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smelliescrystal · 1 year ago

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Website: https://www.smelliescrystals.co.uk/

Address: United Kingdom

Smellies Luxury Fragrance offers a wide array of vegan and cruelty-free handcrafted skin products, ensuring your skin feels soft and radiates health. The brand is renowned for its soy wax melts, adorned with biodegradable glitters and natural mica powders, available in numerous fragrances to elevate your mood. From wax melts, bath bombs, and other skin and fragrance products, Smellies has become synonymous with quality, offering a continuous variety of fantastic merchandise along with unique limited edition and seasonal items that cater to all budgets.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smelliesluxuryfragrance/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/smelliescrystals

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months ago

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Department store wax mannequins melting during a heatwave in 1929.

Store in New Bridge St., London UK June 1929

#heatwave 20s #wax mannequins melting #historic photos #other stuff

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housederiva · 3 months ago

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Fantasic yes thank you @mt07131 It should be noted I am taking the hottest bubble bath of my entire life while I'm typing this and my skin is the color of Mr Krabs. (these are all cheeses that I have had before so my opinion of each is extremely biased)

We're starting with Neve. I know what you're thinking 'our dear detective has a food pyramid made solely out of the menu of a back alley chippy, obviously she's Kraft cheese or cheese whiz' and you are incorrect. Sit on the floor beside me while I take my bubble bath, we're going on a cheese discovery hand in soapy hand

Neve is specifically a combination of the two cheeses that are in these bad boys that you can find at Walmart for $15. With enough coffee and distractions you can live off these for an entire week. Each piece of cheese is about the size of a quarter, they're powdery, they don't melt well, and the only reason it's in your fridge is that someone brought it to the potluck and no one else ate any of it. We're ignoring the rest of the platter this is only about cheese.

Harding is a fried halloumi stick. It's squeaky cheese that is sooo good when it's melted and somehow still in stick form. The first time an only time I’ve had it was when I lived in the UK. A little cheeky Nandos with Harding? Come on now she's the one suggesting it. This woman eats ham and jam slams, she's eating cold hallumi (bad salty brick ew ew nasty), Taash's first complaint if they ever lived together that would be that they could hear her eating the leftovers right out of the fridge at 3am cause it's squeaking so damn loud while she's chewing

Bellara is the giant babybel. Pictures don't do it justice and the absolute glee of taking off the little jacket before you bite into it like a peach? Undescribable. There's not a doubt in my mind that this woman would collect the wax and leave it in a clump on her bookshelf where she would repeatedly tell you she's gonna do something with it. And yet it grows ever larger with every giant babybel. She's the small ones too but those are somehow worse because she just eats the entire bag of them the second she gets home (not that I do that every time or anything haha dont look in my trash rn)

Davrin is, without a doubt, apple smoked cheddar either from Wisconsin or Lancashire, there's no in between. Once this cheese is in your life you will be fundamentally changed as a person and you can never go back to the way you were. No other cheese holds the same richness and warmth as apple smoked cheddar (either from Wisconsin or Lancashire) It has like this sweetness from the milk in it that's balanced out with the smokiness of paprika. Davrin's bringing this to the cookout and you're going to thank him for putting it on your burger at least four times

Lucanis is Fulvi Pecorino Romano (yes it is Italian why do you ask) This is some of the most expensive cheese I've ever had which is perfect for the man who's offering to pay Harding 6,000 gold to stand around while he kills somebody and then asks if that's too low of an amount when she's speechless. This Romano is made from milk taken from a single herd of sheep that live just outside the city of Rome. It's got this a grainy, crumbly texture that I don't think I'll have anything like again. (I had it at a preview night for this movie I worked on for redacted, I think there was caviar there too it was insane)

Emmrich my sweet vegetarian (and vegan? idk) is Climax Blue cheese. It's plant-based blue cheese, streaked with a natural and flavorful blue-green veining. It is well-rounded, with a creamy, fudgy texture, and with fruity and earthy notes balanced by a warm peppery finish. It's made out of coconut milk instead of animal milk and it's got pumpkin seeds in it somehow. I'm not vegan but my best friend is and she brought me this one time from her work and I ate it all in about 20 minutes. Excellent with wine and those really thin tiny crackers, makes you feel the good kind of fancy

