#a ;; between you & a thousand seas ;; penelope

[k-nayee]

Death Wish Love Epic: The Musical

wc: 1k a/n: Song Inspiration: Death Wish Love by Benson Boone; recommend you listen while reading!! This is a Penelope!Reader btw!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

Odysseus had never known a battle more grueling than the one he faced now—fighting the distance between him and his Penelope.

The Gods had thrown everything they could at him: monsters, wars, storms. But none of it compared to the war he waged within himself.

It wasn’t just the bloodshed or the pain that kept him going, it was you—your face, your laughter, the way you looked at him as if he were the only man in the world.

He’d seen so much death, so much destruction. And yet every time he closed his eyes the thought of you was stronger.

In every battle he could hear your voice, soft but commanding, urging him to come back to you.

That was what he held onto. That was why he survived.

But sometimes the love he felt for you scared him. It wasn't just love anymore.

It had become something dangerous, something that had the power to tear him apart.

If he lost you—if the Gods took you away before he could return, Odysseus knew it would destroy him.

He felt fragile in that love, like it held the power to break him in ways no sword or spear ever could.

Even now as his ship rocked on the waves heading toward Ithaca, all he could think about was you.

The memory of your face; the way your eyes shimmered with a warmth he couldn’t find anywhere else.

You had always been his anchor. Even when the world around him was falling apart you were the steady ground beneath his feet.

He clenched his fists watching the horizon as the faint outline of Ithaca came into view.

His men were talking and murmuring about home, but Odysseus was quiet as he stared out at the sea.

His heart raced. What if you had moved on? What if after all these years you no longer waited for him?

The very thought of it made his chest tighten. He had faced monsters that would drive any man mad, yet it was the thought of losing you that truly terrified him.

Odysseus cursed the Gods for how long they kept him from you. Every day spent away from you had felt like death.

He could face a thousand wars—a thousand enemies. But the pain of not having you by his side was unbearable.

He longed to hold you again, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. It was a love that consumed him entirely, a love that bordered on madness.

As the ship drew closer to the shore his heart pounded louder than the crashing waves.

The moment the ship docked Odysseus was off. He barely heard the cheers of his men as they celebrated their return, his mind was already racing toward the palace.

His steps were quick, fueled by the fire in his chest that had been burning for years.

He reached the palace gates, and though his breath was heavy from the run his heart lightened the moment he stepped inside.

He could already sense you—your presence, the very essence of who you were lingering in the air.

And then he saw you.

You were standing on the terrace. Your back was turned to him, the soft light of the setting sun casting a golden glow on your figure.

For a moment Odysseus couldn’t breathe. It was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

Every inch of him ached for you. But he stood frozen, too overwhelmed by the sight of you after all these years.

It wasn’t until you turned around and your eyes meet his did he moved.

“Penelope...” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely audible. It was like a plea for you to recognize him after all this time.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment he feared you didn't.

But then you broke into a run, throwing yourself into his arms. Odysseus caught you, holding you as tightly as he dared.

His fingers tangled in your hair, his breath catching as he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Odysseus,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “You’re here. Y-you...you came back to me.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his heart swelling as he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks.

He wiped them away with his thumb, his touch gentle as if he were afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard.

“I’m here,” his voice was thick with emotion. “I’m finally home.”

Home.

It was a word that held so much meaning now. It wasn’t the palace, or the island, or the throne.

It was you. You had always been his home.

Odysseus pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closing as he savored the moment.

He had waited for this for so long, and now that he was here he didn’t want to let go.

You were everything to him, the reason he had fought, the reason he had survived.

“I love you,” your voice shook as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back as if you were afraid he might disappear.

Odysseus smiled, though it was laced with pain. He knew the dangers he had faced were nothing compared to the dangers that lay in loving you.

But he didn’t care. He would die for you. He would face the Gods themselves if it meant staying by your side.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “And I’ll love you until there’s nothing left of me.”

You pulled him closer, your breath hot against his neck as you whispered, “Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice breaking as he held you tighter. “Never again.”

And as the sun set on Ithaca, Odysseus knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them all for you.

Because this love—this dangerous, all-consuming love—was worth every sacrifice.

Even if it was a death wish, even if it meant losing everything, he would love you to the very end.

[kit-williams]

Legion Mother: Lost in the Warp

Who want's some Angst?

@bispecsual @egrets-not-regrets @moodymisty @bleedingichorhearts @liar-anubiass-blog

@thevoidscreams @barn-anon

as always thank you to @squishyowl for the dividers

The Mother of the Fourth Legion was in despair. Penelope was wailing as Robute Guilliman, her brother in law, had told her that her husband... Perturabo was dead. She knew he wouldn't lie to her... she was wailing as her attendants had to guide her back to her room.

Her adopted sons were not surprised at how she broke down at the news... they knew their mother loved their father... father had risen her from serfdom to his wife to Perturabo it only made sense given how utterly genuine she was with him. And the Captain watched as she had trembled, swayed on her feet, falling to the floor and weeping. But the Captain now snarled at the Primarch of the Thirteenth when he retracted what he said... but he realized quickly... the Iron Mother wouldn't have been able to handle the truth.

"What do I tell Ajax?" She managed to blither out between her sobs.

"None of that now my lady. You have to lead the legion now." The head attendant said holding her tightly like a mother would, "But first you must mourn." She said softly... as to them... Perturabo was suppose to outlive her... she was content with that... she was suppose to be the first of probably a long string of wives... Penelope was okay with that... she had told him that all she wanted to do was to bring him happiness.

"My Bo... my Bo..." Penelope whimpered as her makeup was running from the heavy tears rolling down her cheeks. The shock of it all running through her... perhaps later she would apologize to her sons at her reaction...

Nelly laid in her bed feeling the migraine build behind her eyes as she couldn't stop herself from bursting into tears. "Get... get me my box..." She says sitting up off to try one last hope. Her Bo was a smart man... an emergency communicator... she picked up the delicately made iron sea shell. She prayed... to what? She just prayed that he wasn't dead... "Bo..."

Demon World of Medrengard

A hateful fortress world of cruelty and industry... black spires licked the white sky and black sun but they ran so deeply into the molten core of the planet. The Demon Primarch's hatred could be felt upon the wind... his hate was enough for thousands of lifetimes. Yet there was some hatred for himself at what he had become... he was stronger than this and in a moment of weakness... a very human moment he did not want to die. His sons did not wish to lose their father and so he was now a blight upon this reality.

"Bo..." A voice sniffled... one he had not heard in a long long time. It made him inhale for the first time in millennia. The hateful winds stopped in their tracks leading to a quiet on the planet for the first time since it's rebirth as a demon world. He pulled away from his workbench slowly as the Lord of Iron's eyes drifted over to some forgotten rotting corner. "Bo please... you can't be dead." The voice sobbed cracking in a way that he was familiar with, he approached with quiet steps. His eyes looked down at a dust covered sea shell made of iron... rusted except for the pearl.

"Perturabo!" She wailed with palatable grief as it had to be true. Her husband was gone... Olympia was gone... everything she held dear was gone... all she had left was the fraction of the legion and Ajax. She had to be like Iron... she had to be there for her sons and his sons... she had to... she had too...

"Nelly...?" A voice... no not just a voice his voice spoke over the device.

She threw herself back over to the device, "Perty!"

Perturabo looked down at the rusted shell in his hand... he had all but forgotten it was there. His tongue licked over sharpened teeth as his bitterness started to gather... this was a trick... how dare they. He internally seethed at the thought of Fulgrim or Magnus or one of the petty gods using his beloved's voice against him. Still the winds of Medrengard remained calm... and that near oppressive hate was lifted for a moment causing all his scions upon the planet to turn their gaze toward his fortress. "Bo?"

"Where are you?" His voice spoke over the line as she was holding her breath holding the hands of one of her attendants and when he spoke she let it out.

"Olympia... Bo... Bo... It's gone! Please what happened?" She begged.

Before he could answer he heard the doors open and Captain Antioch speak, as Nelly had a habit of leaving the line open, Perturabo remembers appointing him to protection of the Legion Mother... he was one of the few sons truly happy for their marriage, "Legion Mother we must go. Lord Guilliman will see us at Mcragge."

"Antioch! I've gotten in contact with Perturabo, he's alive!" She said so relieved but Perturabo could taste it... he could taste the worry... he could taste the fear. The mother knew not what the son was told.

"Penelope. I will see you soon." Was all he said before killing the line. And just like that the Lord of Iron was roused... the great iron beast rearing it's head once more... few things in the galaxy could force him into action... and if this truly was his Penelope then there would a celebration to be had... for the Iron Mother had returned which also meant his son was alive as well... but Perturabo held any excitement at bay for disappointment was a taste he knew too well. For if this was not his beloved wife... his wrath would be ten fold.

Warsmith Castor was called to his father's side. His yellow eyes looking up at him as no words were exchanged after his greeting and he waited in attention. "Castor. Go to Olympia I need you to confirm something." Castor simply nodded not daining to question his father but Perturabo simply added. "I need to to confirm if your Mother is back."

"Mother?" His yellow eyes turned brown for a moment as Caster was but a battle brother when Perturabo had married Penelope and still had to prove himself verses the trusted battle brothers that were assigned to be her personal guard.

"Yes. I got a message from Penelope... go to the system and confirm if it is her. Do not engage if it is."

"And if it is not her my lord?"

"Drag them back to Medrengard in iron. If it is her ship... then..." There was an unsaid thought... we will find her bones.

I know a secret... The Demonette giggled as Fulgrim opened one of his many eyes in a post orgy haze.

"What secret do you know..." He said as his eyes flashed purple as the wail of sadness rushed through him. "OH! Dearest Sister in law nelly has returned! Oh... oh... " He licked his lips with cruel intent, "We certainly must throw her a welcome back party!"

I know a secret... the blue bird crooned as Magnus looked over and he listened to his brother Perturabo... and then a relieved voice of... "Penelope..." He said as his single eye widened a part of him... some deep down part knew that she was better off dead and not seeing what the world had become.

They are trying to head to Mcragge... the demonic bird crooned. "Who knows?" Magnus pressed.

Everyone

[sweet-child-of-night]

A murder mystery where every character beleives themself responsible for the death and try to cover it up

A veil of dust motes danced in the pale shaft of sunlight that pierced the high, arched windows of the Hemlock Library. The air, usually pregnant with the musky scent of aged paper and forgotten lore, now hung heavy with a different kind of weight, thick enough to steal Harold’s breath. It wasn't the usual hushed silence that normally accompanied the turning of aged pages. This silence was a living thing, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand untold secrets.

In the heart of the vast room, sprawled amidst the lush chaos of antique bookshelves, lay Mr. Granville, the esteemed head librarian. His once imposing frame now resembled a discarded marionette, his usually crisp white shirt marred by a grotesque bloom of crimson that blossomed across his chest.

Harold's heart, a frantic bird trapped in his ribcage, hammered a chaotic rhythm against his trembling bones. Each solemn tick of the grandfather clock resonated like a death knell in the oppressive silence. A wave of nausea washed over him, a sickening counterpoint to the chilling certainty that bloomed in his gut. A cold sweat prickled on his brow. Had he done this? The memory of his earlier confrontation with Mr. Granville – his voice rising in frustration, fueled by a potent combination of anger and cheap sherry, over a missing first edition – played on an endless loop in his mind. It was his fault. completely and utterly his. a harsh discord against the backdrop of this grim tableau.

A strangled sob shattered the oppressive silence of harold’s thoughts, as jarring as a gunshot in a cathedral. Miss Penelope Featherstone, the mousy cataloguer, huddled in a corner, her tear-streaked face a mask of abject terror. Her eyes, red-rimmed and overflowing, darted between Mr. Granville's lifeless form and a porcelain vase clutched tightly to her chest. A delicate spiderweb of cracks marred its once pristine surface.

“Oh dear, oh dear," she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper that seemed to echo in the vast chamber. "It was an accident, it was dark, I swear! I didn't mean to…",

Her voice trailed off, lost in a choked gasp that spoke volumes of the horror that had unfolded. Across the room, perched precariously on a ladder amidst a sea of ancient tomes, stood Professor Finch. His spectacles, askew on his nose, offered a distorted view of the scene below. He clutched a leather-bound grimoire to his chest, his face a canvas of bloodless terror.

"I… I overheard your argument, Mr. Pinkerton," he stammered, his finger raised against harold but his face glued to ground, his voice a mere tremor that reverberated through the silence. "I thought… I thought dropping this on your head would silence you and might stop the commotion…but he pushed you..”

