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corolune · 3 years

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Breathing Underwater / Chapter One — Zephyr

AO3 / Tumblr Alex had always known he wasn’t like other children. They didn't hear the song of the ocean in their ears, or feel the thrumming rhythm of the waves in their hearts like he did. Then he finds a silvery coat made of seal fur, glistening and calling him to slip it on — and everything he thought he knew about himself washes away like foam on the sea. Alex Rider is a selkie, and this is the story of how a seal becomes a spy. Prologue 〰 Chapter 1: Zephyr 〰 Chapter 2: Nimbus

zeph·yr — a light wind from the west.

Alex Rider was seven years old when he learned that none of the other children heard the ocean’s song in their ears. A half-formed rhythm that beat in time with his breath, the way the Thames rushed in tune with the hustle and bustle of London.

Mrs. Smith held her finger to her lips, quieting the loud chatter of the class, and beckoned Katie to continue her show and tell.

“And this one,” Katie held up a large, spiralling shell in her hands, “is called a conch shell. When you hold it up to your ear, it sounds like you’re at the beach! It has ocean sounds in it and it’s really really cool. Miss, can I pass it around, for everyone to hear?”

“Yes, you may, but we’ll have to be quiet so we can hear the ocean waves, right class?”

As the shell made its way around the circle of children, Alex leaned into Tom and whispered, “Why would you need a shell to hear the ocean? I can hear it just fine wherever I am!”

Tom shot him a curious look from under his curly, dark fringe. “Yeah, you can imagine how it sounds, but with the shell you can really hear it!”

Alex furrowed his brow, shaking his head, but decided to wait and see what exactly this ocean sound was. The others oohed and ahhed excitedly, holding the conch up to their ears, and soon enough it was his turn.

Tom bounced in place, eyes going wide as he handed the shell over to him with a grin. Cupping it gently to his ear, he listened and waited, but there was nothing other than the sound of air rushing through the twists and turns in the spirally shell. Squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hand over his other ear, he strained his hearing, but it still sounded nothing like the ocean.

When he blinked his eyes open, it was to Tom’s concerned look, and his neighbour poking his arm.

“Come on Alex, it’s my turn!” James whined, as Alex continued to stare at the shell in his hands. He passed it over to him, leaning over to Tom.

“That didn’t sound anything like the ocean.”

“What are you talking about, mate? That totally sounded like waves on a beach!”

“Waves? But the ocean sounds like a song Tom, and there’s just air in that shell!”

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, and Alex realized that his whisper was perhaps not much of a whisper after all. “Would you boys like to share what’s going on?”

“Sorry Miss,” Alex mumbled, as Tom continued to glare righteously at him.

“Tom? Is something the matter?” Mrs. Smith raised her eyebrow pointedly.

“Sorry Miss, it’s just that Alex said the shell doesn’t sound like the ocean at all!” At this, the rest of his classmates' voices rose into a rumble and Alex’s cheeks grew pinker by the second.

“It sounds like waves, I suppose, but not like the ocean,” he tried to explain.

“But waves are the ocean!” James exclaimed, while Crystal gasped at him. “If it sounds like waves, it sounds like the ocean,” she said.

Alex sunk deeper into his seat and vowed to never bring up this topic again. Never ever. Especially the bit about the ocean song, which Tom teased him about for weeks afterward.

〰〰

Alex spent his days doing schoolwork, playing football, and sneaking onto the tube with Tom to go to the shops downtown. He learned to avoid other topics, too, like how Ian left him alone at home, or in a hotel when they were on holiday. Or how sometimes, Ian would come home from work trips covered in bruises and scrapes. He made friends easily enough, and then Ian hired Jack to keep him company. It helped him forget that feeling of loneliness that hovered over him like a rain cloud, as if there was something he was missing, like the melody of a song he couldn’t quite remember.

Sometimes, when he was alone at night, he stared up at the stars from his little window and wondered what his parents were like. He barely remembered much of when he was little. Sometimes he thought of the light on the surface of the sea, reflecting into the water below where kelp waved in giant fronds. He remembered cold air on his face and the smell of salt. His parents must have loved the sea, to have taken him to the beach as a baby.