Taash is ghost pepper and fried onion cheddar cheese. Never been hurt by food the way I was hurt the second this touched my tongue. And the cool thing about it is it's also dairy free, and substitutes milk with hemp. The heat from the ghost peppers builds and mingles with the burst from the fried onions and each wheel is aged in a cheese specific cave before it's packaged. It also has that good glowy classic melty cheese flow when it gets hot. If you're like me and you are white people spicy smelling this alone will hurt you

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #taash #emmrich volkarin #davrin #lucanis dellamorte #bellara lutare #lace harding #neve gallus #oh ive been in the bath for a while i feel like a hairless cat's armpit

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lola-theshowgrl · 11 days ago

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I'm not great at these introduction posts, and this one feels extra strange because it's a bit late coming. Still, I've been remiss, and I felt like it was important to have this somewhere, so here we are!

Hullo!

I'm Lola, I live in the UK, and I'm a writer. I love books, films, music, art, food, and flowers, and if I could disappear into the woods to live like a little cottage witch or a hobbit, I would absolutely do that.

I enjoy simple things. I have my own garden for the first time in my life, and I'm slowly learning how to look after that, moving things about, pruning, and growing veggies from seed. The word of Monty Don is law, and I watch Gardener's World quite religiously.

I have a lot of houseplants, which I'm more knowledgeable about, but only because it was the closest I could get to a garden for many years. I was renting for a long time, so I moved practically every other year, and my houseplants have accumulated to become something like an indoor jungle.

I also like to cook - and to eat! I'm a home cook, I was taught largely by my grandma and by watching various cooking shows over the years. I love how food brings people together, how it varies culturally, and I have a talent for tasting a dish and being able to replicate flavours without a recipe, which is neat.

I do a bit of crafting, though not as much as I used to. I make candles, soap, wax melts and such. I also knit and sew, but only very basically, and I'd like to get better at both, but I never seem to make any time for it. I'm not a particularly organised person, except by necessity, and this often shows itself in such areas.

I love nature and being outside. I walk a lot, usually with my dog, Wilfred, and we visit rivers, forests, beaches, and the occasional marsh together at weekends. There's nothing like fresh air and a good walk to clear your head a bit, I think. That said, I don't like being cold much, and wet socks horrify me on a very primal level, and if it was up to me I wouldn't ever leave the house when it's raining.

I love the sun. You will never hear me complain about it being too hot, I guarantee it. I wait for summertime all year long, and it's fairly short here in England, so I spend as much of the season outside as I can, basking like a lizard.

I'm in my late thirties and coming up fast on middle-age, and I noticed my first grey hairs about a year ago - just a few bright, silvery strands at my temples and around my ears. I feel like I've mentally been a fifty year old since I was ten, so ageing doesn't concern me too much. Also I feel like I won some kind of battle by getting to this point? Sometimes I think about the lonely teenager I was, convinced I wouldn't see twenty-five, and wish I could find a way back to her to tell her she's going to be okay.

I'm short and fat, my nose is a little crooked, my eyes are blue, and my hands are oddly small. I dress like an elderly librarian, and I know I'm winning at the female-gaze when other women compliment my tweed skirts and flowery dresses. I have a vast collection of cardigans.

I'm autistic, I'm queer, and I'm partially deaf. I ought to wear a hearing aid, but honestly? I've heard enough.

Yes, I do think I'm funny.

I love art, classic or new, and I seem to have somehow assimilated a working knowledge of Impressionism. I blame my mother for this.

I once went to the Tate for a school trip and sat in front of a painting by Monet for two hours without moving, and got into trouble for not sticking with the group. I'm obsessed with the idea that Degas was Jack The Ripper, and I wish more people knew about Berthe Morisot.

Books. Stories. Fiction. My true love, and the very core of who I am. I read The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien when I was about eleven years old, and fell head over heels with the fantasy genre. Later that same year, I read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, and little did I know, became heavily invested in slow-burn romance. Then, I read Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and I knew I wanted to write, just as Jo March did.

I've been scribbling away ever since, trying always to improve, to find my voice and craft interesting stories. I've written a huge amount of fanfiction over the years, and even though much of it has been lost to time and various platforms, I learned a lot from those stories. I did publish two books about a decade ago, under a pen name and with a small press, but I had a pretty bad experience with it, and I stopped writing for a long while afterwards.