The scene was ludicrous, a tragicomedy played out in the grand theater of the Hemlock Library. A petty argument that escalated with the fumbling grace of a drunken walrus, a vase attacked in dark, a book mis-aimed . And yet, here they were, three unlikely conspirators, bound together by a shared, horrifying secret

Suddenly, the library door creaked open, a shaft of golden light slicing through the gloom. In walked Mrs. Higgins, the formidable cleaning lady. Her gaze, sharp as a hawk's, swept over the tableau. Her lips pursed into a disapproving line that could curdle milk. "Goodness gracious," she tut-tutted, her voice laced with a knowingness that sent shivers down Harold's spine. "Looks like someone spilled something red on Mr. Granville. And what's Miss Featherstone doing with a broken vase? Clumsy, aren't we?"

Her words hung heavy in the air, a silent accusation. Then, Mrs. Higgins shuffled closer, leaning in conspiratorially. Her voice, a low rasp, sent a cold sweat prickling across Harold's skin. "Don't you worry, dears," she rasped. "I won't say a word. After all, we all have something to hide, don't we?"

[pcppyy]

a carefully folded piece of parchment, tucked in between the shirts packed that thomas brought with him to florence, it carries the faintest smell of their fireplace and the floral perfume that penelope often wore. as if she had hurriedly written the contents before laying beside her husband in bed. beneath the parchment is handkerchief, embroidered along the edges with a litany of various tiny flowers. | @thquldnunc

my sweeting, 

lady fortuna is a cruel mistress to force us to part once more, i suppose i shall perch as a bird upon the window, collecting seeds as i await your arrival home to me. i meant to gift you such a token for the yuletide, a pity that i pricked my finger a thousand times over simply to have to now make you another for the holiday. i request that you dutifully tuck it into your pocket, so that perhaps my prayers will cross the seas and protect you in my absence. 

careful to not allow james to return home with a bride or child, i fear there is not enough time to remind him of my wrath. 

[ there is a few smudged lines, as if after writing them, penelope swept her finger over the ink before it dried in an attempt to erase them. the only decipherable words being ' love ' and ' promise '. ] 

do try to not keep me waiting very long, lord walsingham. 

yours & yours alone, 

pen.

[madrone33]

Ok so. I have no excuse for taking so long. But! The good news is I FINALLY hunkered down and finished the Odyssey in one night :D

It was long! And fun! It was much more political scheming than I thought it'd be lol

Anyway here's some highlights and musings from my midnight readings, much longer than my others 'cause it's like 12 books at once:

The Phaeacians after reaching Ithaca and neatly dropping both a sleeping Odysseus and his vast loot on the sand: peace out, bro.

Aww man why'd you have to do the Phaeacians like that, Poseidon?

Odysseus, hearing that he's FINALLY made it home, tears in his eyes: proceeds to elaborately lie.

Odysseus: has trust issues from trauma.

Athena: awww, see this is why I like you!

Odysseus, hearing his son is in Sparta: you let my son sail? over the sea that took 10 years of my life??

Odysseus, professional liar, hearing that people lied to his wife about him: liars? I HATE liars >:( I would never lie.

Also Odysseus: lies about his life story again, multiple times.

LMAO Athena tells Telemachus he's gotta go, and he immediately kicks Pisistratus in the ribs to wake him up XD

Telemachus: hey so can I maybe not say hi to your dad again? He's like those old grandparents who never let you go without telling a thousand stories.

Pisistratus, after thinking for one second: I gotchu homie.

Odysseus might be projecting juuust a little when Eumaeus greets Telemachus

Athena makes Odysseus taller, again XD

FATHER AND SON REUNION!!

Tele: uh dad? Surely you're not suggesting we fight 108 men on our own?? Please tell me we have backup.

Ody: how's Athena and Zeus sound as backup?

Tele: ... yeah ok fine.

No!! Argos :(

Lol. Odysseus and Athena both: test the suitors to find the innocent from guilty! (Inwardly: yeah they're all gonna die)

Telemachus when Eumaeus insults Antinous to defend Ody: whoa whoa. No need to speak to Antinous like that, my friend... Allow me >:D

Antinous: throws a stool at Odysseus.

Odysseus, Telemachus, and Penelope: so you have chosen death

Lol the sneeze :D

Ah yes, Homer can't help but mention Odysseus' fine thighs XD

Odysseus, deeply torn between flat out killing this guy with one blow or just "lightly jabbing" him uncontiously. Decisions, decisions...

Odysseus @ Amphinomus: hey. You seem nice. Don't come to school tomorrow

Athena just loves making her mortals taller and more beautiful, huh XD

Penelope after Athena made her take a nap: ah, what a gentle sleep. If only Artemis would kill me :D

Penelope, Telemachus, and basically all of the palace staff at any and all opportunities: mayhaps? death? to all the suitors? 👀

Awww, Odysseus told her to watch over his parents, and that she should re-marry if he wasn't back before Telemachus became an adult 🥺

Penelope, swindling the suitors out of their money: shame on you, for not lavishing me with gifts to seduce me!

Odysseus: hell yes that's my wife <3

A second stool has been thrown. This one was dodged. RIP the wine-steward

Odysseus really can't help showering Penelope with compliments, comparing her to the gods, and a king

Poor Penelope :( Let her not-make her shroud in peace

Wine dark sea mention :D

Odysseus, once again lying about his life story, this time to his WIFE. Smh

Penelope calling the city of Troy "Destroy" with such spite is amazing.

Penelope and Euryclea: stranger, you remind me so much of Odysseus. You're just... really alike for some reason.

Odysseus: haha yeah weird coincidence, right?

Autolycus: ah yes, I shall name my grandson "he who causes pain" ✨

Penelope @ the man that is totally not Odysseus: hey, unrelated to anything at all, I had a dream where my husband returned and killed all my suitors. How WEIRD, right? If ONLY it would come true!

"Nobody but your cunning pulled you through the monster's cave you thought would be your death." Nobody. Ha!

"deep in his heart it seemed she stood beside him, knew him, now, at last..." 🥺💙

Now an oxhoof has been thrown at him?? Athena, why

Wow, Telemachus is almost as good a liar as his dad!

Ooh Telemachus almost strung it!!

Odysseus has the bow. Ayyyy you're all fucked now >:D

LMAO did Athena just fly up into the rafters while still looking like Mentor? XD

Odysseus: I'm cleaning house

He's playing a wedding song! As Odysseus and Penelope reunite!! <3

Athena made him taller again XD

Strange woman! Strange man! 🥰

Odysseus: exCUSE ME? You moved our BED? How did you move our bed?? It's a TREE for gods sake! I carved it with my own two hands! What did you DO to our BED-

ATHENA! HOLDS BACK THE LITERAL DAWN!! She's their #1 shipper fr <3

Brief interlude in the Underworld: Achilles' and Patroclus' bones are in the same urn... and they were urn-mates

Amphimedon: and that's how Odysseus killed me-

Agamemnon: Ah classic Odysseus. And what a great wife he has! So loyal. Unlike MY WIFE-

Odysseus, torn between revealing himself and happily reuniting with his aged father, or testing whether he recognises him: time to lie about my life story again!

Not every one of Odysseus' family at some point wondering if he was just a dream 🥺😭

His fake name is "Man of Strife" this time. I see you, Odysseus...

Odysseus for the first time drops the act in favour of comforting a crying family member. Character development /j

There Athena goes again, this time making Laertes taller XD

Lol, Athena stepping in (STILL looking like Mentor XD) to force a peace. Didn't realise it ended on this note, but cool

I finally started reading the Odyssey!!

Got up to book 5. And I mean, I've seen the jokes, but I never realised just how many times it says some variation of "rosy fingered dawn." 😂

Also, Athena pretending to be a mortal and then leaving by just- becoming a bird and flying away will never not be funny.

Looking forward to finally getting to Odysseus' part :D

[scarfacemarston]

Love letter / journal entry From Beau to Penelope

Very cheesy, but hey, he tried. For those who don’t know, Odysseus is from the Iliad and is present in the Odyssey, both written by Greek author Homer. Penelope is his Odysseus’ wife. 

Oh Penelope! You are my wise Penelope. And I hope to be your brave Odysseus! It is as if my Troy were mere miles from Ithaca, yet the ground between were as unconquerable as any wine-dark sea. I would gladly suffer shipwrecks and desert islands to be with you -- I would fight one-eyed monsters (or my own grotesque cousins) and beat back a thousand suitors, if it meant we could share a kiss. Penelope! Penelope! Penelope! My love, my life. My home, my wife

[reidingmelodies]

His Greatest Mistake

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn! Reader Category: Angst with a dash of fluff Includes: Sad Spencer, brief mention of injury, implied emotional cheating Word Count: 1.4k (oops) A/N: This was requested by @ssa-m-187 based on the song Be My Mistake by The 1975!  Thank you so much for the request, this one was a challenge in the best way and I loved every second of writing it ♡

Masterlist | Ash’s 500 Bash

It was never supposed to be like this.  It was supposed to be him taking engagement photos with you, him sending save the dates with you, him sitting by your side and planning the wedding you had always imagined.

Instead, it was him clutching the picture he was so obviously absent from to his chest in the dim light of his apartment.

He knew something had happened the second he walked into the bullpen that morning.  The room was quiet, any and all previous conversation halting the moment he locked eyes with Penelope across the way.  

And he knew.  When her eyes shifted towards the floor and her breath stuttered in her throat he knew in his soul that it had to do with you.

But he never imagined this.

She dropped the picture into his hands with murmured words of comfort, leaving him with the promise that she would be in her office alongside a cup of coffee with his name on it if he needed to talk.

And as she walked away, he turned the picture over and felt his heart break into a thousand fragments with no hopes of ever being repaired.

The phrase ‘save the date!’ glared at Spencer from the top of the cardstock, but nothing compared to the feeling of ice in his veins at the sight of your smile.

It was a smile he hadn’t seen in person in 3 years, 4 months, and 12 days, but it still danced through the forefront of his brain each night he went to sleep and each morning he awoke next to his greatest mistake.

And as he sat in his apartment after a day of comforting glances laced with pity thrown at him from each direction he couldn’t help but relish on the what ifs.

What if he had loved you better?

What if he had fought harder?

What if he called you instead of her that night?

Loving you was the easiest and yet the most courageous thing he’d ever done.  With you, casual touches came quicker, tough conversations came easier, confessions of love flowed smoother.

Not like with her.

He had met you exactly 6 years, 5 months, and 18 days ago in the most cliche of ways- when he spilled his coffee on your shirt as you were reaching around him for your own drink.

Stuttered apologies somehow turned into telling stories over cups of freshly brewed coffee and before either of you knew it he was leaving the shop with your number in his phone and plans to see you again on Saturday at your favorite museum.

And then Saturday brought along the promise of more dates which turned into spending nights entangled under sheets and mornings filled with apartment hunting before finally signing the papers for a place of your own.

And for 3 years, 1 month, and 6 days it was bliss.

At least that’s what he liked to tell himself.

The bricks that had surrounded his heart were entirely non-existent when it came to you.  You held the key to the inner workings of his heart, and you would safeguard it with your life if you were asked.

And he held the key to yours too, but it turns out that only meant so much.

The majority of your relationship was simplicity in the sweetest form.  It was the feel of your favorite sweater, the smell of your favorite candle, the taste of your go to comfort beverage.

It was simple.  And yet, it was everything.

He longed for the moments a case would end and he could fall into your arms with the promise of drifting to sleep with the feel of your fingers mindlessly spelling ‘I love you’ along his back.  Time off of work was spent cuddled together on the couch, letting the sounds of whatever was playing on the television serve as the background noise for whatever silly debate the two of you had fallen into.

It was simple.  But somewhere along the way the simplicity gave way to complications.

2 years, 9 months, and 18 days into your relationship he found himself enthralled by a guest speaker at your favorite library.  You had to work late so you weren’t able to come, but at the moment he found himself grateful for that because it meant more time with her.

It meant more time to bounce theories off of her, more time to be absolutely captivated by her genius.

It also meant more time for them to trade phone numbers.

And later that night as he told you all about the speech and the amazing lecturer he had met you were ecstatic that the lecture turned out even better than he had hoped.

That ecstatic feeling probably would have dimmed if you knew about the phone number burning a hole in his pocket though.

As the weeks flew by he found himself calling her more and more.  It was never of a romantic nature, always related to one theory or another, but it was enough to draw his attention away from you.

And as the distance between you and him grew, and grew, and grew, one of you was sitting at home desperately thinking of ways to fix it while the other was making up excuses about misplaced paperwork keeping him at work while the low battery tone of his phone chimed away in his pocket.

And on the 1,132nd day the greatest love Spencer ever knew crumbled to the ground.

