devil himself. Having them both admit to seeing Lucifer’s real face, while giving no descriptive details was brilliant. Both Padalecki and Connell were able to communicate to the audience how horrific it was for their characters without any unnecessary detail. Such a great “show, don’t tell” moment; it’s so much more frightening for the viewer to fill in the blanks. And Sam explaining that it isn’t that he’s okay, it’s that he never gets the chance to fully deal with his trauma because the world is always falling apart was both heartbreaking and much needed, not only for Sam to say it but for the audience to hear it. At the end of this episode we got to see the other side of the Ackles/Padalecki chemistry, their ability to rip your heart out, when Sam and Dean have a frank discussion back at the bunker about what to do going forward. Dean knowing that Sam gave Rowena the spell she wanted and instead of yelling and belittling him, he’s simply honest and direct with him and doesn’t question Sam when he says that if Rowena played him again, he’ll personally kill her. It was also good to hear Sam be open with Dean about how defeated he feels, about how he tried to mask that with conviction and hope, but that he can’t fake it til he makes it anymore. And while Dean’s words of encouragement and confidence may seemingly ring hollow to Sam, it’s not because Sam doesn’t have faith in Dean, it’s that right now he can’t see where Dean is coming from. Dean knows, because characters have told him for years, how important he and Sam are, how they keep this world spinning, but Sam has never heard it directly, not from God, not from Amara, not from Death, not from Billie. Those declarations have only been uttered to Dean and then conveyed by Dean to Sam, so Dean knows that they’ll figure out a way, that it’s basically destiny and Sam has no choice but to take Dean’s word for it. I could go on and on about the isolation of Sam Winchester, but that’s an article for a different day. [caption id="attachment_53290" align="aligncenter" width="696"] Photo: Home of the Nutty[/caption] Overall, this was a mytharc episode done well, slightly overstuffed as most mytharc episodes are, but coherent and well paced with a fantastic blend of horror, levity, and angst. That said, the last thing I want to touch on for this episode is something that was absolutely no fault of the writer, Steve Yockey, but I think is an increasing problem on Supernatural; the element of surprise is gone, as are the stakes. Supernatural was once known as a show where rocks fell, and everyone died. It was also a show where Jim Beaver once hid his reprisal of Bobby Singer by trying to convince fandom that he was in Vancouver shooting an abominable snowman movie so that his return to the show wasn’t spoiled Fast forward just a few years and the cast, crew, and network PR are spoiling character reveals weeks, even months in advance. Instead of being shocked by Rowena’s return we all went into this episode waiting for her appearance, and while we saw Castiel stab Lucifer with an angel blade; saw the red light go out of Lucifer’s eyes; it’s all for naught. Lucifer is the focus of the promo that aired right after the episode, and the synopsis for the next episode lays out exactly what he’ll be up to. Even last season finale, no one believed Castiel was actually permanently dead. Hell, it took Mark Sheppard declaring that he refuses to ever reprise his role for fans to believe Crowley was truly dead. No stakes means no emotional payoff. No secrecy means no shock and awe. Take a page from some of the greats, Supernatural, including yourself: what’s dead should stay dead, so kill your darlings and if you must bring them back, stop telegraphing their returns. Check out this week's Supernatural Devil's Bargain trailer above.

Movie TV Tech Geeks News

#Featured #Jared Padalecki #Jensen Ackles #Mark Pellegrino #Misha Collins #Ruth Connell #Supernatural

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pixiealtaira · 7 years

Text

Things I’d like to do every day…

pairing: None. Friendship fic with Isabelle

Kurt listened to Isabelle laugh as he sat beside her. The theater was filling quickly but it wasn’t much a problem. Their seats were the best, really. He wasn’t sure how the woman had managed, but he wasn’t going to ask either. And he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

His suit was classic. He wore a light grey to compliment Isabelle’s steel plum gown, with a very dark plum bowtie. His shoes cost more than his rent and Isabelle told him he could keep them, they were several seasons old and thus not getting much use in photo shoots anymore and could be retired from the vault.

“So?” Isabelle asked. “What do you think so far?”

“Isabelle, we are at the opening night for what promises to the best new musical in years…I can’t wait. I can’t believe you brought me…you had such better choices.” Kurt said with a self-depreciating smile.

“Somehow I doubt that, darling. You were my first choice.”

Kurt laughed. “And I am now certain you are lying.”

Isabella swatted Kurt’s shoulder. “I am not. Granted the reason I asked is multi-faceted. First, you make the most delicious arm candy in that suit. Second, you need a break and something fun and good in your life. Finally, you needed to be reminded what New York has to offer, Kurt. This is what you can have here.”

Kurt thought Isabelle had wanted to say more but she was approached by one of the photographers they had recently worked with at Vogue.com and the rest of the time before the start of the play was spent talking to people Isabelle worked with and networking, pretty much…however it was in a manner Kurt actually enjoyed.

Then the house lights went down and the curtain swished open and the stage lights went up and the music swelled and everything was fabulously magical.

Isabelle had to pull him back at least four times before intermission because he had started leaning forward to far and was close to falling.

Isabelle dragged Kurt to a standing position during intermission, even though they didn’t leave their seats, and made him bounce on his toes a bit.

“How is the play?” she asked.

Kurt sighed and resisted twirling around with his hands out. “It is everything a musical should be. It is fantastic. I love it!”

“Just think, you’d be missing this if you go to Lima and stay?” Isabelle said.

Kurt leaned against the chair in front of his. “But Lima has Rachel who says she needs us and…and Blaine…and this is a once in a long while thing but those…those are everyday things.”

“They are…and remember what every day was like when it was every day? Kurt, you are just remembering the good times and completely blocking all the bad. Remember Blaine everyday…what was it really like?”

“But the therapist said…”

“The therapist you left after your second meeting with her when she told you your dad didn’t care about you at all and blamed you for his true son’s death?” Isabelle asked. “You thought she was wrong about that, what makes you think she was right about anything she said to you?”

‘But she echoed what Blaine said when we were having problems right after I was bashed….” Kurt said.

“And you thought he was wrong then, even though you then went and catered to him much more than you ought to have done…as was mentions by every gay friend who cared about YOU at the time. “

“The guy at the speed dating said I wasn’t over my ex.” Kurt said.

“The self-proclaimed psychic you met at speed dating, Kurt.” Isabelle said. “If one of our photographers who you had only met for 5 seconds as you entered the room came up to you and told you you should never sing again, without even hearing you sing or even talk, because they just ‘knew’ you shouldn’t, would you believe them?”

“Well, no.” Kurt said.

“Why listen to the speed dating guy?” Isabelle said.

Kurt sighed.