It was fanfiction that brought back my love for writing again, and I've been dabbling off and on with some original work for the past three years or so. People are weird about fanfiction, I find, but there's nothing like writing for the simple joy of it, with no expectations, to rekindle your love for the craft. It's only through the encouragement and kindness of the folk who were reading those works that I'm here today, trying again to write and publish my original stories.

Anyway, that's me in a nutshell! I probably waffled on a bit, but thank you for reading anyway!

#lola-palooza

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sangaverage · 3 months ago

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Vampire self care kit (UK based)

Dividers: here

Sanguine Perfume (smells like berries)

Hellfury bath bomb (smells like cherry and apple)

Danse macabre candle (smells of hibiscus rose and pomegranate)

There will be blood hand soap (smells like sweet musk)

To do tonight pad

Undead affirmations badge (options)

Antique love stationary set

Bloodbag shower gel (does not mention Scent)

Nosferatu wax melts (smells like candy)

#vampyre #vampire self care #vampire gift ideas #kin care #vampirekin #I actually posted #☥#tw fake blood

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midwestbramble · 5 months ago

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American Witch Balls

aka Witch Bullets

Friday the 13th is often thought of as bad luck. So much so that it has become associated with witches in some parts of the United States. This is the day when witches in folklore would make witch balls, balls of hair that would curse people and livestock. Let’s dive into this bit of folkloric witchcraft.

⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ𖦹‏‏☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆‏𖦹‏‏⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

Contents:

History

How to

Conclusion

⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ𖦹‏‏☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆‏𖦹‏‏⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

History

“To this mystic myrrh, To make a witch ball, I, the Devil, doth stir, To place curses on one and all.”

This is what the devil chants as the coven gathers on Friday the 13th in “How to Make Witch Balls” from Hubert Davis’ “The Silver Bullet and Other American Witch Stories.” These hairballs are unique to North America, having only the name in common with their UK counterparts. From Pennsylvania to Iowa, people believed that if their animal died and was found with a ball of hair inside, they had been cursed by a witch. So much so that there are newspaper articles detailing trials where people accused one another of using them from the late 19th century.

Not all hairballs were thought of as cursing, as some were employed by conjure persons and witch doctors for healing. Usually the ones thought to curse were found in humans and domesticated animals. If they were made from the hair of a deer, for example, they were thought to have healing properties. Similar to a bezoar.

Around the turn of the 20th century, doctors began to debunk witch balls as simple hairballs animals were unable to digest, coming from licking themselves or other animals. Still, these beliefs persist and we can employ the idea in our own craft.

⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ𖦹‏‏☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆‏𖦹‏‏⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

How To

The most important parts of the witch ball are the hair (usually from a black dog, cat, cow, or horse) and the beeswax. The folktale includes several gruesome ingredients from the benign spiders legs to a dead baby’s toe. For our version we will not be requiring the desecration of bodies. If you already have favorite baneful herbs you can add those to your mix, otherwise I suggest things such as graveyard dirt, hot pepper flakes, a nightshade if you’re comfortable working with poisonous plants, and maybe those spiders legs if you can find a dead one.

Once you have the hair, the wax, and anything else you would like to add, we can get started. Set the wax to melt on a double boiler. Personally I put a pot to boil and put a smaller pot in the water for a makeshift double boiler. Add in your extra ingredients, telling them their jobs as you do, and as you stir chant the devil's chant above. Roll the animal hair into a ball and cover it in the wax to hold shape. Once cool, take your own hair and tie it around the ball. You now have a witch bullet ready to deploy in whatever way you can imagine.

⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ𖦹‏‏☆.𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓍊𓋼𓍊.☆‏𖦹‏‏⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

Conclusion

Hairballs may be the last thing you expected to be associated with witchcraft. Making witch bullets on Friday the 13th has become a key part of my practice. I think of curses the same way I think about martial arts; good to know how to do, hope you never have to. I have to wonder, do other witches have practices specific to the 13th?

References:

America Bewitched by Owen Davies

The Danger of Hairballs by the Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine

The Witch's Bullet: Hairball and Hexing Tradition by Via Hedera

Southern Cunning by Aaron Oberon

#witchblr #witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #american folkloric witchcraft #folkloric witchcraft #witch balls #witch bullets #trad craft #curse #baneful magic #spellwork #Friday the 13th

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captainblou · 8 months ago

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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Thank you Sam!!! Time for some self-love, lets go!!