The case was bad.  So bad, in fact, that he found himself in a hospital bed for a few days after a close call with an unsub.

But as much as everyone told him to call you, you weren’t the one he longed to talk to.

As visiting hours ended and the team left his bedside to get some well-needed rest, he found himself glued to his phone talking to her.  

And while her voice was what he so desperately wanted to hear, he couldn’t help the pang in his gut every time he ignored one of your calls as yours was the voice he so desperately needed to hear.

On the plane ride home, he thought of all the ways he could explain the delayed homecoming to you, all the ways he could hide the wounds gracing his chest from you for the next few weeks.

But, he should’ve known someone would have told you.

He came home to your suitcases packed while you sat in the sea of luggage against the sofa you had picked out together in the blissful beginning of your relationship.

Oh, how he longed to be back there now.

He wanted you to scream, to storm out, to do anything that would lessen the guilt that maliciously tore at his soul.

But instead, you were calm, albeit heartbroken.  You explained you had a feeling something was going on, but the fact that he had gotten hurt and didn’t even tell you proved it.  You told him it was okay, that you wished him all the best, and then you left.  With a tear running down your face but your posture holding all the grace in the world.

And somehow, your calm nature in the midst of his internal storm made it even worse.

He needed to do something, anything, to get out of the apartment that was a living, breathing museum dedicated to your love.  

He should’ve chased after you.  But instead, he went to her.

And with that decision, his future was set in stone.

No matter how riveting his conversations were with her, they didn’t hold a candle to the debates he had with you.  With you, cuddles before bed were an honored tradition; with her, it was custom to stare at the wall and keep his hands to himself until he fell asleep to the thought of your smile.  

He saw you in everything.  In the bouquet she placed on the table (they were your favorite flowers), in the body wash she used (it was your least favorite scent- and because of that it was his least favorite, too), in the book she kept next to her bed (it was the book he used to read to you on nights you couldn’t sleep).

You were everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And now, as she called him to bed and he stuffed your photo in between the pages of the first book he could reach he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had made a terrible mistake.

A mistake that he was destined to fall asleep next to that night, wishing that instead of her, it was you.  

***

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[herbs-and-poultices]

Sometimes I’ll have a song or a set of related songs get stuck in my head for several days. My music tastes are… *unusual* to say the least… for someone of my generation and geographic location, so I don’t find myself talking about music with people very often. But I thought some of you might appreciate the historical whump and angst content of the set currently stuck in my brain, so here goes?

Variants belonging to this family of traditional British ballads from the Napoleonic Wars, specifically the Battle of Waterloo, have been collected by folklorists from tradition-bearers in England, Scotland, and Canada. More information and several sets of lyrics available here and here on MainlyNorfolk, a great resource for all things folk ballads.

The core of this ballad is the classic ‘broken token’ theme:

‘The return of a man after years away at sea, disguised so he can test his lover’s faithfulness, was probably an ancient story device when Homer sang about Odysseus and Penelope. Each is a dialogue between a maiden and her disguised sailor lover who tries to woo her. When the maid spurns him, the sailor reveals his identity by producing the “token” of their love—his half of a ring they broke before he went away—and the couple is happily reunited.’

- album notes, quoted on MainlyNorfolk

Except in this ballad family, the returning soldier decides to test her devotion not by courting her but by telling her graphic tidings of his own death on the battlefield to see how she will respond.

The first time I heard a member of this ballad family was in this recording entitled ‘Plains of Waterloo’ by The John Renbourn Group. Instrumental accompaniment lends some extra drive as compared to traditional-style a capella, but I find it nonetheless stirringly plaintive. (Closer to the traditional style, this rendition of the same variant by June Tabor is also definitely worth a listen.)

And as I passed by there where he lay a-bleeding / Oh, I scarcely had time for to bid him adieu / In a faltering voice these words he was repeating / Fare the well, my lovely Annie, you are far from Waterloo

Across the border, this rendition by Mick West is of a distinctly Scottish variant. In this one the young man is recognized by his distinctive garments rather than a broken token (in fact they would have been standard for all the Highland regiments, oh well) and some details are slightly altered, but the heart of the story is the same.

I was your Willie’s comrade, I saw your Willie die / Six bayonet wounds were in his sides afore he doon would lie / Then holding up his han’ he cried, “Some Frenchman’s slain me noo” / It was I that closed your Willie’s eyes on bloody Waterloo

“Oh Willie, dearest Willie,” and she could say no more / She flung hersel’ in the soldier’s arms while she the tidings bore / “Death open wide your jaws and swallow me up too / For Willie lies amang the slain on bloody Waterloo

This rendition by Kate Rusby also entitled ‘Plains of Waterloo’, shares a melody with the first one, and some elements are recognizable, but the marked differences from the cited collected variants incline me to think that this one may be a more modern spin-off? Eh, whatever. Instead of revolving around an eventual happy reunion, it is a tragic lament sung by the maiden for her fallen love. Both the lyrics and the musical interpretation really amp up the pain (plenty of it physical) and heartbreak, and it is so achingly devastatingly beautiful. 

When the fight was at its fiercest, they fought with heart and will / When guns did loudly rattle, and shot and shell did kill / My love he fell a victim ‘mongst the thousands that they’d slew / Far from his own to hear him moan on the Plains of Waterloo

My love he lay the whole night long, my love he lay in pain / When the war was spread, he raised his head, and daylight came again / When that his comrades round him ‘monst the thousands that they’d slew / They discourse, my love, an hour or more on the Plains of Waterloo

 “Farewell my comrades, likewise my sweetheart” / These were the very words he said and then he did depart / They dug my love a silent grave, the tears they were not few / And they laid him in the cold clay on the Plains of Waterloo

(It should be noted though that there is precedent in the tradition for the loss of the happy ending: The collected variant sung in this rendition by Sylvia Barnes entitled ‘Lonely Waterloo’ starts out identical to the above Scottish variant, but the messenger is not her love in disguise and the news he bears is true. Instead of a joyful reunion it ends with some of the classic ‘grieving’ motifs that also show up in, for example, ‘Bonny Light Horseman’, another tragic ballad from the Napoleonic Wars.)

That got long. Anyways, that’s what the inside of my head has been sounding like lately. Happy whumpy listening, if you so choose. Also, let me know if there are any other trad fans out there!

[gumnut-logic]

Preen

Okay, this is 4000 words of fluff dripping with so much sop, it is almost pure liquid. It doesn’t really go anywhere, and it refused to come to a neat ending. So yeah, FishTank with just a dash of Earth and Sky in the middle, all wrapped up in the Marks & Wings AU.

I was desperate to write some comfort and M&W is my go to for self indulgence, so that’s what we have. Blatant Virgil comfort fic :D

Many thanks to  @janetm74​ and @tsarinatorment​ for the read through and support, but I would also like to say a very big thank you to all of the Thunderfam who sent me so many kind well wishes on Monday. I’m feeling better and the writing muscles seem to be flexing okay at this point, so maybe, if you like Marks & Wings, please consider this a bit of a thank you fic. And for those of you who don’t find this AU to be your cup of tea, I hope I can write you something you like in the near future. ::hugs you all:: You are all so kind and amazing to me.

I hope you enjoy whatever this is ::extra hugs::

-o-o-o-

“Virg, let me do it?”

Virgil brushed his fingertips through the length of one of his black flight feathers. Its root twinged, both with irritation and the ache of bruising, but he found the grass seed responsible and a pair of fingernails scraped it out and dropped it onto the locker room floor.

The relief was wonderful.

Only a thousand or so more to go.

A sigh. “Do what?” He started working on the next grass seed. Honestly, grass was evil and he was ever so thankful there was very little of it on the Island.

“Preen your feathers.” Gordon was standing in his swim shorts watching Virgil poke at his wings. “I want to help.”

Another grass seed fell to the floor. “It wasn’t your fault, Fish.”

“You still saved my ass.” A hesitant and emotional breath. “I want to help you.”

Scott was usually the one who helped each brother preen. ‘Smotherhen’ was a very appropriate name when he had his feathers out. Virgil helped Scott when he had issues. But feathers were sensitive and preening a deeply personal thing, much like bathing.

And Gordon didn’t have feathers and didn’t know what it felt like.

“You know I help Allie sometimes.”

The honesty and concern in those russet eyes were ever so strong.

“Okay.”

The small smile that spread on Gordon’s face lit up his eyes.

Virgil ripped another grass seed from his plumage and bruises twinged. Ow. “Be gentle. There are a few...bruises.”

The smile disappeared. “Are you hurt?”

Virgil sighed. Gordon had managed to get all the rescuees onto the rescue rig, but an explosion had destabilised the building before he could jump off himself. The result had seen his fish brother pinwheeling towards hard concrete.

Virgil hadn’t hesitated, his wings out before thought. Launching off the rescue rig, he’d swooped through smoke and caught his little brother midair. But another explosion had thrown him off pace and the result was Virgil curled protectively around Gordon and tumbling through a field full of weeds.

And grass. So much ripe seeding grass.

So not only was he aching all over from a shitty landing that could have, but somehow didn’t, seriously broken something, his wings were also full of contaminants.

The flight home had been hell. Even hidden in his mark, they itched, irritated and tormented him.

To finally be home and able to attend to the mess was a relief in itself, but not so much as getting all those damned seeds out. If Scott had been here, there would have been a lecture, but so much help.

Eight metres of feathers was a lot to attend to.

But Scott was on Three with Alan, so it was just him and Gords, an equally caring but inexperienced brother.

Virgil stretched out his right wing. It groaned and complained, forcing a breath from him. “Just aching bruises. I’m fine, Gords. Honest. Getting these seeds out will help a lot.”

Gordon held up his hands. “Tell me what to do.”

So Virgil did. He guided his brother’s hands to a feather, pointed out the snag and showed him how to use his fingernails to brush it out, how to align the feather into its correct position, and outlined how he would wash them himself and work a light preening oil over them after his shower.

Gordon listened ever so attentively and Virgil had to admit, it was a relief to have another set of hands working through his feathers despite the ache.

Gordon, for all their brotherly ribbing, was ever so gentle when he wanted to be. Virgil had seen him caring for children and babies out in the field and he trusted him with so much. His feathers were nothing in comparison.

More grass seeds fell to the floor. They would be vacuumed up and destroyed lest they contaminate the Island which was why Virgil was doing this in the locker room rather than anywhere else. There were decontamination facilities here of multiple types.

“Sit down, Virgil. Let me do this.”

Virgil blinked. “It will get done faster if we both do it.”

“You need to rest. And don’t tell me otherwise, or I’ll grab the scanner and prove my point enough to call in Grandma.”

His shoulders dropped. “Gordon...”

“Sit down, bro.” A hand on his wing shoulder. “Please.” Gordon really knew how to throw those puppy eyes around. To top it off, Gordon grabbed an office chair and wheeled it in so Virgil didn’t have to sit on the hard bench.

The upholstery looked soft and inviting – a sign that Virgil was obviously desperate. It was only one of the many type chairs in the villa and nothing special.

He must be tired.

“Fine.” Virgil groaned as he took the chair and straddled it backwards, letting the back rest support his front while his wings had total freedom.

Gordon was right. That tumble of a landing had punched the wind out of him. It had been a shitty rescue to begin with. The fall had just topped it off.

Fortunately, Gordon was fine. Virgil had used that entire eight metres of feathers to wrap around and protect his brother, curling them up into a ball that rolled, shedding harmful momentum.

But there were scrapes and bent feathers and bruises.

So many bruises.

Virgil winced as Gordon tugged on one. “Sorry! A stubborn burr. It’s out now.”

Virgil closed his eyes. “Is fine.”

Gordon’s fingers gently moved between primaries, methodically examining and removing irritants.

It was quite nice to have someone else taking care of his feathers. Gordon’s touch caressed jangled nerves, untangled snags and lined up vanes one by one. The relief was palpable and relaxing.

Virgil sagged ever so slowly where he sat, his head falling onto his arms.

At some point he realised Gordon was humming. Just softly and a familiar tune. It took a solid few minutes for Virgil to connect the notes and come up with the composition he had created for Grandma’s last birthday.

Gordon had a good voice. He wasn’t ashamed to use it either. Unfortunately, his choice of repertoire left much to be desired. His best usually involved an ancient sea shanty, a genre his fish brother actively took an interest in. At his worst, it was something like the ‘I’m too sexy for this shirt’ song from last century.

His little brother had blown a few shirt buttons the last time he danced to that one. If he’d known that Alan would film it and send a copy to Lady Penelope, then perhaps he wouldn’t have danced so...exotically.

Alan was still suffering the fallout from that episode.