The months passed by, and he got a new bicycle, learned Jack was terrible at cooking, and finally watched the X-Men films Tom had been gushing about. Soon enough, his tenth birthday had come and gone, and summer was upon them.

When the high tides came, at his uncle’s lake cottage in the country, Alex’s blood thrummed hard in his ears. The dark night blanketed the small hamlet, an inky sky bleeding into the city lights that he could see far into the distance. A little lake, too big to be a pond, rippled in the balmy breeze as he lay propped up on his elbows in the grass nearby. If he closed his eyes he could hear the water’s shush-shush-shush in time with his heartbeat.

He was a city boy, but something about the vast, empty lake called to him. He supposed other ten year olds would feel a bit frightened, left alone in the wilderness for hours, where the nearest city was a half hour’s drive away. He never liked the country very much, not when he and Ian went into the woods or hiked up a mountain. But here, there was something that quelled the itchy feeling that had him feeling lost, like he was holding a puzzle piece that wouldn’t fit.

When he heard the car rumbling on the dusty path, he rolled onto his knees and peered over the cattails in the moor. Ian was back from his trip into the little town, and maybe now he would finally stop being so mysterious and tell him the real reason they were here.

“Alex! Come and help me with these,” Ian called, opening up the boot of the car.

Scrambling down the grassy knoll, Alex reached him to see old crates and crumbling piles of paper amongst the grocery bags.

“What’s all this? Where’d you get all this old stuff?”

Ian smiled crookedly. “Help me haul it inside and I’ll tell you!”

The crates were splintered and creaky, rocking with every step on the uneven cobblestone of the driveway. The papers were bundled into musty files, but between the two of them it was short work to gather everything into the foyer of the little cottage.

“So did you drive us up here to go to an estate sale or something without me? Bet I could have found something a lot cooler than some old paperwork.” Alex grinned as he put down the last box.

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. “I didn’t buy any of this. Lucky for me no one had come across it yet.”

He pried one of the crates open. Inside, there were soft cotton dresses, yellowed with age, in floral prints and geometric lines in vibrant colours.

“These things, they’re your mother’s.”

He blinked, looking up sharply.

“My mum’s? But...I thought there wasn’t...” Alex stumbled over his words, confused and hopeful all at once. “I thought there wasn’t anything left of hers,” he finished in a soft, timid voice, feeling something pull at his chest. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, trying to remember his mum’s face. The smell of sea salt wafted up from where he shook out the folds. A large seashell, curved into a spiral, fell out as he lifted it away, clattering onto the wooden floor, and he reached after it. In his hands, the shell was smooth.

“I didn’t think so either,” Ian said. “But last time I came up here, remember I had to check on some things for our holiday?”

Alex nodded, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears like the thrum of the ocean.

“Helen—your mum—she had a safe in the little bank in town. Just by chance that the man there recognized the name Rider, good thing we weren’t playing disguises, eh?”

Alex had moved onto untying the twine from the bundles of files. The folders were dry, caked with dust, and brittle. The papers inside were less dusty but equally crisp with age. Inside they held an eclectic mix of newspaper clippings and postcards, photographs of people he didn’t recognize, and pressed flowers. Little mementos of a life lived, a life that Alex had had little chance to wonder about.

His parents had died in an accident. But in him now, seeing these objects that his—mum—had once lovingly saved, a spark flared into a hopeful warmth. He read and read his mother’s journal until his eyes slid shut, and he felt Ian lift him up and tuck him into bed. He dreamt of Venice and Prague, of coffee shops and delicate flowers blooming under gentle care. His dreams were full of strange people and stranger plots surrounding both his mum and his dad.

〰〰

The next morning when he woke, he could feel the ocean’s rhythm in his ears, louder than it had ever been before. He stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, to see Ian already awake and halfway through his toast.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Ian said around a mouthful of crunchy bread.

Plopping into a chair, Alex stole some from the pile for himself, spreading a very generous amount of jam onto his piece.

“Hmmm,” he hummed. The jam was really very good. Actually, now that he thought about it, he felt very good too, light and happy for the first time in, well, a long time. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even make out words in the usually jumbled melody in his ears.