“Kurt, darling, it’s hard. I know. You have been abandoned and your backup support had been chased away long before. But, if you go running now…you’ll have taught them both that you’ll always give them precedence over you. YOUR needs will never matter.”

Kurt sighed again. “I see your point…and everyday was hard with both, but it is just as hard without a lot of days. This isn’t every day. This is as much a dream as wanting the good times with Rachel and Blaine without any of the bad….maybe they’d fixed the bad.”

“Kurt, do you really think they’ve fixed the bad? Has either called you and apologized? Or even called to talk about the issues?”

Kurt was silent.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Isabelle looked at Kurt and met his eyes. “What if this could be every day though? Maybe not as spectacular as this night each time, but living in New York and going to the theater and concerts and art shows and lectures and festivals and museums?”

Kurt laughed. “I wish. Not in my budget I’m afraid.”

The lights flickered and Kurt settled back into his seat with a sigh. The second half of the show was just as wonderful as the first, but Kurt’s mind kept sliding back to Rachel and the mess living with her had been and how she didn’t listen to him at all during the whole year or more prior but how he’d had to jump through hoops for her sometimes. And to Blaine and the constant fighting for the last several months before the breakup…heck from the time Blaine moved to New York if not before…maybe even as far back as senior year. The ‘my way or no way’ crap and the whole ‘alpha male’ declaration crap and…scandals…and Sebastian and the play and yeah.

When the play was over and the last curtain called cheered for ecstatically by the whole of the audience, Isabelle turned to Kurt again.

“I’m sorry. I think I ruined your evening. I didn’t even have to grab you once during the second half because you’d tried to lean into the action on stage.”

“No!” Kurt shouted. “No…you just gave me things to think about.”

“Well…pause your thinking because we haven’t finished our treat yet. Come along, come along.”

Isabelle grabbed Kurt’s hand and pulled him along with her as she wove through the crowd and dragged him up with her onto the stage and back behind the curtains.

The backstage was still busy…people were moving about, placing props where they needed to be for the start of the next performance, resetting effects, sweeping up the stage and wings. Actors were rushing back to their dressing rooms, undoing sections of their costumes on their way.

A tall man with glasses that were sliding down his nose was standing and talking to another man, dressed in black, and pointing to what looked to be the script.

“Paulo!” Isabelle called out.

The man with the glasses looked towards them and beamed. He pointed a few more thing out to the man he’d been talking to quickly, and then rushed their way. He swept Isabelle into a hug as soon as he got close enough to do so.

“Paulo, this is Kurt Hummel.” Isabelle said, turning the man’s attention towards Kurt. “Kurt, this is Paulo Gabrielli, the writer and costume designer for the show. He also helped write the songs and music. I want to catch Eliza before she heads too far. Kurt, could you do an interview? Think about what you would ask for an interview about the costumes and then as in in-depth with the writer…Paulo will let you record it on your phone.”

Isabelle kissed Paulo’s cheek and patted Kurt’s before dashing off.

“Umm, Hello…let me get my phone out and ready I guess.”

Kurt pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it on, finding the recording app Isabelle had insisted he download a few days before and starting in up.

“Hi, I’m Kurt Hummel and I’m speaking with Paulo Gabrielli on the opening night of his new musical. First off, it is a great pleasure to meet you. The show was brilliant. The music is so catching I’m going to be singing it for weeks, probably just randomly. I really loved the first number and the finale…and the number that Reed sang while waiting for news about the others and the number that Lane sang at the school. Oh, and the costumes were exquisite. The mix between futuristic and renaissance and steampunk was simply amazing. And the characters were phenomenal the whole show. I mean, they were incredible. The actors never lost energy because they were so well written and interesting. I loved how you took stereotypes and added another stereotype not usually seen with them and then layered on quirks to create such astounding characters that everyone will be able to know. It was just a joy to be here and see the show tonight. Oh,..hmm…are interviewers allowed to rave when interviewing? Isabelle ought to have left more instructions.”

Paulo laughed. “ Thank you Kurt, I am rather enjoying your review, so I don’t mind at all.”

Kurt chuckled. “Isabelle might if I haven’t actually let you speak. So…hmm…what would an interviewer typically ask….hmmm…”

“What would YOU like to ask?” Paulo said.

“Oh…well, I really was impressed with your characters. So often what you read and see in theater really plays into stereotypes and keeps characters there. I understand the reason…easier to act and engage audiences when you can draw on the stereotype to do some of the work so you have to get across less in your short amount of time, but sometimes it makes for …not dull really, but repetitive…characters. I love the mix you built into your characters, though. I would seriously sell my kidney to play Reed or Max, and I think I actually could do so without it being ‘too big a stretch for the audience’s imagination’, as a friend often tells me casting me in major role would be. But back to the topic…So… I guess my question would be what was your inspiration and was it difficult to write them?”

Paulo smiled and Kurt felt much more at ease. “I looked around at my friends and I noticed that I have a lot of friends, who really fit quite squarely into certain stereotypes, but each also had other near stereotypical qualities as well, and everyone has their own little quirks. I want to point out the most the quirks aren’t written in, I asked the actors to pick their characters quirks and we built them into the script. Some characters are based off friends’ stereotype combos, like Reed’s flamboyancy mixed with total comic geek, but others like Lane are mixes that just wanted to be when I was writing.”

Kurt smiled. “I liked Lane’s super smarts that she couldn’t hold in mixed with the ultimate sport star. I also thought you caught the feel of the end of high school and the first years of university very well, without making it too caricaturized in any extreme.“

“That was a hard balance,” Paulo said. “I had to figure out what I thought a futuristic post-apocalyptic high school would be like without making it repetitive or cartoon like. I looked at high schools in the US throughout history and figured what aspects we’ve just kept a tight hold of and were not likely to let go of and then worked from there.”

“I think it worked.” Kurt said. “What was your inspiration for the costumes?”

“Don’t laugh to hard…but the first costume was an accident. We were going futuristic space girl…wired circle skirt and lots of metallic cloth, and the pattern got mixed with the bodice of a dress from a play set in Elizabethan times…and the seamstress just sewed what she was given. I was so mad at first but then Louis, who plays Reed, saw it and said “but look….” And dressed the girl who played Lane in it. Then we all started adding more steampunk type stuff and soon the whole costume design was reborn into something much less an overdone look.”

“Awesome.” Kurt said. “Is there any message you would like people to come away from the show with?”

“I want people to come away with a sense that whatever life tosses your way can be dealt with when surrounded by good friends, and I hope a sense of what good friends are and can be. That love is more than just romance and sometimes the most epic love stories don’t ever involve romantic love.”