Lady P was still smiling.

Virgil couldn’t help smiling, too.

“Got something on your mind?” Gordon startled him. “When’s Tin due back?”

“Gordon...”

“What? I know you have a thing for our lovely security chief. Just asking.”

“Well, don’t.”

But even that poke in the ribs couldn’t disturb him that much. Gordon was doing a great job cleaning his feathers and Virgil lost himself in the sensation of being cared for.

Gordon must have realised that his brother had found peace because he didn’t say anything further, just hummed away as he worked.

Virgil ended up with his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxed and his wings drooping on the floor.

He was vaguely aware of Gordon sweeping up detritus and for a moment, he put enough energy in to lift his wings off the concrete properly.

“I think I’ve got most of them.” His brother brushed his fingers gently through feathers, skipping across his secondaries, up to his lesser coverts and onto the down that tracked over his shoulders and back.

Virgil shivered at his touch.

“Virg?”

He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet. “Gotta go wash.” Gordon grabbed him as he wobbled.

“You sure about that?”

“Will be more comfortable.” He had to remind himself that Gordon didn’t know. Or maybe he did. Virgil felt suddenly felt guilty for not having had such a discussion with his little brother in the past.

“I can understand that, but you’re dead on your feet.”

Virgil forced himself to stand up straighter and everything ached. He experimentally flapped his wings just a little. So much better.

But they were still dusty.

“A quick rinse and dry. That’s all.”

Gordon looked ready to go for that scanner again.

Virgil sighed, half folded his wings and headed for the specialised wet area designed for just this activity.

He closed the doors between his brother and himself.

“Virg?”

“I’m fine, Gordon. I won’t be long.” Something obviously had the fish worried. Virgil closed his eyes and let his wings droop. They were heavy.

He gave himself that moment, before shucking off his pants and throwing them in the laundry chute. Lifting his wings again, he walked to the wall, punched in a temperature and set the fine spray running.

Walking into the warm water was bliss.

He may have lost himself for a moment or two between soap and spray.

“Virg? You okay in there?”

He startled and realised he had been standing there, half asleep for he didn’t know how long.

But he was clean. Thank goodness. Soap had been applied to skin and water had washed the dust from his feathers.

This, of course, made them heavier, but only for a short time as he switched the spray off and activated the blow dry.

Warm air evaporated the moisture off his wings. He flapped them repeatedly and they complained. But the water fell and soon he was as dry as he could be.

With a sigh, he carefully folded his pinions and let them go.

As always, it was a rush of sensation as they disappeared and his centre of gravity shifted abruptly. So tired, he staggered to one knee with a groan.

So many bruises.

“Virg, goddamnit.” His brother was suddenly there.

It wasn’t a gasp. It wasn’t. Really. “You ever heard of knocking?”

Yellow light flickered over him and he groaned. “Gordon, I’m fine. Just need some sleep.” He pushed himself off the floor.

A towel was shoved into his stomach. “Put this on. We’re going to see Grandma.”

Virgil clutched at the towel. “Why?”

Gordon held up the readings on the medscanner. “You tell me.”

Virgil stared at the numbers and the diagram representing his body. “Just some bruising.” Perhaps some imbalances. Nothing sleep and a good meal couldn’t fix.

The thought of food turned his stomach over. Maybe just a drink.

“I’m fine, Gordon. Feathers were a bit messed up. Broke a couple and gained some bruises. There is nothing a simple painkiller and bed won’t fix.”

He wrapped the towel around his waist anyway and strode towards the doors.

“Virgil-“

“Gordon, please.”

“Didn’t you say you needed to oil your feathers?”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“I could do it for you now.”

Virgil closed his eyes again. God, he was tired. “You can help me tomorrow. Now, I’m going to bed.” He shoved the doors open further and strode through. His uniform was still on the bench, but he’d stash that tomorrow as well.

Gordon hurried to catch up with him and followed him to his rooms.

“You’re stalking me, Gords. I’m going to get weirded out.”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror yet?”

“What? Why?”

He had been about to shed the towel and don his pyjama pants, but wasn’t used to the audience.

Gordon grabbed him gently by the elbow and led him over to his full-length mirror.

His reflection looked as tired as he felt. “What is your point, Gordon?”

His brother turned him side on, the black etching of his mark wrapping around his biceps and shoulder…was mottled.

Virgil twisted further around and found his mark to be a patchwork of red and blue up and down the length of his torso.

That explained the ow.

“I would really prefer Grandma to take a look, Virgil.”

“It’s just bruising.” No matter how spectacular.

“We fell from quite a height.”

Virgil looked over at his brother. “This is not your fault, Gords. You know that. A few bruises are nothing compared to your safety.”

“But what about your safety?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why won’t you let Grandma have a look?”

“She doesn’t need to. There is nothing to look at.”

Gordon stared at him and something flickered in his eyes. “Fine. But I want you to let your wings out before you go to bed.”

Virgil blinked. “Why?” He had just let them go and that had hurt enough.

“I want to check to make sure all the burrs are gone.”

“We’ve already done that.”

“I want to give them another look, just to make sure.”

Virgil eyed him. “There is not enough room in here.” He gestured around his bedroom.

“Then we’ll go into the living room and set up a lounger.”

“So Grandma can accidentally find me there?” Virgil frowned at his brother.

“Nooooo.”

Virgil glared at him. He was up to something, he was sure of it. But Virgil didn’t have the energy to pursue it and honestly, he did trust Gordon. He knew enough to know that feathers were no joking matter.

Ever.

Not after the incident with Scott all those years ago.

That had not been funny at all.

And there was something in his brother’s eyes. Honest concern.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Entering the living room, Virgil was surprised to find that it was evening and the sun was gilding the Island. A gentle breeze was blowing off the caldera and the birds on Mateo were warbling as they settled down for the evening.

Virgil stood on the balcony barefoot, shirtless and just let it soak in. The breeze ruffled his hair and caressed aching skin.

“Virg? Come lay down.”

He blinked and turned to find Gordon standing beside a lounger with a thick mattress and several pillows.

“Gordon, why are you doing this?”

“I want to help. You got hurt because of me. Please help me fix it, even just a little.”

“It was not your fault. Just a shitty rescue.”

“You’re in pain.”

“It’s nothing, Gords, honest.”

“Will you please just lift and lie down.” There was just a touch of warning in his little brother’s tone. Gordon had a streak of their father in him almost as much as Scott did.

Fine.

But Virgil glared anyway.

Before he could think about it too much, he hunched and lifted.

And Gordon had to catch him or he would have fallen. God, that hurt. Only bruising, but ow.

Gordon had caught him under his arms. “Virg? You with me?” Worried brown eyes peered up at him.

“I’m fine.” But it was rasped out. His wings were still folded and a mass of ache, dragging on the floor.

“C’mon, let’s get you lying down.”

Virgil grunted. The divan suddenly looked so much more inviting. The pillow was soft beneath his cheek as he finally lay down on his belly. He let out a breath and every aching muscle relaxed into the soft mattress. Where had his brother found it? It was heaven.

“Spread your wings for me, Virgil?”

He blinked, almost on the edge of sleep. “Mmm-hmm...”

“This is the last I’ll ask of you, I promise. Spread your wings and then you can sleep.”

Sleep.

Ever so stiff, his pinions ached and creaked as he unfolded and extended them out. Gentle hands caught his left wing and guided it down to a soft surface. Footsteps around him and his right wing was gently nudged to an equally soft landing.

A hand on his shoulder and a finger brushed hair out of his eyes.

Ever so quietly. “Sleep, big brother.”

Virgil let his wing shoulders relax and mumbled into his pillow.

Gordon snorted just softly and a moment later a light blanket was laid over his legs. “Your modesty is safe. Now sleep.”

Mmph.

But Gordon was running his fingers through the fine down on his shoulders and Virgil was too tired to resist.

He slipped away.

-o-o-o-

“He’s okay, Gordon.”

The voice was his beloved grandmother, whispering. “He has some bruising and a few electrolyte imbalances. He just needs rest and possibly a painkiller.”

“He won’t take them, you know that.” A shaky breath. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, honey. What about you? You took the fall as well.”

“I’m good, Grandma.”

There was silence for a moment and Virgil drifted.

“He saved me.”

“You boys have a habit of doing that.”

“Grandma...”

“You fell. Your brothers can fly. Of course they are going to catch you.”

There was a muffled sound.

“Aww, honey, come here.” Shuffled footsteps. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“He’s hurt because of me.” There was a shake to Gordon’s voice that set off alarms in Virgil’s head. His little brother was hurting.

He shifted, attempting to shrug off the fog of sleep, but a small hand landed on his shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie.” He had no idea if the words were addressed to him or to his little brother, but the hand brushed gently through his shoulder down and was ever so paralysing that he lost his fight with sleep again and drifted off.

-o-o-o-

Someone was tugging gently at one of his primaries.

The tugging nudged him into awareness, but then disappeared, leaving him floating in that lazy level just below full consciousness.

Fingers were combing ever so gently through his feathers.

One by one.

He was being looked after.

He wasn’t awake enough to protest, to resist the care being given. Not awake enough to feel guilt.

But enough to just enjoy being looked after, being cared for.

Being loved in the gentlest way possible.

Fingers combed through his secondaries and he let himself fall away.

-o-o-o-

“He’s okay, Scott. Grandma has checked him over, I promise. Just a mass of bruising.” Gordon’s voice was whispering again.

“He looks awful.” Alan’s honesty bounced around Virgil’s dopey brain.

“Shh. I know. Don’t wake him.”

A flicker of yellow light and Gordon sighed. “Don’t believe me, huh?”

“I believe you. I just need to check for myself.” Scott’s deeper rumble blossomed comfort in Virgil’s heart. His big brother was home. He would look after Gordy.

Virgil relaxed just that notch further.

-o-o-o-

Time passed.

It must have, because when Virgil finally woke up everything was quiet. Slow blinking revealed very early dawn barely lighting up the hardwood floor.

Slow neurons fired and eventually gave him the information he needed. He had fallen asleep before the sun went down. Gordy.

Gordy falling.

He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

“Gordon’s fine, Virgil.”

The words were quiet and calm.

He was laying on his belly and the barest of movements proved his wings were still out. Looking up he caught sight of his eldest brother sitting against the glass doors that led out onto the balcony. He blinked. They were closed.

Scott put down his glass of protein shake. He was dressed in his running outfit, but by the look of it, he hadn’t been out yet.

“How are you feeling?” His brother pushed himself off the floor and took the few steps across the hardwood to crouch down beside Virgil.

How was he feeling?

He had obviously slept in the same position all night and the smallest of movements let him know all about it.

Another groan gave him away as he let his forehead drop to the pillow again.

“That bad, huh?” A hand landed on his shoulder, fingers gently nudging the fine down of his trapezius. “Can you fold your wings?”

Virgil squeezed his eyes shut. Scott was right. Remove the weight of his wings and then attempt the rest.

Movement hurt. The next day was always the worst. Adrenalin gone, abused muscles stiff, bruises fully realised. He grit his teeth.

But this wasn’t the first time.

He lifted his wings off the pillows Gordon had piled there for him and with a groan that crept out between his teeth, he retracted his wings, folded them, and let them go.

All the breath in his body left with a whoosh and he collapsed back into the bed and closed his eyes.

“Better?”

Virgil’s muffled expletive said everything.

Scott snorted. “Okay. Hold that thought. I’ve got just the thing.”

A breath and Virgil let himself drift.

A gentle touch to his mark startled him.

“Hey, relax. Just a little preening oil. Gordon did your wings last night. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to rub a little on sore muscles.” And with that his brother started running gentle circles all over Virgil’s back. His mark tingled at the contact, but it was safe contact, welcome brotherly care.

Care.

The scent of the bathing oil wafted past his nostrils. Scott knew from his own experience where and what hurt in this situation.

Well, not perhaps this exact situation. Virgil couldn’t recall Scott catching Gordon midair before, but there had been that incident with Allie. Their little brother terrifying them all prematurely grey.

It had been Virgil who had administered the care to Scott that day.

Fingers nudged knots and movement into his muscles. It felt good and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

“Thanks, Scott.”

His brother didn’t stop his ministrations. “Anytime, Virg, you know that.”

There was silence for a while after that, Scott methodically and medically working to rub in the liniment. Virgil knew he should move, get up, find where Gordy was…but he found himself paralysed.

Scott knew exactly what he was doing.

Caring, smotherhen, big brother…

-o-o-o-

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next he knew the sun was high in the sky.

He blinked. Everything was quiet – a very unusual situation for the comms room.