Thank you for the thorns - rated E

There's a few things you should know about Anthony: first, only his dad calls him that, you can call him Crowley. Second, he owns the Queen of Thorns, the best flower shop of Mayfair. And third: he doesn't date. The first two points are unlikely to change, but the third? Maybe we should stick around to see how it goes…

This one was unfortunatly never beta'd BUT it's still my absolute favourite I've written, I would die for those two and their stupid bet.

Roses don't wear freckles like you do - rated E

“Do you have a safeword?” The angel asked suddenly, tearing his eyes away from his candle. Strategic question. Crowley had one and he knew it. They’d used it a thousand times already. “Armageddon. Do you?” The bastard chuckled. “Never needed a safeword.” Crowley hissed, his serpentine tongue flicking, eyes fixed on the melted wax dripping from his hand. “Well, think of one.” His palm had long grown insensible to the light burn of the wax, but that was the easy part. His arm, stretched in front of him without support for the last hour, was starting to shake. His shoulder was screaming in pain. Aziraphale’s hand remained steady and his lips stretched in a smile. Crowley relaxed his stance and stared into his eyes. The angel was playing a mind game with him, pretending it didn’t hurt at all.

A PWP where Aziracrow switch their usual roles. I had a lot of fun with this one !!

Touch of a feather - rated T

Berlin - 1889 “Well, if you must know,’’ the angel started, fidgeting with the lapels of his coat. “Have you heard of this lovely invention called a gramophone?’’ Crowley had, but still shook his head, happy to let him explain. “It’s a device that allows you to play music! Isn’t it brilliant? They engrave the music on large discs, apparently, and the machine plays it, which means you could technically listen to symphonies directly in your home!’’ Aziraphale was literally buzzing with excitement. Crowley could feel the way his body was heating up, positively shivering as he explained. He steadied his hand on his cane and looked at him with an encouraging smile, waiting for more. This time, the angel’s blush was more frank, going all the way down his neck. “Anyway, the company that produces the device is currently designing their logo, and they called for, erm- well, models.’’

My latest little one shot, it's sweet and cute and I love it <3

Undercover - rated E

After Aziraphale becomes the Supreme Archangel, Crowley is appointed as Prince of Hell. Some may think they aren't talking, but that's only true when they're busy with more pressing activities. (A collection of sexy times between our favorite angel and demon, trapped in an office hell/heaven scape, where the second coming that matters is not the Jesus one)

A collection of PWP written with @eybefioro, we have so much fun writing this!! It's still ongoing, I just need to get my head out of my ass and actually write my next part!!!

Drive me to the moon - rated E

At GOMENS, world-renowned sports brand and sponsor, one takes pride in endorsing the UK’s most talented athletes. On the other hand, one would like to ignore the fact that their two top of the bill, Aziraphale and Crowley, have heartily hated each other since the day they met. But what should be expected, when one knows these two?Aziraphale is a professional dancer, Crowley a rally driver. While the former switches between fierce competitions and prestigious stages, the other goes from one track to another across the world, clearing out every prize from behind the wheel of his racing car. Two beings, two worlds, two universes that everything should keep apart. But an unprecedented charity event is getting set up at GOMENS, and quickly, their own athletes will have to compete with and assist each other in turns.Two worlds, two personalities. But if they want to run for a cause that matters to the both of them, Crowley and Aziraphale are going to have to find an Arrangement.

I'm cheating for that last one!! Publishing begins June 16th with @searchingforakeythatdoesntexist's illustrations!!!! When it's out it will go all the way up on that list!!!!!

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #writers #fanfic writers #fic recs

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petermorwood · 2 years ago

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Deep-Fried Cadbury’s Creme Eggs...

youtube

I wonder what part of the UK originated this idea...?

Watching Mr Hollis get hit by the inevitable sugar rush is amusing, though he might have danced to a different tune if the eggs had been too hot.

He mentions keeping them in the fridge before use; one reason is obvious, to stop everything melting too fast, however the other is that if the interior gets too hot, that wodge of seething inner gloop will fit itself neatly into the hollow of your palate and blow your mind.