Come...sea...little...

He chewed over this development as he finished breakfast, glancing at the crates and papers still piled up in the foyer from the night before. There was just one box he hadn’t gotten to before falling asleep — it was sealed shut so tightly that he hadn’t been able to pry it open by himself.

Ian noticed his gaze. “We can bring those with us for you to keep, when we drive back home.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Alex nodded. “But I didn’t get a chance to look inside that one, can you help me get it open?”

Without noticing it, he found himself in front of the small box and running his fingers over the little notches in the wood, as if he’d been pulled towards it. A dull rhythm echoed in his ears like a siren song.

Armed with a sharp knife, his uncle pried open the lid. Whatever was inside was wrapped in packing paper and plastic, and an unassuming beige envelope rested on top. “For Alex R.,” it read in curly script, and the back of it was sealed shut with a sticker in the shape of a round, pink heart.

Ian leaned over his shoulder, humming with interest at this new mystery. “I’d reckon your mum left you this, Alex. Strange that I never came across any of this when you were younger.”

“You mean this is all a lucky accident? If we hadn’t come here...if you hadn’t gone to that bank, I wouldn’t have ever gotten any of this?” It wasn’t the first time Alex had had this thought since Ian first told him what he’d brought, and it seemed a little too much like coincidence.

“Perhaps, but then again, maybe she’d assumed you’d go looking for her things one day or another. Either way, it doesn’t matter — go on, open that envelope, I’m dying to see what’s inside just as much as you are!” Ian grinned, and Alex could feel the excitement rolling off of his uncle, who was always thrilled to play detective. Truth be told, he was excited too — it wasn’t everyday that he discovered an old family treasure.

The sticker peeled open easily, its stickiness long since disappeared. Inside, there was thick, creamy stationery paper, folded into thirds, and something shifted inside with a dull clinking sound. A golden chain slid out, flowing into his palm like liquid metal. Tiny shells dotted the chain and a small seashell hung from the middle.

“I remember that necklace,” Ian said thoughtfully. “I only met your mother a few times, but I can remember her wearing it — the seashell opens like a locket, I think, though I can’t recall what was inside it.”

Alex was more interested in the letter than a piece of glittering, girly jewelry, and he was happy to hand it off to Ian to inspect. Unfolding the elegant paper, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see his name on it, but he still couldn’t hold back a small gasp. The curly letters were undoubtedly his mother’s.

Dearest Alex,

In this box is something that has been yours since the day you were born. I’ve kept it safe and hidden, and hopefully you will find it one day when you need it. I wish that I was able to share this with you, face to face.

You must know by now, that you are different from other children; I am sure you never had to be taught to swim, and that the waves call to you in a way unlike anything else. You make friends easily, and others are charmed by you when you smile. You get those traits from me.

There is something else you get from me, too. Like me, you are a selkie, and your life is equally in the sea as it is on land. The sealskin in this box — this is yours. Wear the coat and you will swim as a seal, slip it off and you will walk once more.

Make sure to never lose your skin, always keep it safe and hidden, always keep it a secret. If you lose your skin, you must find it before someone else takes it and holds power over you.

My mother gave me this necklace, and now I’m giving it to you—a rare shell that will be a compass to your coat should you ever lose it. I hope that one day, you will find someone you trust with your life, someone you can share your secret with.

I love you with all my heart, my darling son.

Your Mum,

Helen R.

With slightly watery eyes, he looked up to see Ian nonchalantly trying to read the letter from where he sat next to him. Nothing in the letter made any sense to him—he’d heard of selkies of course, but the idea that his long lost mother was a seal was so weird that it passed right over his head. Distantly he noticed Ian taking the letter from him to read properly, but Alex was too much in the midst of an identity crisis to notice.

The soft, crinkling sounds of paper roused him from his circling thoughts. He turned to see Ian crumpling up the packing paper and tearing open the thin plastic that covered the contents of the box, tipping it over.

Soft, white fur with patches of grey unfurled onto the floor, somehow familiar, beckoning Alex. Something in his chest unfurled along with it, and for the first time that feeling of something missing, that yearning for something more, dissolved like foam on the sea. He ran his hands through the short, white fur, and knew that this was what he’d lost, and now found.