Shaking off most of the fog, he pushed himself into a sitting position and was pleasantly surprised when the pain was minimal. It still hurt, but a good percentage of the stiffness was gone. His skin was ever so soft where his big brother had rubbed in oil.

Standing up proved a little more of a challenge, but he got there and worked several of his muscles until they loosened up.

He felt surprisingly good, despite the aches.

All he needed now was coffee.

He shuffled his way across the hardwood floor in his bare feet and down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Virg! You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Virgil blinked and froze. Gordon, as usual, was far too full of energy first thing in the morning.

“Oh, hell. Coffee. You haven’t had your coffee yet. Sit down, I’ll get you some of your stim juice. Just a moment.”

Gordon started flapping around the kitchen.

Virgil stayed where he was and just stared.

What?

The smell of coffee was suddenly in the air and Virgil felt like floating on it like Pepe Le Pew on a waft of perfume.

“C’mon, Virg, sit down. Coffee’s nearly ready. Want some toast?”

Virgil was notoriously slow in the mornings, but even his morning fog brain could twig something wasn’t right. Gordon was always kind, but this?

“Gordon, what are you doing?”

“Getting you coffee. And breakfast, if you want it.”

His fish brother darted about the kitchen like a guppy swimming in caffeine.

“Gordon?”

“You want sugar?”

“Gordon.”

But his brother wasn’t stopping. With not enough brain cells to work out a different strategy, Virgil resorted to putting himself directly in his brother’s path and grabbing him. “Gordon, stop.”

“What? Why?”

Virgil sighed. It was all too much before coffee. He pulled his brother into a hug. A tight one.

“I’m okay, Gords.”

His brother’s response was muffled against Virgil’s shoulder. Gordon struggled against his hold, so Virgil let him go.

Gordon flung himself away. “Aaargh! You don’t have a shirt on, Virg. Bare skin much?” He stared at his hands. “And oily. Ergh.”

Virgil snorted. “Sorry.” He bit back a grin, but soon lost the fight and ended up chuckling at the expression on his little brother’s face.

Gordon screwed that face up in disgust. “That’s it, you can get your own coffee.”

“Will do.” He reached out and ruffled the fish’s hair.

Gordon batted him away. “Get’orff.”

Virgil sighed, smiling. “Thanks, Gords.”

The fish froze, staring. Something stirred in his eyes. “Anytime, Virg.” He swallowed. “Always.”

Virgil softened even more. “Same.”

They stared at each other a moment longer only for it to be broken by the chime of the coffee machine.

“Ooh, I dare not stand between you and your coffee.” He backed away and then around Virgil as if he was an explosive.

Virgil rolled his eyes and beelined for the coffee machine, because coffee. When he turned around, beverage of the gods in hand, Gordon was gone.

And the warmth in Virgil’s heart had nothing to do with the mug in his hand.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[colins-bridgerton]

                                        penelope & colin playlist 

you are the reason by calum scott 

i’d climb every mountain, and swim every ocean just to be with you And fix what i've broken oh, 'cause i need you to see that you are the reason

invisible string by taylor swift

time wondrous time gave me the blues and then purple pink skies and it's cool baby with me and isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?

come to me by goo goo dolls 

today's the day i'll make you mine so get me to the church on time take my hand in this empty room you're my girl, and I'm your groom come to me my sweetest friend this is where we start again, again

i’ll be by edwin mccain 

i'll be your crying shoulder, i'll be love's suicide and i'll be better when i'm older, i'll be the greatest fan of your life.

ships in the night by mat keanry 

like ships in the night you keep passing me by we're just wasting time trying to prove who's right and if it all goes crashing into the sea If it's just you and me trying to find the light. like ships in the night

give me love by ed sheeran 

give me love like never before 'cause lately i've been craving more and it's been a while but i still feel the same maybe i should let you go

god damn you’re beautiful by chester see 

i get weak in the knees fall head over heels, baby and every other cheesy cliché yes, i'm swept off my feet oh, my heart skips a beat but there's really only one thing to say: god damn, you're beautiful

good to you by marianas trench 

I still have your letter Just got caught between Someone I just invented Who I really am And who I've become And now I do want you to know I hold you up above everyone And now I do want you to know I think you'd be good to me And I'd be so good to you

never let me go by florence and the machine 

never let me go never let me go and the arms of the ocean are carrying me and all this devotion was rushing out of me and the crashes are heaven for a sinner like me but the arms of the ocean delivered me

save my heart by jason reeves 

i’m fearless with my heart i'll take it any place i don't care if it breaks i wanna tell you things i never tell myself these secrets hurt like hell, oh call me crazy, maybe i’m insanely out of my mind but it'll never phase me if i have to, i’m not afraid to save my heart for you

a twist in my story by second hand serenade 

i'm finally waking up, a twist in my story It's time i open up, and let your love right through me i'm finally waking up, a twist in my story It's time i open up, and let your love right through me that's what you get when you see your life through someone else's eyes that's what you get, that's what you get

8 letters by why don’t we 

i've said those words before but it was a lie and you deserve to hear them a thousand times if all it is is eight letters why is it so hard to say? if all it is is eight letters why am I in my own way? why do I pull you close and then ask you for space if all it is is eight letters why is it so hard to say?

18 by one direction 

i have loved you since we were 18 long before we both thought the same thing to be loved and to be in love all i could do is say that these arms were made for holding you i wanna love like you made me feel when we were 18

best friend by jason chen 

girl, our love is so unreal i just wanna reach and touch you, squeeze you, somebody pinch me i must be dreaming this is something like a movie and I don't know how it ends, girl but I fell in love with my best friend

wonder by lauren aquilina 

so i'll remain within your reign until my thoughts can travel somewhere new my mind is blind to everything but you my mind is blind to everything but you and I wonder if you wonder about me

link in source 

[whump-town]

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Four: How to Disappear Completely

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count:  2,670 (not very long but I’m getting back into the swing)

Author’s Note: I know it’s been like freaking two months but this felt nice and I remembered how much I actually enjoy this fic. You can find the first chapter here!

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird) bonus: I’m 19 and a humanities major so obviously I don’t know anything about medicine so I’m doing my best out here

I'm not here I'm not here This isn't happening I'm not here I'm not here

She’s not allowed to go with him to treatments-- radiation treatments, he never said anything about chemo. You’d think she was the ex-lawyer but really she’s just mastered the art of annoying him. “That’s a straight flush, eat it!” She lays the cards out for him to see, grinning as his face falls and he realizes that he’s lost to her, again. “We totally should have played strip-poker.”

He rubs a hand over his face, digging his fingers into his eye socket. “That’s the last thing I need,” he mumbles, leaning back against his chair. He’s exhausted and freezing his ass off despite the long-sleeved t-shirt he’s wearing under his flannel and the blanket Emily’s tucked around him. There’s no point in bringing it up, no point in talking about it. No one can do anything about it. He’s just cold and he can handle the clump of hair that fell in the sink this morning and the fact that all foods, even foods that he’s considered safe for decades, betray his body. This being cold all the time thing though? It’s pissing him off and it makes him feel even more helpless because he can’t control his emotions.

Nevermind, most of his control over everything is gone. He’s stuck in this chair until the toxic whatever they have hanging above his head enters his body. The whole bag and a two-hour, maybe longer, wait. For comfort, he’s got an endless supply of blankets, all as thick as paper, and a popsicle. He likes popsicles but he’s certain he’ll throw up anything he eats right now. So he sticks to lightly sipping his water. At least he gets to control the water most of the time. Occasionally they even get to veto his decisions there.

“I’ll give you a break,” she offers. She can see he’s having a hard time. He knows he’s lucky to have her as his shadow but that doesn’t do much for the temper he’s struggling to control. “I’m going to go call JJ,” she knocks her hand against his knee and he hums his understanding. He’s moved his body up, sitting up enough to tilt to the left, his head in his palm, and his fingers moved to block her view of a pained grimace. Trying and failing to keep her distracted with his silence.

Knowing that crouching down beside him would create far more attention to his discomfort that is such grave importance to him to hide, she just lowers her voice and quietly asks, “do you want me to get some more water?” He shakes his head, just rocking his forehead into his palm. His attention lost to a sea of pain. “Okay,” she mumbles, feeling utterly helpless. A feeling she’s becoming quite familiar with.  

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing she can do physically for him but there are some people that never fail to draw a smile to his face. So she texts Spencer and Penelope, hoping Reid will numb Hotch out with never-ending conversation and Garcia will lighten his sludge. She hesitates to ask Jessica to bring Jack over. After the night they watched the Chronicles of Narnia he’s been a little outwardly disruptive. Acting out and it’s to be expected, this isn’t easy for anyone and it’s impossible for a child who has already lost his mother. But it will be good for Hotch and Jack so she risks it and Jessica seems to agree.

“You’re back early.” What she does not account for is Derek Morgan beating them back. They walk in and hear a racket, and though their training should have them reaching for guns not strapped to their hips, they both just glare at the direction in which it’s coming from. Derek stands up, eyeing them both over, and motioning to something out of their sight. “Was just fixing the sink.” He’s covered in dirt and sweat, it’s evident he was fixing something though the state of his shirt looks more like he breaking something.

Emily is opening her mouth to inquire but Hotch beats her to it. His tone and his mood are not in a good place and if she’d known Morgan was here ahead of time she would have warned him. Morgan has no warning when Hotch’s already firmly placed scowl turns even crueler and he grumbles, “the sink wasn’t broken.”

She’s stuck standing between them, Hotch walking away and Morgan watching his back and looking hopelessly at her to explain what just happened. She’s not sure if she’s allowed to follow Hotch or if she’s better here explaining his behavior. It’s just like old times, she thinks bitterly. To Foyet and his pain and she can’t say she’s surprised, he really held out. She can’t blame him for being in a bad mood, he’s in pain. It’s his cancer, he’s allowed to be pissed about it.

“He okay?”

She is surprised to find that Morgan isn’t angry. That he looks nearly sad standing there, torn between going after him and being reassured by her. “He’s…” she won’t tell him about the drive back. Hotch silent but in so much pain he’d been restless, incapable of sitting still in the car. Or this morning how he’d needed her help just putting on a shirt. The hair she’s noticed falling out but he’s not commenting on it so she certainly won’t breathe a word. That they’re up all night, the sound of Hotch’s pacing making her too worried to rest or barreling through the house to find him curled around the toilet looking miserable. That he’s losing weight rapidly and she doesn’t struggle to help him up anymore-- but she tells herself it’s because she’s getting stronger because she has to.

“He’s Hotch,” she reasons, foolishly. “Of course, he’s okay.”

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

Garcia would lay her own life down in a heartbeat to protect the team if they’d let her. She owes them all so much for the quality that they have given her life over the past few years. They have built a family around her, from the ground up, and accepted her through all her flaws and misadventures. No one as much as her suit-clad, knight in shining armor boss. Hotch has been there for her since before there was even really a team. When no one else would, he gave her so much more than a chance-- he believed in her. When no one else, when no one had even tried since her parent’s death. Even when time and time again she made mistakes, pushed rules, and on his last nerve. He never tore her down.

He commends her strangeness, even if she suspects he doesn’t fully understand it. Smiles good-naturedly when she brings him holiday-themed ties so they can match and allows her silly days out for conventions beyond his own taste. He’s never grasped a full understanding of her but he’s never given up trying. He commends her abilities to do this job and also reminds her how proud he is of her, to have her on his team, and to call her a friend. So, yeah, if Hotch needs a little pick-me-up, she’s his man.

“Are you two fucking?”

Garcia freezes. The key Hotch gave her half-way in its retreat from the lock and the door only slightly opened. She’s technically coming in unannounced but Hotch had given her this key under the same pretenses as the one that gave her access to his and Haley’s house-- in case she needs him. The situations are flipped now, he needs her, but the sentiment is still the same. She’d prepared for the Hotch’s thousand-word frown upon entrance just not the verbal assault of “are you two fucking”.

She hesitantly makes her way into the room, peeking around the corner of the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. Emily and Morgan are standing there, both looking equally disgusted and annoyed. She watches Emily fluster, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “What?” she barks out in pure surprise. “He’s-- NO!”

Morgan reciprocates his own franticness, waving at Emily’s clothes, “you’re-- you’re... matching!” He’s grabbing at straws for the most part. His own anxieties and fears coming into play to create this monster of a beast he can’t stop thinking about. To distract himself from the panicked thoughts he has about watching his friend die he’s conjured a reality in which it makes sense that Emily and Hotch would be boning. Really, it’s only bothering him because he has no idea what he would do if the two of them were… doing something. It’s just-- just disgusting. Hotch is Hotch, he doesn’t… do that.