Kurt smiled and then tilted his head. “I’m not sure what to ask now. I really need to be allowed more notice for something like this…”

Paulo laughed again. “Fine, I will ask questions. How do you know Isabelle?”

“I work at vogue.com. Right now I work with the wardrobe department, but that job needs full time and I can’t manage it much longer. I was only able to keep up with it because my work-study was mornings and weekends. That was only six weeks though and I need another work-study project to finish the work-study hours. Isabelle is asking around, as are several professors. We all thought the one I signed up for would last longer, but funding was cut. I want to still do something at Vogue, but we’ll see.”

“What are you studying?” Paulo asked.

“I am a Musical Theater Major at NYADA.” Kurt said.

“Ah…hence the selling of body parts for the role. And you think you could do it justice?” Paulo asked.

“Oh, he could.” Isabelle said from behind them. “Kurt’s vocals are incredible…and I think he could bring it acting wise. Did you ask some questions, Kurt?”

“I asked a few, but I’m not sure they are what you are looking for since I don’t know what the interview was for.”

“Well…the editor for the print magazine wants to do a page in every issue that focuses on the arts and then more detailed and focused articles on line. She has someone here in New York for museums and books coming out and then someone who would cover legislature and stuff like that. However the person she asked to cover the theater scene will only commit to Operas and Ballets. She asked me to ask you if you’d like to cover Broadway, off Broadway, and concerts. This could be an ‘everyday’ thing, Kurt. Maybe not this…opening nights to the biggest shows, but going to see a play or concert or band four of five nights a week…could be an everyday thing.”

“No way.” Kurt said.

Isabelle laughed. “Yes way. You were our first choice. You have the background to know if something is good or not in a technical manner, you have the ear for music needed. The company would fund the tickets…at least two or three a show. What we want is a three to six paragraph review of whatever you are sent to, with recommendation or not and then a more in-depth piece in which you interview someone associated with the show or concert. Much of what we send you to will probably not be weekend showings.”

“That’s fine…but…would my band cause a conflict of interest? We were planning on starting it up again when everyone was back in town.”

“I wouldn’t think so…but I’ll run that by the powers that be. Got enough for a write-up?”

“One moment. Mr. Gabrielli, if you could pick one of the costume pieces to wear around town, which would it be and why?”

“Oh, good question. I love the way the waistcoat for Max turned out. To wear out in public I would thin the trim, I think, but I would wear it around in a heartbeat. The colors are some of my favorites…especially that plum. I also love the boots we found for Rupert. I did buy myself some of those.”

“Brilliant.”

“Congratulations, Kurt. I hope you take the job and I hope you have a great time with it. Maybe I’ll see you around on your journey. Isabelle, it was a pleasure as always. Call me.” Paulo said as he waved. “Now I need to go make some last minute checks. Goodnight.”

Kurt watched as the man went further into the backstage warren.

“I can’t believe I met the writer of this show!” Kurt squealed.

“I am serious, Kurt. If what you send in for tonight’s show is what the editor wants, the job could be yours.” Isabelle said.

“Shouldn’t you be looking into your current writers or even your repeat free lancers? I don’t have the journalism background, Isabelle.” Kurt said.

“You have written for us before and the editors have liked your style and you have the other part we need. The problem we were having was that fashion journalist tended to not be able to review a show or piece of art because they didn’t have the background in that area. Oh, they could write “I liked it” but they couldn’t explain why. You have shown the ability to be straightforward, to put your personal likes and dislikes aside and see the technical value, and you have decent taste.”

“Ok. I’ll try.”

“Now it’s my turn to say Brilliant.” Isabelle said.

Kurt’s hand flew to his forehead. “Oh God. I kept repeating myself didn’t I?”

“I’m sure you were fine. In fact I think Paulo was as enchanted by you as you were by him.”

Kurt laughed. “I doubt it. Thanks Isabelle. This is the life I dreamed of. Shows to go to and the ability to go, jobs I actually like, university courses that make me want to go…the ability to be in a space without anyone staring at me no matter how I am dressed. The freedom to hold hands with a significant other without fearing for my life…clubs to go to. Things to do.”

“I know it’s hard right now, Kurt. I know your friends pretty much abandoned you, at least the ones from Ohio. But…you have others, you just have to reach out and let them in. You have to make the effort to allow people back into your life. And aren’t your band mates coming back to town soon?”

Kurt nodded.

“Next time someone asks you to head out with them…just go.”

“Got it. Thanks again, Isabelle. You really are my fairy godmother.”

Isabelle kissed Kurt’s cheek. “Come on, I’ve got permission for you to talk to the guy who played Reed and the girl who played Lane.”

Kurt allowed himself to be pulled towards the dressing rooms, excited for his future for the first time since he’d been bashed, pretty much. Isabelle was giving him interview question ideas and the smell of a lit stage and the sounds of activity eased something Kurt hadn’t acknowledged was hurt. This was worth staying in New York.

#glee fanfic #Kurt Hummel #Isabelle Wright

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mollymauk-teafleak · 7 years

Text

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 7

Next chapter is up! Its angsty as all hell so, y’know, brace yourselves.

Thanks so much to everyone whose supported me and given me feedback on this and just generally kept me going like my fantastic beta reader @minky-for-short whose just amazing as well as other just general phenomenal individuals like @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire @oversaturated-ocean @lookatvanessasface @brainypaperbullets @arya-durin-51 @kilocurican @hollywoodx4

Usually, while Eliza was at work and Alex was left in charge of Philip, he’d set him down in the little nest of blankets and pillows he’d constructed underneath his writing desk with some snacks and a substantial pile of storybooks, colours, blocks and Legs of course, the most important item, to nap and play and read as much as his little heart desired, knowing his Pops was right there above him if he needed anything. It would always make Alex smile more than a little, to be in the middle of transferring some prose that some academics were starting to worry was drug induced from his brain to the keys of the typewriter the man behind the desk at the antique store had let him have for a steal, seeing as the belt needed realigning. From there, the mechanism and ink would do as it would, beyond Alex’s control, either neatly and succinctly stamping out the scholastically fascinating contents of his brain or emitting a horrible shriek and burp of protest, sticking in any number of ways and usually dribbling ink down onto poor Philip’s little feet, necessitating Alex to take a break from being the postmodern nouveau poet so many literary magazines claimed him to be, instead sitting on the floor with a screwdriver between his teeth, unspooled paper clips in his hair ready for action and ink staining his fingers beyond the reach of less than five thorough showers.