“This is yours,” Ian said.

That night, as Ian sat at the dock and Alex, clad in the silvery fur, dove into the cold lake water shimmering with moonlight, everything he thought he knew about himself washed away.

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#my writing #alex rider #fic #my fic #fanfiction #breathing underwater #selkies #selkie au

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hallucinosims · 4 years

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You know how people are like “Here’s my editing progress through the years” and stuff me included i wanna see ya’ll worst editing decisions through the years when you thought they were bumpin. Here’s mine. Can i tag people in this? I want this to be a tag anyway i tag @liliithvatore @softpine @sadb0ysims and @cheesehair Update because I also want to tag @literalite I don’t know if i know you like that to tag you in anything but here i am doing it anyway

Reagan in the hallway, June 2018

Who did i think i was? Light from the window and hair strands done with a mouse horrendous never again I’m sorry ya’ll had to see this in retrospect (5/10) Not the worse but not the best

Jack’s funeral, also June of 2018 cause i was speedrunning when i first started. Maybe july idk

Not nearly as bad but that’s now how depth of field works and it was just super brown for some reason. Also before i decided on Marion’s hair length (2/10) not bad at all i’ll let her live

Kassidy dancing I’m pretty sure this is August 2018

After I started doing the cinematic bars so it’s pretty good. Now this isn’t bad at all HOWEVER THIS STYLE OF EDITING DOESN’T WORK IN ANYTHING OTHER THAN NATURAL LIGHT HOLY SHIT THE REST OF THIS SET WAS ORANGE (1/10)

The gang on the balcony i defenitly want to say it’s summer 2018 maybe late august because i remember editing this at the atrium at Lincoln center

By this point i knew better which is why it makes me so angry. I had just learned about adding that sweet sweet crunch that all the simblrs use it’s a photoshop extension i don’t remember the name i still have it but i don’t use it anymore (3/10) holy shit they are so crunchy and the lighting is weirdly flat but i liked the look for maybe a week

The night Maren ran away I think this is October 2018

I had just changed my editing style again and like many others i’ve done, looks good in the light but a bit shit in the dark. Not bad, but i do wish i knew how to edit better because none of the originals of this era exist anymore which means i have to retcon this weird gray pink editing everything there’s a flashback also no good cc yet (6/10)

This christmas post I know for a fact this was October of 2018 because that’s when i started getting traction because of the Dorian/Reid not really sex but technically sex scene that also happened to get nuked in the tumblr’s nipplegate that December

Yes bitch give us NOTHING. I was like “Oh sims lighting mods look good enough let me hit that up with some Gaussian blur and levels and we’re good) the fact that i tried to make a pose for this DOESN’T HELP (6/10)

No such thing as love flashback November 2018

This shit enrages me honestly because I stand by these ones looking nice AND THEN I NEVER BOTHERED TO EDIT THE REST OF MY STORY POSTS LIKE THAT I’M (2/10 not bad just bitter)

Reagan’s vision late december 2018

Fun fact about this i stole those trails from the Billie Eilish music video because the ones i drew turned out a bit shit (3/10)

I kinda got my footing then went AWOL what is this January 2019?

WHY IS IT CRUNCHY? WHY DID I DECIDE TO DRAW THE SNAPCHAT STUFF? I WAS ROOTING FOR YOU WE WERE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU (7/10 because it was going so well and i was like this could use some crunch and diy)

I forgot when this was but uh... Lilith and Caleb fight

There was a huge clip where the glass roof would come through so i was clone stamped it out and was like “ooh bitch she seamless” HA no she aint (5/10)

The party def the summer of 2019 because again at the atrium in lincoln center

I hated how this sequence looked especially after following Rowan’s acid trip this shit turned out gray i hate it here (10/10 no i’m not over reacting because the posts surrounding it looked so FUCKING PRETTY)

I don’t remember when this was but uh... right after west side story technically Summer? I think??

Eyes... that’s it that’s really it. I know how to draw them now but... i rebuke these(9/10)

And finally since i haven’t really changed my editing style in the last several months aside from the shadows so really the only things left are flares so uh...