Emily rolls her eyes, “Derek, I see him every day. I live with him.” She makes an exasperated throwing motion with her hands, tossing them upwards. “It’s going to happen occasionally, alright? We own similar articles of clothing.” She motions down to her clothes, “we’re ‘matching’ because we look a lot alike and he knows green is his color just like I know it’s mine!”

Of course, that’s what she says now but this morning when she was working the tiny ass buttons of his shirt together she’d given him endless shit about managing to pick out the one shirt the two of them both own. He couldn’t change-- that day’s appointments needed full access to his chest and the easiest way to do that is to wear easily opened and shut clothing. She could change but simply refused-- it was far more entertaining to tell him they looked like those preschoolers whose parents dressed them to match.

He wasn’t amused.

“Besides,” she adds just to a rise out of him, “he’s not supposed to be doing anything strenuous until the rash on his chest clears back up.” She tucks a strand behind her ear, nonchalant. “Even then I would have to be on top.” She smiles as he sputters, satisfied with her own work.

Morgan frowns, “No!” He momentarily covers his ears, shaking his head. “Why do you even-- How do you know that?”

Emily shrugs, “Oh… well, his doctor thought we were… you know.”

Garcia isn’t sure where her allegiance should be. If Hotch and Emily are… she’d prefer not to know the details. Well, she’s interested because it’s Emily but it’s also Hotch. She makes a face, the thought… it-- Hotch needs to lighten up. He needs someone back in his life that can bring some fun but Emily is, well she’s Emily! It f-

“Is she done tormenting Morgan, yet?”

Garcia reels around, caught off guard by a sudden deep but unimpressed voice behind her. When she turns, she finds Hotch. He’s dressed down, out of the attire Morgan and Emily had been talking about. Now, in a simple Hanes t-shirt and black sweatpants. Comfortable-- she likes the way he looks. It may not be his usual attire but it makes him look more… dad-like. More himself.

Garcia looks back over her shoulder and finds herself grinning. Her boss may seem like a boring, hardass but he can have his fun too. No doubt, he either gave Emily the idea to go torment Morgan (never direct but planted the seedling idea) or, at the very least, gave her permission. “I don’t think so,” she answers honestly. “She’s not going to let it go if she knows it bothers him that much.” Which is completely true.

Hotch smiles, softly. A dimple making a guest appearance as he shakes his head. Only Emily Prentiss. He looks Garcia down, lifting a brow at the sight of all the things in her arms. “Can I help you with that?” he offers, motioning to the filled Tupperware clutched to her chest so that they don’t topple over.

She remembers, suddenly, the armful of goodies she has. “Oh yes, sir!” She lets him take a few off the top, telling him what they are as he acquires them. “Those are macadamia nut cookies! This really nice woman--” she follows him as he takes the containers and directs her to the kitchen. “She moved in across the hall from me. She loves to bake and so she’s been giving me all these little recipes.”

He moves right past Emily and Derek, smiling to himself at the panicked raise in Derek’s tone as they catch sight of one another. He directs his attention back to Garcia, making sure she knows he’s listening. Though he doubts his own abilities to dig into the delicacies Garcia has brought, he knows that Jack and Emily will rip them to shreds. Which is the honorable way Garcia’s cooking should go, straight into very gracious mouths.

“I really hadn’t been able to test them out,” she continues. “So, I thought why not try them all right now and bring them to you!” She smiles cheerfully up at him, their height difference more apparent when he looks down realizes she’s not wearing her signature heels. She’s wearing pink converse, perfectly complimenting her pink sweater and pink glasses and jewelry. He thinks she looks positively amazing but knows any compliments will have him smothered in kisses and, well, he’s already been accused of sleeping with one coworker...

Mind still wandering off on the subject of his height and when the last time he saw Garcia in shoes other than heels, he settles a soft smile on her. She keeps talking, showing him each container's contents. It’s the exhaustion that leads him down the path beaten path of dissociation, his mind simply slipping out from beneath him. Someplace warm and fuzzy where his body doesn’t ache.

“Aaron--” He blinks, startling at the sudden touch to his shoulder. He looks down to find Emily and an anxious-looking Garcia. He’s sure Emily and Derek’s conversation about their relationship is now going to seem more damning as her hand slips into his. She squeezes his fingers, “you okay?” Her eyes flick between his, searching for an answer that’s going to be far more honest than the one he produces on his own.

He clears his throat, forcing himself not to blush. “Yeah,” he croaks. “I don’t… I don’t know what that was.” He bashfully averts his eyes to the kitchen floor, very aware of their attention on him now. Too much attention. It’s impossible to hide the way he shivers, the paling, near purpling of his arms. He knows it’s inevitable that they’ll notice but… he’d like to think himself some mastermind. Impervious to the tests of cancer and his treatments. That they don’t affect him. He can hide the central line under layers of clothes. Wear hats to hide the hair. Fake a smile and force his way through the day.

But he’s failing miserably. They see it. The radiation rash now sitting at the base of his neck, red and angry. Peaking out through his shirts. The bulge of the central line under his normal shirts. The nose bleeds that never stops, he’s scarred Reid and Morgan for life with those. The tinnitus that’s recently come back with a vengeance. He’s affected, good and proper, and he hates it. Hates that he has to be so blatantly mortal in front of everyone. Never gets a say in if today is good or bad. If he’ll be too weak to get out of bed or too sick to eat. He hates it.

Garcia is the first person to properly break the tension. She playfully knocks Hotch in the shoulder, more of a tap than anything. It’s careful and his throat tightens with the realization of how weak he must look to make Garcia afraid she could hurt him with a simple tap.  “It’s all good, sir.” She settles a small smile on him, “but you can make it up to me by eating?”

Eating. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, swallowing thickly around the sick twist of his stomach. “Okay,” he answers softly, forcing a smile to match hers when she beams. Thinking she’s won against his unruly stomach. 

Emily glances at him but ignores it. 

He just wants to be normal again. 

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater (Just lmk if you don’t want to be tagged anymore)

[triviareads]

To Want is a Dangerous Thing For a Woman

For Bridgerton Appreciation Week, Day 1 Prompt: do it, be bold

January 1841

The air felt heavy tonight, a thick, languid sort of heat that was suffocating every sense.

It was not a new feeling, not for Charlotte Bridgerton, at least.

For weeks, she had felt as though she were swimming- languorous, over-practiced motions- through every ball, every party, every conversation. She’d once enjoyed playing this game that came with being a debutante, the pretty falsity, the vicious competition hidden under a veneer of sweetness.

Lately, she had began to wonder whom this game was for the benefit of, whether it was even a game at all, if it was a performance all along. There was a frightening sense of passivity to it, and now she felt it bearing down on her, this heat, its weight, unrelenting, oppressive, and she never felt more caught.

“Clairmont’s looking at you,” Lady Frances Cowper murmured behind her fan.

Charlotte knew better than to turn immediately. She had learnt enough in her two seasons as a debutante to understand the power of subtlety.

Instead, she looked to her friend and feigned indifference. “Is he?”

At twenty-one, Lady Frances was an equally-practiced debutante. She had served Her Majesty Queen Victoria both as a train-bearer during her coronation and a bridesmaid during her wedding to Prince Albert, and as a beauty of the ton, she was expected to make an excellent match, particularly if her mother Lady Palmerston had any say in the matter.

“He won’t look away,” Frances said, sounding close to amused now.

“I hardly know him.”

“Well, he is one of my uncle’s people.”

Charlotte’s interest piqued somewhat. Frances’s uncle could only refer to the lately-embattled Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne.

For a moment, she imagined turning, beckoning him with her eyes, the smile that would grace her lips as she played the game, as she had done a thousand times before.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clan occupied, huddled together near the refreshments like one giant mass- her mother, father, the Hastings, Uncle Colin, Aunt Lucy, Uncle Gregory, Aunt Penelope.

Satisfied, she finally turned.

Oh.

She’d expected lechery in his eyes, hunger, a desire to possess-

But Clairmont's gaze was warm, gentle, penetrating-

Suddenly, she felt a rush of air and desire sweep through her, breathing life back into her.

Yes, she vaguely thought. Yes, you.

(She wanted. She wanted, and she wanted this).

It should have terrified her.

But she only felt determination.

Her body moved of its own accord, no longer swimming, but striding, through the crowd, through the assembly of dancers-

Until she was in front of him.

The Earl of Clairmont was tall, elegant, and had a certain calculating air he hid quite convincingly behind well-bred ease. He was standing besides a friend Charlotte recognized as Frederick Fitzalan, but they were not speaking.

Clairmont was still looking at her.

"Dance with me,” she said.

He peered at her with that curious warmth of his. "I'm not in the habit of dancing with women I've not been introduced to."

Interesting.

There was no outright rejection in his words. Instead, he had chosen to hide behind social mores rather than the obvious outrage most men would feel at a woman asking them to dance.

She was emboldened by this.

"Perhaps you'll make an exception."

"Why?"

She felt her lips curl upwards in a sharp, little smile. "Because you've been staring and I daresay you could do it far better from up close."

He laughed a low, appreciative chuckle.

“Hold my drink will you, Fitzalan?” Clairmont said to his companion. A look passed between them- swift, heavy- but it was gone in an instant. Fitzalan amusedly obliged, and Clairmont offered her his arm.

She took it with the oddest sense that she’d captured him in some way, and they made their way among the sea of dancers.

A slow, stately waltz began.

“My first instinct,” he said after some minutes, “was to ask whether you often swept poor, unsuspecting men off to dance, but something tells me that’s not quite true.”

“There is nothing poor or unsuspecting about you, my lord.”

Another all-too-knowing smile. “You flatter nearly as well as you obfuscate.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I don’t- I’ve never done something like this,” she admitted.

“Why now, then?”

She wanted to tell him it was because he had indicated some interest, however passing it had been, but that was not quite it. She could have behaved in her usual manner, smiling at him, beckoning him through her coy gaze, perhaps even arranging a formal introduction through Frances or Cousin Caro- but she hadn’t.

She remembered that oppressive heat, that weight upon her, the feeling that she was

“I felt caught,” she confessed, wondering how she could explain this. “Caught, captive, as though I were some… thing, but when I saw you, I wished- wanted-” she broke off, unable to say the last words, how she could no longer bear this feeling of stagnancy.

“There is nothing wrong with that,” he murmured. “Wanting.”

But there was- everything was wrong with that. To desire, for a woman, was a dangerous thing.

“What do you want?” he asked her.

Everything.

You.

“Another dance.”

“And if I am already taken?” It should have sounded playful, but something in his tone indicated anything but.

“Are you?” she pressed. She would have been amused any other time, that he was playing coy while she was on the prowl, but not now. Not when she felt as though she were on the precipice of… something.

“Not wholly,” he permitted at last. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, swift, loaded. He was looking at someone else.

“I would ask as to your meaning,” she told him, “but I’m sure you can expound on it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“When you’ll call on me.”

There were no questions on his behalf. He merely inclined his head, smiling.

She felt thrilled at this show of submission.

The music swelled in a crescendo.

“Your father is glaring at me,” he observed. “As are your brother, uncles, and… a cousin or two, I believe.”

“Oh, they’re just overprotective,” she said vaguely.

“Or proprietary, perhaps.”

She looked sharply up at him, to open her mouth and retort, but she could not, not when that weight was creeping upon her once more, insistent, heavy.

“They love me very much,” she attempted, willing the oppressive air away.

He could sense her discomfort, and said smoothly, “I’m sure they do.”

She tried to regain some of her earlier manner. “You can expect an interrogation from them as soon as you step off the dance floor.”

He raised a brow. A challenge. “And if I escort you back to them?”

“That, I’m afraid, would be like walking straight into the lion’s den.”

“Come now, my dear,” he said almost affectionately, and she flushed at the term of endearment, “I’m sure I can handle them admirably well- really, you’re the only consistent surprise here.”

“But you won’t handle me.” It was an observation, a warning, whatever he chose to make of it. The music came to an end.

“No,” he said quietly, “I daresay anyone who tried would be a fool.”

[ireadingbooks]

Books I Read in March!

Wow, another month has gone by so quickly!!! Still in lockdown where I live, so had plenty of time for reading. Can't believe I managed to get through so many though! There were some quite disappointing reads this month, but also some really amazing ones!