But still he’d smile, whenever he’d be in the midst of it all, tapping some place of himself that had become muffled since he started walking on two legs, mining some deeper reaches of his soul that he was always careful to go anywhere near because the glimmering in its depths could sometimes be diamond and sometimes be broken glass, because even as he sighed and rubbed his aching fingers, he’d feel Philip’s warmth and comforting weight wrap around his legs, settle on his foot.

“Bounce please, Pops,” he’d chirrup happily.

And Alex would smile no matter how hard he’d been working, no matter what angry, brooding memories were making themselves known, he’d rock his leg, bouncing his little boy on his leg, usually with a raspy but cheery murmur of, “Blast off!”

And the slightly musty office, no matter how many times he opened a window, would ring with his bubbling laughter, usually followed by his father’s, a little wearier but no less happy.

Philip would never tell his Pops, it felt like too heavy a thing to just throw into casual conversation and the moment would never really feel right, but from those lazy days of his early childhood, Pip would always associate the heavy whirr and smack of a typewriter, the taste of peanut butter eaten straight from the jar, the acrid smell of ink, the words of A.A. Milne and the soft hum of the record player, though only on Fridays, with some of the happiest and warmest times of his entire life.

This only made it more of a shock, more of an affront, when the peace was disturbed one day.

Alex knew he and Pip wouldn’t get much more days like this. Soon Eliza would be taking her maternity leave and then soon after that the new baby would be here and the times to uncover some peace and quiet with his little boy would be few and far between.

So, when the first throaty roar of thunder made Pip squeak in fright from under the desk and made Alex’s fingers on the keys stumble so the word ‘shark’ became ‘sharpkm’ (which didn’t quite have the same feel to it and completely murdered his iambic pentameter), his first reaction was one of annoyance.

Oh, fuck off, his thoughts directed bitterly and the oncoming storm that he could now smell and feel in the hollows of his bones, he’d been too distracted by work and Philip to notice it before, of course you had to come along and ruin one of the last days. Go on and fuck yourself.

He was only thinking it so virulently because he’d wanted to take Philip down to the beach later, make sandcastles and play chicken with the incoming wave and make believe pirates or mermaids until they saw Eliza come walking over the crest of the hill, walking carefully and with one hand resting underneath the bulge in her coat, so they could run to her and greet her like always.

That’s all he’d been thinking. But, as it happened, his spitting at the storm turned out to be rather prophetic.

The first flash of lightning had passed them by but this one broke through their refuge, strong enough to negate the soft glow of the lamp and turn the world to a photographic negative for a heartbeat. It’s partner, the thunder, came soon after, as much of an assault on the ears as the lightning had been on the eyes.

“Oh no,” Alex sighed, trying to lighten his tone, trying to pretend that he couldn’t taste the burning rising in his throat, he’d been getting so much better at controlling it recently, he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t, not in front of Pip…

When he heard the tinny, terrified sobbing, he’d thought at first that his breathing exercises and anxiety management had failed him, like it had sometimes before, his body’s terror had broken through the walls he tried to hastily throw up and the tears had come without his knowledge.

But no, he realised, after a heartbeat’s worth of vertigo, his eyes were dry. It was Philip who was sobbing. Alex ducked under to see him curled up in as tight a ball as his little body could be made to form, hands bunched up tight in his curls, Legs crushed desperately in between his knees and his chest, skin a petrifying sallow pale, what could be seen of his face was shiny and wet.

Alex had always found the phrase ‘broken hearted’ to be a funny one. Hearts weren’t made of glass or porcelain or clay, nothing that could be broken. Hearts were meat and sinew, if anything they tore. They bruised. They throbbed with pain but they didn’t break.

Seeing his little Philip like this, Alex saw the truth in that phrase. Meat or not, it felt as if his heart had been shattered so viciously that nothing was left but dust. Like glass in too hot a kiln, burst into a million jagged parts.

“Oh,” he tried not to cry too obviously but that was an impossibility, “Oh Pip, buddy, it’s okay. It’s okay!”

But Philip seemed unable to hear him, all he cared about was the new flash of lightning and fresh litany of thunder roars, making him tremble all over like a cornered animal, clap his arms over his ears and scream thinly into the noise.

Alex remembered the night, the one that really didn’t seem all that long ago but looking at the size of Pip now it must have been an eternity ago, surely, he’d never been so small he could fit inside Eliza? But Alex remembered how even held in the safety of her body, poor Philip had panicked and writhed at the storm. It didn’t look like he’d been able to shed his fear in the nearly two years since.

But this time Alex could get to his son, he wasn’t in some abstract plane of half existence, he was here and Alex wasted no time in reaching below the desk, pulling Philip into his arms, rocking him.

“Shhh, Pip, I promise, it’s only a storm,” he murmured, fretfully as his hysterics continued, “It’s out there and we’re in here and it can’t hurt us, I swear. Oh buddy…”

Philip’s sobbing continued like it was never going to let up, clutching his cloth giraffe so tightly that his knuckles went white.

Sometimes Alex didn’t think any of his Selkie blood had touched his son. He just looked like a normal little boy, a sweet thing with big eyes and an easy smile like any well loved and protected human child, only having inherited his father’s nose and coppery skin. But every now and again he’d be sharply reminded.

This was one of those times. In every harsh, furious flare of lightning, his baby’s eyes would look almost totally black, animalistic, the shadows that fell across his face could be mistaken for whiskers almost, for the length of a terrified heartbeat, his teeth seemed to sharpen almost on sight, refracting the glare in a way no human tooth, no tooth that wasn’t filed to a point, would, his face shape seemed…wrong.

Alex gave a low, tortured moan, showing no revulsion though he couldn’t promise that he didn’t feel any, he couldn’t tell. All he did was bundle Philip closer to him, pressing his lips to his clammy forehead, stroking his mussed-up curls, whispering that it would be okay, it would, nothing here could hurt him. His Pops would protect him.

But he didn’t believe him.

That hurt a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Alex tried every trick he knew to soothe his little boy, making Legs talk in the cheery, high pitched little voice that usually had Pip giggling away, bouncing his curls, pulling faces. He even kissed the bridge of his nose in light, flurrying pecks, right over the little birthmark that looks as if someone had splattered a little strawberry juice or plum flesh over his son’s little face. He remembered how Pip used to wonder how the mark had gotten there, standing on the little step in the bathroom so he could reach the sink and brush his teeth, looking in the mirror and rubbing at it with a confused expression. The explanation Alex had carefully chosen to give him (having no idea how birthmarks formed in the first place) was that silly Pops must have kissed him too many times in one place when he was an even littler thing than he was now, staining that little patch of skin with too much love. Eliza had snorted into her teacup when she’d heard this, involuntarily of course, requiring a sharp look from Alex not to blow this for him, please. But Philip had puffed up his chest like the pride flooding there had been a physical thing, taking up too much room to be contained in what space there was in his little ribcage. Since then, Philip had always requested kisses on his birthmark, like it was some special place, a mark of affection right there on his skin.