Not in a good way, either, even though you’re unlikely to be troubled by ear-wax for quite a while...

No, I haven’t had it happen, but I have heard a report by a friend who saw it happen. His report can be summarised thus: “Interesting, but not pretty...”

*****

I used to love Cadbury’s Creme Eggs back in the early 1970s, but when I tried one a couple of years ago for the first time in decades, either my tastes had changed radically, or the eggs had.

They’re smaller for a start - not surprising - while the filling was far sweeter than I remember - very surprising, it shouldn’t be possible with a filling whose principal ingredient was always mostly sugar.

Maybe 50+ years has adjusted my palate away from that much sweetness in a single sickly serving. But since my fondness for Demerara sugar, maple syrup and various kinds of honey hasn’t diminished over the years, I suspect what’s happened is that the proportion of sugar to sugar syrups has shifted in favour of those sweeter (and cheaper) products, and the end of an edible era happened without me noticing... :-P

*****

Here’s the Discworld view of chocolate, accompanied by a useful Annotation which enlarges upon that view in a, let’s just say “regional” manner...

*****

Interesting to note slight differences in the ingredient descriptions between Cadbury UK:

Sugar, MILK, glucose syrup, cocoa butter, invert sugar syrup, dried whey (from MILK), cocoa mass, vegetable fats (palm, shea), emulsifier (E442), dried EGG white, flavourings, colour (paprika extract).

...and Cadbury Ireland:

Milk chocolate (Milk, Sugar, Cocoa butter, Cocoa mass, Vegetable fat, Emulsifiers (E442, E476, Soya lecithin), Flavourings), Fondant (47%) (Sugar, Glucose syrup, Invert sugar syrup, Dried egg white, Flavouring, Colour (Paprika extract)).

Paprika...?

8-{

#food and drink #dylan's kitchen #easter #easter eggs #chocolate eggs #deep-fried food #Discworld #GNU Terry Pratchett

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dailyunsolvedmysteries · 14 hours ago

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Although many different versions of the Santa Compaña can be found, the common belief is that of a procession of the dead (or a procession of souls that are in torment) that wander through the village paths of a parish beginning at midnight wearing white, hooded cloaks. The procession is led by a living person (usually a parishioner of a particular church) carrying a cross or a cauldron of holy water (sometimes he carries both), followed by several of the souls of the dead holding lit candles. Although these souls are not always seen, it is said that the scent of melted wax can be detected on the breeze which appears as they pass to warn of their presence. According to popular belief, apart from the living procession leader, the Santa Compaña can't be seen but can be felt, eliciting a shiver or shudder as it passes, accompanied with a sensation of intense danger. It is also believed that those who can see the Santa Compaña are people who were wrongly baptised by the priest of their parish who mistakenly used "oil of the dead" (anointing oil) instead of holy water. In other versions, it is believed that they are people with special sensibilities who are able to see hidden things. Some people are unable to see the souls in the procession but can see the light of their candles, floating in the air like ignis fatuus or will-o'-the-wisp (similar to the "spook lights" in the rural USA or "jack o'lantern" in the rural UK) as they move along their path.

#Santa Compaña

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pop-punklouis · 1 year ago

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My daughter is twenty now and when i remember that story how simon dragged 19 year old louis from UK to LA without explanation and only because he is big boss is triggering me. It was abuse and no one can say otherway. Even if louis did whatever drunk on stage nothing can excuse that behaviour.

yeah fuck simon cowell. deserves to rot in hell forever. his face melting and getting even worse as the years go on where money can’t even fix it is part of his karma. cant wait till he has his real downfall. wax figure looking piece of shit. <333

#grey

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ollieofthebeholder · 2 years ago

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3

Chapter 34: November 2016

The chirruping of her phone woke Melanie with a start. She was momentarily disorientated by her positioning and the light visible through the window until she remembered she hadn’t fallen asleep in her own bed the night before. Truthfully, she hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but evidently she’d been more exhausted than she previously thought.

Before she bothered with her phone, she crossed over to the window. The fresh taper she’d lit the night before had melted down to nothing, the wax pooling and coating the holder it had been placed in. Next to it sat a plate with three squat buns arranged neatly upon it. Three glasses of wine stood next to it. As was the case every year, none of them had been touched.

Melanie’s shoulders slumped. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered.