1. A Thousand Boy Kisses by Tillie Cole This book hit me harder than I expected. Such a sad, heartbreaking story. Many said it's too cringy at some points, but I really enjoyed it. 5/5

2. Verity by Colleen Hoover After not really liking 'Layla' by Colleen Hoover last month, this book was definitely an improvement! Really well thought out, but very creepy! 4/5

3. The Nerd and the Neighbor by Lainey Davis A cute and short story about an astronaut and a girl who runs away. Fun to read but has some open plot ends. 2/5

4. The Way I Used To Be by Amber Smith This journey of following the protagonist who has been through hell and back has been really interesting to read. At some points, it felt too 'cold' for me emotional-wise, but other than that, a really brave, important story to be told. 4/5

5. Regretting You by Colleen Hoover I loved it! A mix of YA cute high school love and NA grown-ups messing up their lives. 4/5

6. Credence by Penelope Douglas I am still mad at this book. It put me in quite a reading slump. I think Penelope Douglas and I will not become friends. 1/5

7. Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo A fantastic read and a very emotional story. I was sceptical about the free prose the book is written in, but once I got used to it (and that happened very quickly) I dove into the story and only backed out once I finished the book. Amazing! 4.5/5

8. The Cousins by Karen McManus This book gave me 'We Were Liars'-vibes (aka my fav book ever) all over - summer, family secrets, private islands... Such a great story that kept you on the edge of your seat. 4/5

9. Hamlet by William Shakespeare My classic of the month. It was alright, don't really have a stronger opinion on this one. 2/5

10. Know My Name by Chanel Miller Probably my favourite memoir ever and favourite read of the month. Such a powerful, emotional story told by Chanel herself, in such beautiful writing. So, so worth reading. 5/5

11. The Secret History by Donna Tartt Just wasn't my type of book. I liked the first 200 pages, but after that, it went downhill for me. 2/5

12. Hopeless by Colleen Hoover I really liked the dynamic between Sky and Holder, but the last third of the book seemed out of place for me. 3/5

13. Playing with Fire by L.J. Shen Again, loved the love story in the book, but the background story of the characters to me seemed forced. 3/5

14. Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner Was a university read and didn't really like it. The style of writing just really did not appeal to me. 2/5

15. In the Unlikely Event by L.J. Shen I had really high hopes and seemed to really enjoy the initial idea of the story, however, as the story unfolded it really disappointed me. 1/5

16. The Virgin of Flames by Chris Abani So much better than I anticipated. Beautiful writing and a great representation of diversity. 4/5

17. Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman This was a re-read because I need it for a seminar this semester, but I was so much more appreciative of the writing this time around. What a wonderful book. 5/5

18. Heart Bones by Colleen Hoover A really great read, especially in summer I imagine. There are rarely books that capture my love for the sea, but this one did. 4/5

[elizabeth-234]

The Creature from the Blue Lagoon

Previous Chapter two: Best Stay Away from the Waters 

Chapter Three: Legends of Old 

Penny had few memories of her childhood. Blurry, faded images of two people and faint traces of warm hands came to her sometimes when she was on the verge of sleep. The images were never concrete and were accompanied by the stinging realization that no matter what she wished, she would always be by herself. Being alone was a part of her. She’d come to stand the cold nights huddled in bed and empty kitchen tables, but loneliness was something new. Not until she found him.

Her heart ached during hours spent watching over the mermaid with nothing but her fears. His faded scales and bleeding wound doing nothing to alleviate the gnawing dread worming its way inside her. Her tears were stilted at first under the sun but once night descended and the water turned colder, they flowed freely into the marsh surrounding them.

Two days with no sign of change. Nothing, not even a twitch, besides a heartbeat and steady flow of blood out of the wound despite her best efforts to heal it. She worried her medicines wouldn’t work on his anatomy. Maybe she hadn’t packed the wound right, or maybe his heartbeat was working too fast. Her hands needed to keep busy so Penny studied his armor. There was a gash through it leaving a vulnerable spot and in between her attempts at healing and pitying herself, Penny began carving a a slab of wood to fit into the hole.

Penny was whittling when, without warning, his eyes opened. It sent her reeling back onto her haunches. He stretched in slow measured movements, feeling his muscles flex after being stagnant for so long. He pulled to the left with a particular quickness and winces. She could see his tail twitch against the water.

“No!” She cried out without thinking. Her hand flew to her mouth and he bared his teeth, too sharp to even be considered human, at her. His tail rose higher, slapping the base on the water. Against her will, Penny realized what the villagers might have seen and hated that she flinched away; hated that once again her first instinct was to hide. Recognition lit his eyes and as slowly as he could, his expression neutralized. He lifted his hands up in a placating manner.

She shook off her fright knowing how ridiculous it was. Her eyes wandered down to the packed materials in the wound. The bandages were holding up for now, but she would need to change them.

“I’m so - don’t move too much. You’re hurt.” Penny stepped forward, first to scoop up her meager supplies and closer to him. She laid the bag on the ground, careful to keep her eyes on his. His tail muscles flexed as it slid down. Waves rippled out from the appendage gliding into the water until he was the height of an adult human. He was still taller than her but now the difference was a bit more manageable.  

Her hands trembled as she presented the materials and herbs. He sniffed it and nodded. It was a relief how unafraid she was so soon. As she worked, peeled off the soaked material and began packing it with new, she couldn’t help but peak up at him and think. Though he was taller now, he wasn’t nearly the height of before, when he was extended up on his tail. The mere breadth of his shoulders was enough to intimidate any man but she found that all there was room for was worry. The suddenness of everything had pricked at her emotions but she knew, from all their meetings and last battle together, he wouldn’t hurt her.

A flinch ran down his side at a poke to the sore area. His hands clenched at his side as she hurried to finish.

“I’m so sorry.” She murmured over and over. “I tried to do this the best I could but I… I only know what I’ve taught myself.”

He raised his hand to wave her off.

“This is more than I expected.” He said. She bit her lip and began putting her things away.

“Couldn’t you, you know, heal yourself like before?” His hand cupped his wound. He frowned at the question.

“It is not up to me who the waters will heal.”

And if that didn’t raise a thousand questions in her head. Penny watched as he descended further into the water. The waves lapped over his chest and she couldn’t stop her hand from shooting up. She couldn’t stop the thrumming in her chest at the thought of an empty marsh.

“Don’t go!” She cried out. “I have so many questions that is and you’re not healed enough yet.” 

“Fear not, young one. My limits are aware to me and it’s not time for me to depart yet.” The pause following was filled with Penny trying not to cover her face and the mermaid staring at her failed attempt. “What were you working on before I awoke?”

Grateful for the distraction, Penny looked over to the armor and her carving settled into the reeds. The wood was solid and smooth in her hands and, careful to be respectful of his armor, she made a show of slotting it in the torn hole. The wood secured itself flushed to the armor and she placed it into his waiting hands.

He raised it up, inspecting the now one piece before running his hand along it.

“I know it won’t be as sturdy as before but… until it can be truly fixed.”

“This is good. When I’m healed I will be honored to wear it.” The mermaid bent at the waist. His hand fisted across his chest. “Thank you-”

“It’s Penny. Penelope.” She hurried to say.

“And you may call me, Tony.” He grinned at her giggle. His sharp teeth only making the expression stranger. “My true name cannot be pronounced in your tongue and I thought it was a stately name. Was I mistaken?”

Penny’s not sure how to respond and after a moment they both laugh together.

-

She thought back to how her days were structured before. The long hours surviving; the longer ones alone. It was an aimless wander, or stumble she thought, with no direction to take her. Penny was hated by everyone who knew her, scorned by them, and called a witch. The jeers hurt – how could they not? – but she never let herself dwell on them before. She had no reference to what it could be before. Which was why now, in the face of kindness and acceptance, all the old wounds become open and enflamed again.

Every time Tony spoke her name with warmth, all the times the villagers yelled at her cut deeper. When he caught them food or taught her to fish with her hands, she couldn’t help thinking about being turned away from venders or Flash trampling over the meager wares she was able to buy. Every conversation and question and eager attempt to know her, reminded her of how very lonely she must have been before.

It wasn’t fair, Penny thought as she laid under the stars. Tony was sleeping half out of the water. His tail, she noted, was moving in slow, constant movements in rhythm with his breathing. It wasn’t fair how easy he came into her life. His presence a safe aura she could bask in. Though his tail was a constant reminder of how different they were, how separate their lives were, Penny accepted it and instead of hating or fearing it, she loved its beauty. If only the villagers could accept her in the same way.

She shivered and curled into her homemade pallet. Maybe she didn’t want their acceptance anymore.

Penny turned an eye toward the water. The small waves lapped gently across the sand and moved the reeds in a slow rhythm. The moon reflected off of Tony’s tail casting sparkles around the marsh. A speckle of blueish tinged light glowed across her leg. For a moment, it looked like a scale, like it was a part of a tail hidden from view.

Her breath caught in her throat. Careful to not move so her leg would move out of the light, Penny ran a hand across it watching as the blue scale lit her hand and fell back to her leg. It was beautiful and uncanny. She couldn’t help but think of what life might be like if she too had a tail. What color would it be? How strong? Her stomach flipped at the image of her not sitting on the shore but swimming beside Tony. She lay back on the pallet and stared at the stars. They wouldn’t look so different from the sea.

Penny smiled to herself and light with her daydreams, closed her eyes to sleep.

Water pooled around her, running along her arms and through her hair which was long and flowing in the water. The blue encompassed her in a safety of tones. Everywhere she looked it was the same scene but somehow, she wasn’t scared. It might have been overwhelming in any other situation but the fear never came to her. With another burst of speed, she moved forward creating a trail of bubbles behind her.

Freedom. That’s what this feeling was.

For once nothing was holding her back. Not the village, not the people living there, and not herself. If she wasn’t submerged under water Penny would’ve said she could breathe easier. Her body moved without hinder and her mind, usually weighed down with responsibility and expectation, was allowed to roam. The weariness settled and aged into her bones lifted. Penny felt her age for the first time in a while.

She giggled and spun around. Sunlight glinted around her illuminating the bubbles around her and a smear of red caught her eye. How could she not notice? It was so different and lovely and …. Penny had a tail.  

The color beyond beautiful and contrasted with the water around her. How could she have not noticed? Deep red scales covered her torso flowing into her hips to cover where her legs used to be. Strong fins jutted out on each hip, flowing with the water. The color remained even down through the rest of the tail, its rich color sparkling from the hints of sun streaming down from the surface.

She flexed her muscles, basking in the strength there. The water offered little resistance and parted for her with ease. It bent in front of her and before she could think otherwise, Penny reached out and ran her hand against the end of the tail. The wispy tips swayed through her fingers. The red turned darker going from a purple to cerulean blue like the tips of the tail had been dip-dyed in ink.

The strangest part of all was how right it felt. She had no urge to run or brace her legs apart, in fact she didn’t really miss her legs to begin with. With another strong flick she was speeding through the water. Laughter surged through her sending even more bubbles mixing with the ones from her swim. It was everything she never knew she needed.

Water rushed around her, through her, propelling her forward. On and on she went basking in the freedom; dipping to lower and higher depths all while looking back at her tail, making she it was still visible.

Penny laughed to herself again before it was cut off with a gasp. Large, winding ropes curled into her sides, cutting into her skin as they constricted around her. The netting squeezed her adding to the pressure, pushing her down into it further. Penny couldn’t breathe they were moving so fast. The light from above was getting brighter and she had to shut her eyes at the onslaught of water and sun. The water was almost clear now. Before she had time to take a breath she broke the surface. Sun prickled at her skin. Not hurting but creeping uncomfortably in a way that it hadn’t before.

The net swung back and forth rolling her stomach with it before moving again. Penny reached a hand through the net trying to grasp the water but it did nothing but slide through her fingers. Tears fell with every foot away she went until, without a warning, she was falling. Penny slammed into the dock. Her hands barely made it in front of her to stop the brunt of the fall. Shivers wracked her spine. She forced her eyes open though there wasn’t anything she’d rather do than keep them closed.

Her tail curled around her upper body as if to shield it. The dock rocked under her almost unheard over the jeers and taunts surrounding her. Their faces were obscure, blocked out by great shadows but her imagination, her memory, filled in for what was missing.

Their hate filled words shoot toward her, sharpened and salivating for blood. Pitchforks and harpoons joined the words, digging into her skin. She cried out as they ripped of her scales. Blood mingled with flesh staining the scales a deeper red. Her hands shook as they covered the wounds but pain kept coming.

She snarled and screamed and fought to get away but nothing helped. They surrounded her, getting closer and closer until her heart was beating so fast her mind freezed and she fell backward against the wood.

It was like every other confrontation of her life. There was no use in fighting for freedom, fighting for herself, because in the end it never mattered. She was weak and useless. No one had fought for her so why should she fight for herself?

A sob tore through her chest and Penny’s eyes flew open.