Alex had realised a few days later that he’d lied to his son.

He’d been lying in bed on top of the covers, naked and sweating slightly, with Eliza tangled around his body, resting her head on his chest while his thumb stroked along the line of her eyebrow tenderly, hazily examining the trail of his own birthmarks, the ones that blotched his hips and ran a trail right down to his ankle, the ones that pattered along his spine to end at the juncture of his thighs (the ones Eliza always teased him were her little landing strip). He’d been wondering in a listless, vague kind of way, demoting the thoughts to a back part of his brain while the rest concentrated more on the frankly delicious taste still lingering in his mouth and the press of Eliza’s breasts against his side and, as the way often goes, it was this back, dim part of the brain that produced the revelation.

Something had always nagged him about his birthmarks. And he saw it then, finally. They corresponded perfectly, to an exact far too precise to just be a quirk of happenstance, to the dapples and patches of darker fur that decorated his coat in another body.

The link, small and almost unnoticed by him but there all the same, had sent something cold and skittering running through his tendons and sinews.

But even that paled in comparison to the realisation that came now, in the moment he held his terrified, shaking son while the storm roared at them.

Philip’s birthmark. Alex knew in that moment that it was no normal collection of abnormal pigment cells (he’d looked it up later). He knew that somewhere, on the pelt that Philip didn’t have but could have, if he wanted it, if Alex could face what needed to be done, there would be a darker patch of fur on the hood that, when swept around his little boy’s shoulders, would transfer to a blotch of black or maybe blue or maybe even white on the muzzle.

Alex recoiled from the thought. He didn’t want to imagine Philip having a muzzle. He didn’t want to imagine him with a pelt. He didn’t want to imagine him feeling the pull of the sea, slipping his own pelt around him, changing, becoming like liquid and then solidifying, swimming away into some dark, jagged horizon. Beyond the reach of him or Eliza.

He couldn’t bear the thought. He couldn’t bear the thought of it happening, or the thought of him enabling it, as he knew he would if it were asked of him. Those kinds of instincts were buried too deep to fight against.

But it might just kill him to do it.

Alex found himself hugging Philip even tighter. He knew what he’d done to soothe him last time the storms had caused such a fright in him, the words to the song that had settled him were ready and waiting, curled around his brain like a dozing snake. But it was like he couldn’t quite make the motion to let them loose, he couldn’t take that jump. Like it was something poisonous in the truest sense, like it would only help to make the imaginary divide between him and his son turn as real and as impassable as it was in his nightmares.

He waited a beat too long. He was so close but as he parted his lips, another, somehow stronger and more livid burst of lightning filled the room, like whatever point such grim explosions originated from was only drawing nearer and nearer, until it would get so close as to consume them completely. Philip screamed louder, so loud that in the flash he looked like the Edvard Munch painting that had unnerved Alex so much when he first came across it all those years ago in Eliza’s room at her parents’ beach house, in one of the many art history books she loved, that he’d shut the book immediately and set a potted plant on top of it, as if to prevent that misshapen creature, who he both was disgusted by and identified with to the same degree, from climbing out. In this stunned moment of Alex’s, Philip’s blind panic took over his little limbs and suddenly he wasn’t in his father’s arms at all but falling, propelled by pure fear, landing on the carpet and fleeing from the room as fast as he could. Which was faster than any fully human three year old would have managed.

“Pip!” Alex yelped in shock, and a little bit hurt, “Pip, no!”

Philip wasn’t sure where exactly he was running to, he couldn’t hear his Pops’ voice over the alarm bells in his ears. All he did know was that the horror chasing him was there so he needed to be not there. Wherever that was, wherever the lights and the roars couldn’t reach him.

He didn’t know where to go, the light just seemed to be everywhere, up every wall, in every usually shadowed corner, even in the red, veined space behind his eyes. It hurt every single part of him, too loud, too bright, too angry, too everything. And there was nowhere he could go to get away from it, he was just running further into it with every corner he turned.

But then he heard the sea.

Alex threw himself into the hallway but Philip was already gone. But gone which way, this cottage was a relic, a maze of sharp turns and un-sanded floors? Alex cursed sharply under his breath, calling, “Philip! Pip, buddy, come on, everything’s okay. Please don’t do this…”

He went to his room, the one he’d insisted on taking because it would be next to the new baby’s room and he wanted to keep an eye on his little sibling in case they couldn’t sleep. But he wasn’t there, not in the little hammock Alex had rigged up for him with an old sheet and some rope, not wrapped up in the blanket Eliza had made for him, stitched with lions, naturally. Alex ran down the hall, panic now throbbing through his veins like his blood was suddenly almost too thick to flow properly. But Philip wasn’t in the bathroom either, he loved his baths and showers, it was like he couldn’t get enough of the water but he wasn’t there now. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, as Alex checked each room and each time he saw no Philip, the panic rose to almost choking levels. He was silently begging gods he’d only ever read about in books that he wouldn’t suddenly stumble across the front door wide open, a window cracked or so many of the increasingly hideous ideas that were clamouring for space in his brain.

One last room, one last chance.

Alex hadn’t thought Pip would go to his and Eliza’s room, he’d been going through a phase of being a ‘big grown up boy’ and apparently big grown up boys didn’t need to come running to their mama and Pops’ room.

But clearly such laws of nature didn’t apply during storms, Alex heard Philip’s hitching sobs from behind the door that never fully closed because it was warped and because either Alex or Eliza had been thrown against it one too many times.

Alex was caught between wanting to cling to Philip desperately and having to force himself to give his little boy space, crowding him would only push him away further. He pushed back the door slowly, immediately getting to his hands and knees, keeping low and quiet, shutting the door behind him so the storm could stay on the other side. Hopefully.

“Pip?” he called softly, he could hear the broken little whimpers and sniffles coming from behind the other side of the bed, “Philip, I’m sorry, I know you’re scared but it’s okay. It’s only the weather, just rain and wind. You like the rain, remember? There’ll be puddles, after, we can go splash in puddles…”

Alex could hear how thin and reedy with stress his own voice was, so far from the gentle, comforting tone he wanted. God, he wasn’t built for this, where was Eliza? He couldn’t even comfort his own son…

“M’scared, Pops,” he heard Philip’s voice, he couldn’t believe the miserable croak came from the little boy he knew, the one with the sun in his voice that always seemed to make Alex feel a little warmer. A little bit of a better person.