HOHMYGOD THE BLOODIN THE CALEB FLASHBACK SCENE I EDITED THESE IN AUGUST AND DIDN’T POST THEM UNTIL OCTOBER 2019

THAT BLOOD LOOKS SO BAD HOLY SHIT I’M DOING EVERYTHING IN MY POWER NOT TO GO BACK AND FIX IT BUT UGH (10/10 ugly shit for an important scene)

#a bitch really thought she was doin something in some of these #nonsims #saviorhide #hall posts #also this is me procrastinating on going in game for the tribes post and the next story post #i have well over 600 story post sets so that's why this is so long i'm sorry #this also doesn't even include my other simblr attempts in fact this doesn't even include atmt #ya'll don't need to rate yours i just wanted to i've been watching too much tiktok

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lumiereswig · 7 years

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A dragon comes to try and eat Plumette (because she's clearly a princess and thats wot dragons do) except he's not the only golden, firemaking thing in the room. (And Plumette is also a badA). ~NiceAnon (still needs tumblr account.)

you always get your fics right away because you are Nice Anon, so even though this fic is so amazing it should probably get like 20 chapters and full commissioned illustrations, I will give you just a little fic just to show you my fondness. also i am a bit tired so APOLOGIES if it just devolves into not making sense. but here we go let’s get some DRAGONS

The dragon looked over the Dragon Classifieds, dipping toast into his egg. He needed a princess—a good, proper princess; not any of these new-fangled breed, who hit things with saucepans or shot them with arrows or blasted ice out of their fingertips. No, that sort would not do at all. This dragon was getting old, and bitter, and a little fat around the tum, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had stolen a good princess. A good princess, now: dressed all in white, and near-divine with grace, and with deep dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. Elegant, beautiful, infused with love and femininity. That was the type of princess an old dragon wanted.

He scanned the Classifieds. Princesses in Germany, Austria, Italy—here was one all the way over in America, but the listing specified that she came with “raccoon and hummingbird sidekicks,” and that was just too much trouble to counter. No sidekicks. No princes, hanging around with slashing swords. Just a princess, all in white.

Ah! The hidden heart of France. Just normal France would do, but the listing was worded well. (dragons appreciate that little bit of style. many dragons have been known to go into careers as professional editors, when they are not eating people’s faces off). The princess of villeneuve had no sidekicks, no princely lover, not even a fairy godmother at hand. This princess would be perfect.

The dragon flapped his cranky old wings—oh, they ached, nowadays—and took off from his cave. To Villeneuve he would go. And soon he would come back, pretty princess in hand.

Lumiere and Plumette were in the back gardens, which were heavy with the scent of peonies. Autumn was coming on, quick, and gold leaves blazed above the round white blossoms. Radiant in white herself, Plumette was a vision among the flowers.

That’s what Lumiere thought, anyway. But he always thought that. Look at her! The sun had almost set, and yet she glowed like the moon. Why, she was growing brighter by the second. You would think she had compelled the sun to rise again.

Mon dieu. The sun was rising again. The gold of the trees ripped into red.

“Lumiere—what—?” Plumette hasn’t looked behind her yet, but she sees his eyes widen just above her head and his hands start to reach for her out of pure instinct. The sun (funny, she had thought it had just set) is very warm on her back. “Mon amour? Is there a bee?”

“A little bit bigger than a bee,” chokes Lumiere, twirling her around and pulling her to his chest in one swift movement.

The trees are on fire. The peonies are turning black. A giant winged thing soars through the inferno, giving them just a glimpse of scales and great big teeth, and then dips back into it again.

“A dragon,” says Plumette.

“Mon dieu,” squeaks Lumiere. He is holding her as close as he can.

“GIVE ME UP YOUR PRINCESS,” roars the dragon, landing on the bonfire of the trees with a crash. The dragon has great, winking green eyes, and wings that could knock off half the castle’s towers in one movement.

“She’s at a convention of librarians!” yells Lumiere. Oh my god, I wish the truth didn’t sound like such a lie, he thinks.