Then again, she’d made her living chasing down ghosts and hauntings, and she’d spent most of her childhood and young adulthood either running down or running from terrifying supernatural entities that wanted very much to kill her, or worse. And if Gerry wasn’t enough of a proof that the dead could conceivably come back for a visit at least, nothing would be.

Still, it would be nice if they actually would.

Her phone chirruped again, and Melanie turned from the window with an aggrieved, “All right, all right!”

It was her text alert, which meant it wasn’t too terribly urgent…yet. Probably it was Martin wanting to know if she’d had better luck than he had this year. Possibly it was Gerry with a lead for her to hunt down. There was an extraordinarily slim chance it was Jon sending her a link to the latest news about the surviving members of Sinner’s Gin, but things had been rather quiet with them in recent months, so it was highly unlikely. She flipped the phone over and unlocked it.

Sure enough, there were two text alerts from Martin, but before she looked at them, Melanie took a moment to study her phone’s background. The lock screen was an ever-shifting mix of album art and promo pics from Ghost Hunt UK—right now it was a relatively minimalist stylized black horse’s head on a blue canvas-looking backdrop—but the background, which wouldn’t be seen unless she unlocked it herself, was of her family. It was the last picture they’d taken together before Gerry’s death, an impulsive shot taken under the sign for the Tube stop where they’d reluctantly parted ways, Melanie’s chin tucked over her brothers’ shoulders and all of them laughing.

Now, though, Melanie really let herself see the details she’d spent so long avoiding—the pallor of Gerry’s skin, the dark circles under Martin’s eyes, the bitterness in her own smile. Martin fussed over both of them, so them both being out of town on wild-goose chases had told on his mental health more than she’d acknowledged in the past. She’d been having trouble with the Ghost Hunt UK team even before Aldershot, in a lot of ways, if she was being honest. And Gerry…had he known then how sick he was? He’d sworn to them both that he hadn’t really believed anything was wrong until his first seizure, but it was possible he was just saying that to keep Martin from feeling guilty about not knowing somehow. Had he known in the very moment he’d promised to come to them the second his boots touched English soil again that he was likely to end up dead inside of six months? Was that why he’d promised to send for them?

She shook her head impatiently. Whatever the case, she told herself firmly, it was in the past. She wouldn’t say the past can’t hurt us, because it absolutely could, but they couldn’t change it, so what was the use of obsessing about it? It’d just make her angry. Melanie was really good at being angry, but she hated being angry at her brothers, which usually made her angrier. She took a deep, steadying breath and tapped over to Martin’s messages.

Neither of them mentioned soul cakes or the spirits of the dead. Instead, it was a pair of questions, sent about five minutes apart.

[Hey, do you want me to invite the rest of the crew from the Archives to come with us today, or would you rather it just be Gerry and me as usual?]

[Or do you even want to do anything this year?]

It actually took Melanie a few minutes to realize what Martin was asking about, and she smacked herself on the forehead as soon as it hit her. How she could have forgotten, she had no idea, but she had. Quickly, she texted him back. [Just us, but maybe the others can join us for ice cream after?]

[Deal. Meet you at the usual place and time. Jon says I can cut out early.]

Feeling a little better than she had right after waking up, Melanie set her phone back down and set to cleaning up the previous night’s offerings before she let her new furry overlords out of their isolation chamber.

As it happened, she encountered Martin a bit earlier than the usual place and time—they both got to Notting Hill Gate at the same time—so she accepted his hug and grabbed his hand as they jumped onto the train. Two stops later, they hopped off to find Gerry waiting for them with a smirk and a very battered bag over one shoulder.

“Hey, Neens,” he said. His voice was the warmest thing about him—the hug he gave her was ice-cold. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Melanie hugged him back, then stepped back with a grin. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”

“I warn you both,” Gerry said as they emerged into the fading daylight, “I am going to be absolute rubbish at this.”

Martin snorted. “As opposed to every other year?”

“Yeah, well, I��m considerably more out of practice than I was the last time we did this.”

“We didn’t do it last year either,” Melanie said. “Or the year before. Last year we were both…going through some stuff.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Martin agreed. “And the year before that it rained most of the afternoon, so we went to the movies instead. So we’re all in about the same boat.”

“Good.” Gerry grinned. “Then we can all make fools of ourselves together.”