“Oh no, Philip…” Alex looked around the edge of the bed, not caring about his qualifications to deal with this anymore, he had to try at least.

He stopped dead, recoiling a little in spite of himself.

“Philip…”

He’d thought the chest had been locked. In fact, he knew it was, it had been him that locked it, a week ago when an argument with a stressed, tired and hormonal Eliza had put the wanderlust back in his heart. He’d felt it; the stirring, the whispering in his ear like the ringing aftershock of an explosion. It always rose in the moments he was at his lowest, telling him that he wasn’t supposed to be here, he didn’t belong, it would be better for everyone if he just left. But, like always, he’d fought it. He’d gone and clicked shut the padlock that had come with the old trunk but was rarely necessary, hissing in pain as it had shut and nipped his thumb, making blood bead there. He’d sucked at the wound, tasting the salt and feeling better for it. It wasn’t seawater in his veins. Just blood. Only blood. He’d left the room, key kept as always in Eliza’s jewellery box, he’d gone and apologised to his wife, been apologised to in turn, hugged and kissed and comforted. And he’d forgotten the whole thing.

But that chest had been locked, it definitely had been locked.

And yet despite the evidence of the fading scar on his right thumb and the remembered ghostly tang of blood on his tongue, there Philip was, wrapped in his father’s sealskin like it was his safety blanket, like it was a talisman keeping back the storm.

A bone deep shiver made itself known in him, a hollowing at the pit of his stomach, as he watched Philip run his little fingers over the fur, the way he stroked his little cloth giraffe. He noted with a sick feeling, rather than anything close to relief, that his little boy’s fear was fading the further he retreated into the skin. The colour was coming back to his ashy face, his curls were even lifting a little, his eyes were turning back to their usual brightness. There was another growl of thunder from behind the heavy curtains and the door, the storm a threatening presence right on top of them, and Philip didn’t even notice.

Anything Alex had seen in that terrifying split second, in the glare of the lightning, was far away. Almost like he could believe it had never been there.

But Alex was only feeling worse.

“I can hear the sea, Pops,” his voice was only bewildered now, a little awed, back to sounding like a child rather than a cornered animal. There was even a smile growing, “It’s here!”

Alex tried to smile back, trying to share his enthusiasm even as the sound of the blood pounding through his temples in a panicked rush made him nauseated.

He could hear the sea too. Of course he could, his pelt was right there. Wrapped around his son. Every note of the low, ancient song that was currently echoing through Philip’s ears, Alex heard it too. He wondered if Philip was realising where his lullabies came from, where the affectionate words his Pops would whisper to him to calm him down came from, where his own love of collecting the smooth pebbles that fringed the beach came from, where his little quirk of always getting sleepy when it rained, like the sound itself soothed him. Alex wondered.

He feared that Philip was realising where he belonged. Not in his father’s arms. In a seal pelt.

Alex opened his mouth, to do or say what he had no idea. Anything. Anything at all that would get the thing away from him, back in the box where no one could get at it, where Philip could forget about it, never wonder, never feel caught between two worlds, pulled between two species like his father was. To keep him here.

No.

Alex shook himself, his jaw snapping shut with a sense of finality. The dry, resolute sound of a difficult decision being made.

Philip was happy. He wasn’t scared anymore. That was what Alex was supposed to want, whatever the cost. The guilt won out over the fear.

“That mean old storm can’t get you in here, can it?” he managed a wan smile, “All safe and sound.”

Philip, looking like someone swimming in a pool of silver wrapped up in the cloak of skin that was much too big for him, brightened and nodded like his father’s words were confirmation of what he’d hoped. He freed his hands, reaching for Alex, wanting him to come and join him under this amazing magic blanket he’d just found, exactly like they did on Saturday mornings, reading under the duvet on Mama and Pops’ bed.

Alex hesitated, not sure how to explain this, his hesitation. He and Eliza hadn’t broached the subject of Philip’s dual heritage, deciding to not…hide anything from him exactly, that would be wrong, but also not to state it explicitly. Not until he old enough to understand some of the more complicated parts of it.

And this felt very complicated.

Which left him with no choice but to not hesitate.

“See?” Alex murmured, pulling Philip onto his lap, swinging the pelt around his shoulders so it draped around both of them.

It still fit. Nearly three years and it still fit. He didn’t know why he should be surprised by that but still, it startled him.

All it would take would be one shift of his shoulders, a sensation like the un-focusing of the eyes and he’d be there. Problems would become simple again, shrunk down to the simple and understandable concept of staying alive. A basic directive, followed easily by instinct alone, and no consequences to anyone but him if he failed. No lives entangled with his. No emotions to be wrestled with every day before you could do anything as basic as going to sleep. An odd juxtaposition of hard and easy. Maybe not easy, not exactly. But shallow.

“Nice and safe,” Pip chirruped suddenly, interrupting his Pops’ train of thought. In the slightly disjointed intonation of little kids, it sounded more like ‘My sand ‘afe.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Alex kissed the top of his head, finding a lot of comfort in the way he smelled, like brown sugar and peanut butter and blueberry soap, “Nice and safe.”

“Like Pops promised,” Philip beamed, craning his neck back to look at Alex.

Alex blinked, feeling enough emotion in that moment to choke him. It hurt but a hurt that was necessary, that was wanted, like bright sunlight in the eyes after walking from a dark room, the sting of a removed splinter, the ache in restricted muscles finally being able to move.

“I’ll always keep my promises to you, lion cub. You know that, right?” he hoped Philip didn’t notice the way his voice trembled.

He didn’t seem to. He nodded enthusiastically, curling more into his lap, face buried against his chest, “I know, Pops.”

Alex closed his eyes, winding his arms around his son, listening to the now distant rolling of the storm though whether it was by distance or the pelt drowning it out, he didn’t know. Either way, he pushed it far out of his mind, what he focused on was Philip’s thoughtful breathing, the way he hummed the theme song to his favourite cartoon under this breath.

He didn’t know where the song came from, he never did. It came from somewhere at the very root of him, like it was always running through him but he only drifted in and out of its current. It was nothing with a start and an end, it was more like a living thing. A living, breathing prayer, part of his DNA, the frequency at which his bones reverberated. Singing it for Eliza in the moments when she needed it, for their unborn child when they would refuse to settle even when their mother wanted to sleep, for Philip when he’d broken his wrist and had been forced to face one of his biggest terrors- the hospital. In those moments, singing it felt more like offering them something of himself, taking a deep, generous handful of whatever opalescent black soil lined the edges of his soul and giving it to them.

But it was worth it. A few bars in of the haunting, sloping melody, ran through Alex’s careful hands to fit what he needed it to, right now he needed it to be warm, full of promise and protection, and Philip closed his eyes, a happy smile on his face. He didn’t sleep but there was no more fear in his heart; it had barely left a mark.