“NOT THAT ONE,” roars the dragon. “NOT THE BELLE-CREATURE. SHE’D BE DIFFICULT. I WANT THAT ONE.” He points at Plumette. “FLUFFY! FEMININE! EASY! AND CRUNCHY WITH SCRAMBLED EGGS.”

Inside his arms, Lumiere can feel Plumette ruffle. (how she ruffles without feathers anymore he isn’t certain.) Something hisses in the back of her beautiful throat.

“Ma cherie,” whispers Lumiere, “do you remember what I told you?”

“That you’ve always had a fantasy of directing a production of Guys and Dolls entirely made up of Bollywood super stars?”

“No, not that. The other thing.”

“Oh! Oui, mon amour.”

“Then do that.—though I do still want to direct Guys—”

The dragon roars and blasts fire at Lumiere. Plumette bursts from his arms and escapes just in time. Turning back, she sees her lover burning in flame.

And, to the dragon’s surprise, not minding at all.

“Do you think this astonishes me?” yells Lumiere, and he takes the stance of a fencing master. The fire doesn’t even touch his face; it waltzes to his command into his fingers and out again, in a dazzling arc of fire back toward the dragon. With one flick of his wrist the fire bends and burns away from him in golden ropes.

“Hold on,” says the dragon, but his tum is too fat and his wings too cranky to get him away. The fire doesn’t stop; even when the dragon’s fire should have ended, this strange man—dressed all in gold, like he belongs in a dragon’s hoard—continues finding fire in his fingers that leaps and sparks at his command. The dragon finds himself tied down in fire.

“How do you like that?!” says Plumette. She has run up, the fire never touching her for a second (the golden man, the dragon notes, seems to be taking special care of that). Plumette leaps onto the dragon’s nose, and starts to tickle him with her skirt.

“No! No! Stop—” giggles the dragon. He hasn’t laughed since—golly, he can’t remember when. Tears of laughter spring to his green eyes. “Stop, please!”

“Shan’t,” says Plumette, continuing to tickle him. Lumiere stops shooting fire and comes over, laughing.

“Do you want to join us in laughing?” asks Lumiere. “Or do you want to fight us with fire?“

“Laughter, please,” wheezes the dragon. “My goodness, I haven’t laughed so hard since I was turned into a dragon.”

“….pardonez-moi?”

“I was turned into a dragon.” He rolls over onto his back, to better tell the story, and Plumette rubs his tummy. “I was a wicked young man who was greedy, or never laughed, or always spilled breadcrumbs on the table…I don’t remember which one. So I was turned into a dragon, about, oh, 500 years ago….and honestly I’ve liked it so much I never went looking for salvation.”

Lumiere starts rubbing his tummy, too. The dragon purrs through his story.

“And it’s been great, really; honest wages, simple living, get to have a nice hoard of things I like—empty journals, trading cards, you know—though the carnivorous appetite is troublesome. And the lack of company—ooh, right there, that’s itched for ages. Dragon-ing is nice, y’know, but sometimes you need a break—it’s so tiring, being the only living flamethrower in the kingdom. You just want somebody to cover for you, sometimes; the whole breathing-fire, running-off-with-the-princess gig.”

“And you still think you need to do all that yourself?” Lumiere massages a knot in one of the scales “…..Dragon?”

The dragon has fallen asleep, belly still up. He snores and snuffles a little bit, smoke puffing from his nose. With a touch of egg still on his snout and his feet dangling, he looks rather like a very large, very scaley cat. Cute. Feral. An adorable force of destruction.

“Well, it looks like we are now the home of a dragon,” says Lumiere, standing back to regard the creature currently hastening the demise of the entire eastern section of the garden. “However will Europe survive without its toothsome majesty?”

Plumette curls herself into his embrace. “You heard what Dragon said. He needs someone to cover for him while he rests.”

“Mm. The whole fire-making, running-off-with-the-princess affair? I think I could do that,” and Lumiere’s smile glows at Plumette. “Care to run off with me, princess?”

“Only if we can do it on the back of a dragon,” says Plumette, and the two lean against their new pet’s giant, scaley stomach to share a secret kiss.

#DRAGONS #batb fanfic #lumiere #plumette #plumiere #utter nonsense #batb 2017 #asks #anon #the Nice Anon

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