They all had their birthday traditions; Melanie’s was just the only one that carried back to before they’d even met. And it was always the years that they didn’t do one tradition or another that everything blew up in their faces. There was a part of her that ascribed Martin having survived Jane Prentiss’ attack—to say nothing of Gerry’s return—to the fact that they’d taken their traditional picture in Regent’s Park on the eighteenth of April, even if Gerry hadn’t been there for it. It was honestly hard to tell sometimes which of their traditions and rituals actually kept them safe and which were just…comforting.

She’d take both, though.

After twenty years, they knew the paths of Hyde Park well enough that they knew exactly where to go and where to avoid. They stopped at the bench they considered their bench—the one they met at in years when their trips on the Tube didn’t line up—to change. Well, Gerry and Melanie changed, at least, a process which took both of them a considerable amount of time. Martin could simply tie his over his shoes, although he had to turn the key on the left one a couple of times.

“You can’t possibly have grown in the last three years,” Gerry said, grumbling under his breath and tightening his buckles.

“It must’ve shifted in the bag.” Martin held the skate level with his eyes and sighted down the bottom. “God, I hope the teeth aren’t wearing out.”

As she did every year, Melanie paused, half-bent over in the act of tying her laces into a double knot, to marvel again at the way their personalities shone through even in something as simple as roller skates. Hers were the white quad skates with purple wheels Martin and Gerry had jointly given her for her twenty-first birthday, well cared for and sized perfectly for her feet. Gerry’s were a pair of battered black roller blades; he could only just balance on them and frequently fell against the others, but he was stubborn and refused to buy quad skates because he couldn’t find them in black. And Martin’s were a pair of vintage metal skates he’d found when they were thirteen and carefully, lovingly restored to the point that he could wear them.

It helped mitigate the disappointment of the previous night, every year, to have her brothers alongside her as they skated the paths of Hyde Park, stumbling and laughing and teasing each other. Martin’s skates rang cheerfully with every step, and once they got going, they could get a decent speed going—as long as Gerry didn’t fall, which happened a lot. He wasn’t as winded as he’d been in years past, which was good…well, probably good anyway…but he seemed even clumsier than usual. Still, Melanie’s spirits were higher than they’d been since…Aldershot.

As the shadows lengthened, they came up to Melanie’s favorite part of the path—a straight stretch that went on for a good ways, rarely traversed on the best of days and certainly not this late in the afternoon on a gloomy Thursday, with a sharp turn at the end leading to the wide patch of cement where she’d learned to skate twenty-five years previously. She elbowed Martin and grinned up at him. “Race you?”

Martin laughed. He, too, looked more carefree than she’d seen him since Gerry’s death. “You’re on.”

Gerry waved at them. “Go on. I’ll catch you up. Ready, steady, go!”

Melanie took off as fast as she could. Martin’s longer legs put him at a bit of an advantage, but she’d tried roller derby one summer, and while they’d deemed her too small to actually compete, she’d at least retained the basics of speed. She just had to hope they didn’t run into a park officer. Focusing ahead on the end of the path in the gathering dark, she charged ahead like she could outrun everything that had bothered her in the last two years.

Unable to hold in her delight, she flung her arms wide to either side and crowed like a rooster as she let herself glide along the path. She heard Martin’s bright gurgle of a laugh and didn’t even care that it sounded like it was right next to her.

Hang gliding, parasailing, skydiving, even bungee jumping—just because of the nature of the lives they led, and how close they came to the Fourteen, she knew she’d never be able to risk any of them. Roller skating like this was the closest she would ever get to flying under her own power.

She reached the turn in the path and leaned into it as hard as she could, overbalanced, and went skidding on her (thankfully padded) elbows across the path before spinning to a stop. Even that seemed funny to her, and she flopped over on her back, laughing as the helmet thudded against the concrete.

Martin’s face appeared upside down over hers, his curls peeking out under the edges of the helmet. “Are you all right?” he asked, sounding like he was barely containing his own laughter.

“I win.” Melanie smirked up at him, and Martin gave in to laughing. “Help me up, would you?”

She held up her hands, but Martin had other ideas. He grabbed her under the arms, making her squeak with surprise, and hauled her to her feet. Only then did he take her hands, from behind, and start skating slowly forward.