It was the front door rapidly opening and banging shut, Eliza’s worried, fearful voice calling for her boys, that woke them out of the song, that had somehow flowed and changed to incorporate the old game of counting the beats between each lightning flash and thunder clap to follow the progress of the storm as it disappeared into the horizon.

“Alex? Philip?” she panted a little as she threw her soaked coat carelessly over the sofa, not caring that she was dripping rainwater onto the carpet, tracking mud, only cursing her body preventing her from darting up the stairs as fast as she wanted to.

Eliza had been worried to the point of nausea since the storm first hit in the middle of her final period French class. Her friend, Maria, the lady who taught in the classroom next to hers had been forced to drag her back from the door, insisting that there was no way anyone was going anywhere in a storm like that, least of all the seven-month pregnant Eliza. So, she’d been forced to pace restlessly this entire time, knowing in the very depths of herself that her boys were scared and needed her.

She gave a small, dry sob of relief when she heard their son’s voice from the bedroom, his flurry of excited, “Mama, mama, mama!”

It took nearly everything Eliza had not to give a cry of surprise at the sight of Alex, what was unmistakably his pelt around his shoulders, Philip in his arms. The answers to what she found, that flashed into her mind before she could think properly, would shame her when she remembered them later that night.

As soon as they found their skins, found where they were locked away, they would take them and run back to the sea…

But then Philip was at her shins, clinging on for dear life, chattering animatedly already about how scary the storm had been, how Pops had protected him, wasn’t it loud, is the new baby scared? Eliza murmured answered, petting his hair, but her gaze was fixed on Alex who had whipped the skin from his shoulders, as fast as if it’s touch burned him, back in the trunk and locked again with the kind of loud thud that couldn’t be argued with.

Once Philip had run out of the room (to go splash in puddles, like Pops said), Alex made an attempt at giving Eliza their usual greeting like nothing at all was out of the ordinary but his voice broke halfway through asking her is she needed him to rub her ankles and he began to cry. Eliza was ready, holding him, rocking him, not needing to ask; she’d pieced it together herself.

The tears lasted a while, but just like the storm outside it did pass. What seemed endless, insurmountable, did pass.

Alex had been rereading all the parenting books he’d picked up the first time around, when Pip wasn’t Pip but a concept, half to make sure any information that may have escaped the as yet boundary-less fields of his mind, partly to revel in the excitement of having another little baby to meet. And they all made it clear that parenting was hard, there would always be struggles and trials and exhaustion.

Alex remembered this and gave a shaky sigh into Eliza’s shoulder, prompting her to rub circles across his back soothingly.

Whoever wrote those books had no idea.

Angelica seemed like such a grand name for such a tiny thing.

Alex found himself having to balance these two ideas in his head, that of his sister in law, intimidating and commanding when she wanted to be, warm and playful and witty when she wasn’t being anyone but herself. And his new daughter, who he had laid lengthways across his lap, head gently supported in his hands that had finally stopped trembling a few minutes ago. This new little Angelica who he didn’t know yet but even know after the first hour or so of her life, he ached to know everything, every single little detail of who she would be, what was and wasn’t yet determined about her personality; how she’d smile, whether she’d like mornings or not, what movies she’d prefer, whether she’d fall in love, what colours would suit her, allergies, fears, nightmares, hopes. Everything Alex had given her, everything Eliza had given her and everything that would come from just herself, no one else.

Alex wept silently as he held her, his thumbs running across the tight, damp curls at the nape of her neck, watching the sunlight fall on half of her face but not wake her, just illuminate her skin. She was darker than Philip, more of his colours than Eliza’s.

Getting her here had been hard, worse than last time, proving that the old adages of practise makes perfect and fortune favours the prepared mind were bullshit. But she was here, their little Angie, who wore another person’s name but would become entirely her own person.

Alex couldn’t wait to meet her. Already, he was reeling with love.

He was usually good at picking up Eliza’s moods, reacting and adapting to them without needing prompting. It was part of his instinct, the way he could smell the state of the tide in the air or could hear bad weather before it materialised on the horizon. But today he was exhausted, he was overwhelmed and his senses staggering under the weight of a new world.

So, only today, he didn’t intuitively turn to see Eliza standing in the doorway, leaning against it as her legs trembled, fingers bunched up anxiously in the towel wrapped around her body. She’d washed away the sweat and blood and agony, sluiced it from her skin and down the shower drain in a tide of soap (Alex’s body wash, she always used that when she needed comforting so her skin would smell like his). But there was a gap in the bottom of her stomach now, a hollowness and want, the dazed uncertainty of her body unbalanced and wrongly shaped. And an exhaustion that ran too deep for words.

It was all of this that left her unable to fight back the fears that had been rising in her ever since the day of the storm. She was going to say it. As much as she knew that it wasn’t a good idea, she was still going to say it.

“Eliza!” Alex hissed, the excitement in his voice meaning it only just stopped short enough to still be called a whisper, “Eliza, look, she does the little eyelid flutter thing Philip does!”

Eliza tried for a smile, leaving ghosts of footprints as she padded across the room to gingerly sit on the bed beside her husband. The smile became something real only when she gazed down at her daughter’s face. She knew she wasn’t supposed to care but she’d sobbed with joy when Alex had bewilderedly told her it was a girl, clutching her to her chest and trembling with a joy that could only be expressed with near hysterical bawling.

She was too beautiful for words, their little Angie. Eliza thought that she’d keep her hair short for as long as her baby girl would allow it; she could see now, in the fresh, moony face of her hours old child, the bob of raven wing hair she’d grow to have, a colour so indefinable that it transcended such common or garden words as black, holding blues and greys and deep purples in it, given the right light. It would frame the sleek, defined face she would grow into- her father’s face, in a lot of ways- and highlight the dusting of freckles Eliza knew by some primordial maternal instinct would dust her long nose.

“She’s just gorgeous, isn’t she?” Alex beamed, the tears catching the dawn light filtering in through the windows as he repeated the words he’d already said again and again but they were still just as true, “I mean, Eliza, baby, she’s so perfect.”

“I know,” Eliza whispered, leaning against Alex’s shoulder so she could softly cup Angie’s sleeping face, prompting the little thing to lean into her mama’s warm palm.

Alex didn’t understand why their new daughter couldn’t just sleep in his arms but Eliza pointed out the way his own head kept nodding and the bruises under his own eyes, finally convincing him to set little Angie down in her bassinet by their bed so they could get to stealing whatever minutes of sleep they’d be allowed until she woke up.

Maybe she wouldn’t say it, Eliza thought, as she watched Alex’s back, the muscles moving in waves under his copper skin as he set Angie down, pulling the blanket over her and tucking her in so close and safe. Maybe she’d regained enough of her control to swallow back the words, after all, this was one of the most perfect and beautiful moments of her entire life. She didn’t need to say it.

But then her eyes drifted down to the run of birthmarks along Alex’s lower back, that travelled down the prominent ridges of his spine and disappeared under the waistband of his shorts. He’d told her what he’d realised about those birthmarks and she found herself hating them, they that dared to run down below that dark fabric and touch the part of Alex’s body that belonged to her as much as it did him, that she’d marked out and mapped with her hands and her mouth so carefully. Poisoning that so beloved part of him with memories of awful times and the possibility of heartbreak and loss. Reminding her of everything that had dared to hurt the man she loved.

And how the man she loved could hurt her.

Eliza knew with even harsher, granite carved certainty, that she was going to ask it. She had to know, in this moment as much as any. So, she could know for sure whether such perfect and precious moments were numbered.

Alex noticed then, and realised with a stab of guilt that he’d missed it before, when he turned expecting to see Eliza’s smiling face, her expression mirroring his own, but instead saw her fighting back tears.

“Baby?” he murmured, his heart sinking, scrambling over and kneeling before her, holding her face in his hands, “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

It did hurt, it hurt in a million different ways, but Eliza shook her head. The tears were undeniable now, now that Alex had seen it too.

“I just…” as inevitably as she’d accepted the words, now her tongue felt heavy and swollen and unmalleable.

Alex blinked, it dawning on him that this wasn’t merely that her torn and bruised and exhausted body needing some love and affection and sweet words, the ones that had been crowding at the back of his tongue all day and he would give freely and devotedly.

Eliza saw his expression and it only made her cry more, “It’s just…everything you said, what happened to your mother…the storm…”

Alex looked taken aback, “It was a long time ago, Eliza…”

Then was history repeating itself?

“But…I saw the way you…with Philip,” she managed to choke up just enough of the words for Alex to piece it together and know what she was talking about.

“I was only trying to comfort him, I swear,” panic leeched into his voice, “I felt nothing, I swear! That’s the first time I’ve put it on in years!”

Eliza’s jaw slacked a little and she caught his shoulders, shaking her head frantically, seeing him veer off the path she was trying to describe, “No! No, no, no….”

Angie stirred behind Alex, making them both jump. Just a sleepy huff and slight squawk before snuggling further into her swaddling and going back to sleep, but her parents both stiffened. Eliza sighed silently, placing a finger to her lips and getting up. Even confused, even scared, Alex moved swiftly to help her, supporting her hips where most of the ache was concentrated, her back which yowled painfully when asked to prop up the weight of her body.

They found themselves in the nursery, neither of them quite sure which of them had made the decision to come here, in his brightly painted room that would become Angie’s when she was old enough, still decorated lovingly as it had been for Philip. Maybe it was knowing the baby monitor standing sentinel on the bookcase would let them know if their daughter’s sleep was disturbed and she needed them. Maybe it was something else.

“Eliza, I promise, I…whatever that looked like, I don’t want to go, I’m not…” Alex scrabbled at his words, eyes wide with fear, not knowing what he should take back but wanting to do it so badly blood beat behind his eyeballs and made his vision swim.

Face wet with tears and lined with tiredness and sorrow, Eliza placed her palms on his chest, their universal gesture for calm down. Listen. I will explain. Trust me.

“Alexander,” she pulled the last scraps of his focus back to her with all four syllables of his name, “It isn’t that, I’m not…accusing you. I just want to know.”

“Know what?” Alex looked helpless, taking hold of her wrists.

Eliza’s mouth twisted bitterly, hating this, hating herself, hating that she just couldn’t have her Alex without needing to needle and question and worry. Her forehead dropped to his chest and she nearly wailed, “What that awful man did to your mother, stranding her, forcing her to stay on land…is that what I’m doing to you?”

Alex staggered a little, eyes widening.

“Oh no…” he breathed, not as an answer per se but at the realisation of how long Eliza had been carrying this fear like calcification on her heart, like something pressing too tight on her neck that couldn’t be loosened.

Eliza sniffled miserably, “Am I doing wrong by making you stay here, am I hurting you? You sounded so angry at what he did to your mother, I get that there’s nothing worse you can do to a Selkie, if I knew that I was putting you through that pain I couldn’t live with myself. Oh Alex…”

“Shh,” Alex soothed, hands coming up to run through her hair, damp from the shower, “Eliza. Oh god, my beautiful Eliza. No, listen…”

He gently placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her swimming eyes to his own. There was no insistence in the movement but Eliza went willingly.

“Eliza, you and I could not be more different,” he gasped in a trembling voice, “Baby, you didn’t take my skin, look, it’s right there, I could have it back any time I wanted! You made that so clear.”

“But…” Eliza bit her lower lip, she knew how Alex felt the pull sometimes, how he had to use all these tricks and coping mechanisms to fight against it. Surely none of that would be necessary if she wasn’t chaining him here?

Alex shook his head, running his thumb along her bottom lip line, seeing the thought gaining purchase behind her eyes and shrugging it off before the words could even leave her tongue.

“Eliza Hamilton,” there was firmness and promise in the way he spoke now, “I gave you my skin. It’s hardly even mine any more, it’s ours. Being here, this life with you, it scares me sometimes but you make it so worth it, it’s barely even a thing I consider these days. Nothing keeps me here but my own choice. My choice to be happy.”

As much as her self-doubt was roaring, that tone, the look in his eyes couldn’t be argued with. There wasn’t a shred of reservation, Alex at his most open and certain and real.

“I mean,” Alex huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh, “Look at what I have here! Look at what you’ve given me, Philip, Angie…Eliza, you are my life. They are my life. Where else would I want to be but right here?”

Eliza’s lower lip trembled but she let it, her tears held only relief now. Relief and delight as she had it confirmed for her that she was giving Alex the happy, safe life she’d always hoped she was.

Alex relaxed, smiling through his own tears, “There is something worse you can do to a Selkie, other than take their skin. You can keep them away from their mate. And Betsey, believe me, nothing- nothing- is going to keep me away from you.”

Eliza threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she sobbed. Over and over again she whispered the words, I love you, I love you, I love you, as he hugged her back, covered her salt tinged skin with kisses, pressed her to him, as he carried her back to bed and lay with her, his body curled around hers protectively, his grip never slackening even in sleep.

#selkie au #hamliza #alexander x eliza #angst #comfort #the seal lullaby #fanfic

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