Melanie started laughing again. She couldn’t help it. The joy of the evening had got to her, the delight of being a kid again, at least for a little while—carefree and happy and loved…

“Neens?” Martin had stopped moving, and somehow he was in front of her. He took her cheek in one hand and swiped his thumb against it. “Melanie, what’s wrong, are you hurt?”

Melanie hadn’t realized she’d started crying, but now that she did, she couldn’t stop that, either. She fell against Martin’s chest, nearly knocking him backwards, and clung, burying her face in the soft wool of his jumper and copiously bedewing it with tears.

“I miss her so much,” she whispered.

Martin wrapped his arms around her and held her close, stroking her back and murmuring to her the way he had when she’d woken up from nightmares after they found out about Ivy Meadows, the way he had when they’d sung what they had thought would be their last farewell to Gerry. The way he had after her eighth birthday party when she’d tried to hide so her father wouldn’t think she was ungrateful, even though he hadn’t understood that she didn’t want a skating party, she’d just wanted to go skating, the way she always had with her mother on her birthday every year.

Martin had understood. He’d always understood. He’d always known what to say, what to do, to make it…maybe not all better, but at least bearable.

After a few moments, she heard him crooning softly and realized it was the song he used to ward off the Lonely. She didn’t know if it was subconscious or intentional, but she clutched him a little tighter all the same. If the Lonely was encroaching…she didn’t want to meet it.

After several long minutes, she took a deep breath and straightened up, pushing away from him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” Martin squeezed her hands before letting her go. “Feel better?”

“A little,” Melanie said honestly. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying not to get the Velcro stuck in her eyebrows, and looked around. “Where’s Gerry? Hasn’t he caught up to us by now?”

Martin stiffened. “Now that you mention it, no. Christ, where could he have gone? It’s a straight shot.”

“You keep those glasses on your face,” Melanie said firmly. From the slight shift of his shoulders, she knew she’d been right—he’d been thinking about Looking to spot Gerry’s glow. “He can’t be far. Hang on.” She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

There was a surprisingly long pause before an answering whistle came, and in straining to listen for it, Melanie heard shouting. A chill ran up her spine, and she looked up at Martin again. “You don’t think he…”

“He wouldn’t.” The look on Martin’s face clearly said that he not only knew he would, but that he probably had.

Without another word, they began skating back up the path towards where they’d come from. Sure enough, there was a minor commotion, someone on a cell phone gesticulating wildly while someone else knelt on the ground. She could just make out Gerry, barely visible in the gathering gloom, standing off to one side. To his credit, he looked incredibly shaken.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, as soon as Melanie and Martin were close enough that he noticed them. “I swear, it was an accident, he just bumped into me—”

“Of course this isn’t your fault,” an elderly woman said soothingly, reaching out to pat his arm.

Gerry jerked back, looking panicked, and lost his balance, toppling over backwards. He held out both hands, palms out, when Martin reached for him. “No, don’t, don’t touch me—”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin, as he always did, went instantly into caretaker mode, positioning himself between Gerry and the crowd and talking in a low, gentle voice. “Melanie, see if they need help.”

Even though Melanie knew it was useless, she did as Martin instructed, kneeling down next to the hysterical teenager frantically pressing on the prone body’s chest and offering to take over. She kept it up until the paramedics arrived and took control, then went over to join Martin in comforting the teen, who turned out not to know the dead body personally except as someone who regularly turned up to feed the pigeons but felt responsible for not being able to save him.

“It’s not your fault, love,” Melanie said gently, and she carefully didn’t look at Gerry as she said this. It wasn’t his fault either. “You did everything you could. You gave him the best chance you could.”

Twenty minutes later, once the paramedics had received permission to call it and the teen’s friends had led her away, Martin touched Melanie’s arm. “You still want ice cream?”

“Yes,” Melanie said firmly. “You still okay to call the others and have them join us?”

“If you want them. Ger, you ready?”

Gerry nodded. He’d managed to calm down and right himself, and he’d already changed back into his regular shoes, but he still looked miserable and guilty. He took Martin’s hand on one side and Melanie’s on the other, and they made their way out of the park.

Melanie tried not to think about the fact that his fingers, where their bare skin touched, were only barely colder than her own.

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #melanie king #martin blackwood #gerard keay #death tw #grief tw #misuse of Terminus powers

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