The ground was hard but warm underneath her body. Her legs prickled from being curled tight against her chest and, hoping not to stir too much movement, she looked around from her vantage point on the ground. Her spine tingled. Tony’s eyes were on her. They reflected from the light of the moon like the water he was half submerged in.

“You’re crying.” He motioned toward her face with his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you hurt?”

She swiped her hand across her cheek. Her eyes widened at the moisture there. It had been a long time since she’d woken to tears.

“N-no. I’m not hurt.” His eyes stayed trained on her. The wrinkle between his brows deepened. “I had a dream and it was…amazing.” She said thinking of the beginning. The feeling of the water hugging her. The absolute acceptance of home she’d never experienced before. Her hand strayed to her leg and she suppressed a cry when there was no scales there.

“And this made you produce the tears?”

Her chest panged.

“Ah, no. The dream turned bad.” Which was putting it lightly. He didn’t look like he believed her and there was something that held her back from explaining more.  

Penny thought about the splash of red in the endless blue sea, of the way the scales sparkled, and the complete freedom she had in the water. Her eyes traveled down to Tony’s tail which was submerged and almost asked what it was like. Instead, she held her tongue and looked down.

Silence overtook them for a time. She shrugged a blanket over her shoulders and watched the water move back and forth trying to calm her racing heart.

“Tears are fascinating to us. Mami Wata, Selkie, Merrows and Mermaids. There were many names given to us through time. As humans have been fascinated with us, we too have held a similar feeling toward you. Tears are one such object of that.”

“Can you not – Do you not have the ability to?” She said quietly.

“Not the act of producing a tear in response to emotion, like you yourself have just done. We produce a substance to keep our eyesight clear and protect the eyes themselves but there is no emotion behind it.”

“Oh.” She said and balled her fingers into the blanket.

Penny hated crying. The physical weakness of it all on display for anyone who was around to see it. She couldn’t remember all the times where she had woken up with wet cheeks and an aching hurt in her chest. She hated them. But as she sat there watching Tony look out onto the waters, she realized how sad it would be to never cry. To never feel that release of all the storms inside. It was a bitter blessing to be gifted with.

Tony smiled at her expression.

“Let me tell you a story.” He said. “Our people have a legend about the first one of our kind long before the seas were made. It is said they weren’t quite human but not yet quite mermaid as well. They were alone for much of their life, aching and bitter with no ability to cry. Shunned by humans and cast out of the villages to wander alone forever. All the storms were trapped inside of them soaking the poisoned hurts into them until they thought it was too much. The humans encroached closer, burning and farming and living larger than ever before. The first one had to live on the outskirts to get any semblance of peace. All the while they wished for another to be with.

It was… difficult our legends say. Humans, for all the wonder they hold, are often tempered with anger and hurt. They made their displeasure of the first one known and it was no longer safe for them to live in the human realm. Running away was the best option and so they left in the night under the stars.

Much distance they went, under the sun and moon repeatedly until they came across a great cliff; the end of the world some say. They looked over to find emptiness. They collapsed as if the cliff stole all hope. But still they couldn’t cry though they knew the humans would catch up eventually. Not even the end of the world could provide. They were alone.

Their life continued as it was before. Their eyes always faced behind, waiting and watching for the day to come. Their prayers for companionship grew faint and hope dwindled until, on a night where the stars seemed to burn from the heavens. They were woken by a cry.”

“What – what was it?” She asked bending forward to get closer. Her heart pounded as he told the story.

“There under the stars was a child. The first one knelt down toward the infant and slowly scooped the bundle up to their chest. It was said that upon sight of the child, the first one’s storms inside rose for a moment. That all the loneliness and grief rushed through them. The child cried out and with a burst the first one responded. They ran to the cliff, kneeling at the end and stared down at the nothing there.

All the tempests inside them waged forth and tears cascaded down their cheeks. The tears fell and mingled with the child’s own tears until the sadness calmed. It is then, young one, that the miracle happened. Tears of sadness turned to tears of happiness. The first one smiled and cried for what was found, for the warmth and love they already had for the child in their arms. Through the night they cried in harmony and silence.

When the morning sun shined upon them, the first one looked out past the cliff and saw the ocean. The salty waters they created with their grief and love. It’s another gift, you see. Without looking behind them, without a thought to the horrors of their life before, they descended into the water; into the very manifestation of their love never to return to land again.”

His voice petered off and the only sound was the waves lapping on the sand. It was an unbelievable tale. Something of legend and Penny had never been much inclined to believe in the impossible. She would still be wishing for her parents to come back if that were the case. But there was something in the story that had her head reeling - her heart aching. Penny wanted it to be true, she realized. The image of a small child bringing enough love to create oceans, to heal someone’s heart was enough that she couldn’t help but wish it was true.

It hurt in a way to see a parent love their child so much. The reminder of how she had grown was bitter. In truth all she can do was mutter something under her breath and when Tony handed her a small blanket, she realized she was crying again.

“We cannot cry since the first one, but I look fondly at the act all the same. It ties us together, in a way, and despite how difficult it must be to bare your emotions. I can’t help but see our first one, loved for the first time and long for the same.”

In the face of such a statement, Penny did the only thing she could think of. Her hands trembled and her feet were shaky after sitting for so long but Penny ran forward and threw her arms around Tony. His body was stiff for a moment before he melted into her embrace.

She was warm and so happy tears began pouring from her eyes in earnest. Penny thought to the story of the child and parent. How they created a home for themselves safe and together, and in Tony’s arms, Penny can’t help but think that maybe it wasn’t just a legend. Maybe they were bound to repeat history.

Thank you! 

Next chapter four: 

[carry-on-snowbazzing]

My 5 best of 2020 (in 2021 😂)

1. A summer day ☀

"Well, Baz! Do you want to move?" Penelope yelled, already in the car (a certain MG dated 1967).

Simon studied his own reflection in the rearview mirror, running a hand through his bronze curly tuft and resulting in even more messiness.

"A minute!" was the answer from a few floors above the apartment.

Penelope rolled her eyes and picked up her Iphone.

Shortly after, hurried footsteps were heard coming down the stairs and Baz, after closing the door, got into the car.

Simon leaned out of the back seat and kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled and, starting the engine, exclaimed:

"Destination: fun!"

  Later there were four of them getting out of the car: Baz with a beach umbrella over his shoulder, Simon struggling with a giant inflatable pink flamingo, Penelope with a cooler bag, and Agatha with another bag, containing beach towels and sunscreen.

"The weather forecasts were right; today’s a perfect day for the sea," Penelope commented as she slipped off her flip-flops and dropped her bag into the sand.

"Edward shines like a fairy!" Simon yelled, putting on a pair of sunglasses and pointing to Baz.

"Stop it, Snow," he laughed, "and give me my glasses back; all this sunshine stuns me."

Trying to ignore them, Agatha took off her cover-up and began to rub off the protection angrily.

"Whoever dives himself last is a pixie!" Simon yelled, throwing his t-shirt and starting to run towards the sea with Penelope at his heels.

Several splashes and laughter later, the two returned wet, smiling and hungry.

Meanwhile, Baz and Agatha had dedicated themselves to crossword puzzles and to the horoscope.

"Agatha, there must be some butter and turkey sandwiches in the cooler," Penelope said as she wrapped herself in her towel.

"I couldn't find anything better for you than beef carpaccio," she said to Baz.

He smiled making 'OK' with both thumbs.

"And for me?" Agatha asked, offended that her friend hadn't thought of her too.

"Fruit salad" she replied. "I know you're on a vegetarian diet."

Agatha blushed feeling a little guilty and muttered something like "Oh, thank you".

Everyone literally devoured their lunch, because, as Simon ruled on his fifth butter sandwich, "The sea makes you hungry."

They gossiped a bit about their old classmates, wondering if Gareth still had his belt buckle as a wand and if Trixie had a fight with his girlfriend.

  They lost track of time after falling asleep in the early afternoon sun.

It was the sound of a notification that woke Agatha, who, after seeing her mother's message ('Where are you? Coven party tonight!'), made a shrill sound that woke the others too.

"Damn, I'm in mega-delay!" she complained, sitting up and hastily gathering his things.

Seeing her so agitated, no one dared contradict her and they hurried too.

Before leaving for the return, all already in the car, Simon took out a Polaroid from the trunk (not an easy feat, given the bulky mass of the flamingo) and urged them:

"Wait! Say 'cheese'!"

Everyone posed, waiting for the flash.

Once the picture was taken, Simon reached for the film that had just come out of the instant camera, but found himself clutching a slice of Emmental in his fingers.

Baz couldn't help himself and laughed uncontrollably.

"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch!" Simon bursted, but he couldn't bear a grudge and joined in the general laughter.

___________________________________________________

2. Shopping (Big & Little) 🥄

"They'll be emptying the mall, those two" Agatha commented, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall and adding another egg to the bowl.

"Probably" replied Penelope, who was handling the curry risotto.

"They've been away for three hours!" Agatha insisted, "and with two credit cards!".

Penelope gave her a look like 'what can we do?' and again consulted the handwritten note attached to the refrigerator with a magnet (shaped like a scone).

"Oh, I forgot the onion!" she moaned after a quick glance, "my mother would kill me if she knew!".

She went back to the stove and for a few minutes they remained silent, one intent on vigorously banging the whips, the other busy slicing the bulb.

Once Agatha had baked the chocolate cake (wiping a non-existent sweat with her glove) and Penelope had remedied her mistake, the girls dropped onto the sofa.

They were just debating which movie to watch that night when they heard the key turn in the lock and Simon exclaim from the entrance:

"We’re at home!"

The two joined them in the living room and Baz asked:

"Curry and chocolate?"

Penelope nodded.

"Sometimes I wish I was a vampire; just smell a dish to understand if the doses are right or wrong," she sighed.

"Shopping?" Agatha asked, looking at the numerous envelopes they both had in their hands and casting a reproachful look at Simon.

"There were the sales" he tried to justify himself, shrugging his shoulders.

"Hurry up; you’ll show us your spoils of war after dinner" Penelope ordered.

  "What do you think?" Simon began, smugly showing a set of jeans for Baz and a giant jar of sour cherries scones.

Penelope seemed to try not to roll her eyes.

"I stayed on the intellectual side" Baz said, pulling a stack of books and a pack of pastel highlighters out of a bag.

"I need them for the college" he explained to Agatha, who was trying to get hold of the markers.

"And you haven't seen the piece of resistence!" Simon shrieked, grabbing a smiling Baz by the wrist and dragging him into the nearest room.

They came out moments later walking backwards (in what was supposed to be an imitation of Michael Jackson's moonwalk), so they could only see their backs.

"3, 2, 1 ..." Baz counted.

"Ta daaaan!" Simon exclaimed as they turned at the same time.

They wore matching gray sweatshirts; both had a black molded spoon.

'Big' was written on Baz's, while Simon's 'Little'.

"Awww" the girls screamed in unison, in the grip of a fangirl attack (which managed to make Agatha look adoring too).

"We have a pair for you too" Baz said, handing Penelope a black t-shirt with 'Brownie' on it, while Simon gave Agatha a white one with 'Blondie' on it.

"Thanks, guys" Penelope murmured moved and Agatha initiated a group hug.

photos references

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3. Anniversary 💞

here

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4. Ops! 🧴

 Simon knocked for the tenth time on the bathroom door:

"Occupied!" Baz yelled for the tenth time.

"And sorry, but I can't hold it anymore anymore ..."

Simon abruptly released the handle, abandoning his irritated tone.

He let out a cry, muffled by the hands that he immediately brought to his mouth.

Baz was shirtless in front of the mirror, glaring at his own reflection.

Everything was perfectly normal, except for his hair: it had turned from raven to red.

Fawn red.

"If you tell anyone about this, Snow, I will end you" he growled menacingly.

Simon stood there, speechless. When he had regained the use of his mouth, he barely stifled a laugh and intoned:

“Weasley is our king

he always lets the Quaffle in ... "

From Baz's look, he knew it would be wiser to stop, so he did it.

He approached cautiously and asked gently:

"What happened to you?".

"I wish I knew; I was taking a normal shampoo shower" sighed Baz.

Meanwhile Simon had reached the sink and was looking closely at the bottle of the citron and bergamot scented blend.

"It doesn't seem to have anything strange" he then ruled, placing it back on the shelf.

"Indeed; I went to get it from my home in Hampshire; Daphne can only find it in our town's herbalist's shop," Baz replied sadly.

"I really can't explain it" he went on, unable to get over it.

"My sister gave it to me ..." he stopped suddenly.

He clapped her forehead and turned on the lock screen of his smartphone.

"Today is April 1st," he murmured.

He took the vial in one hand and, with the ivory wand in the other, exclaimed:

"Show me your secrets!".

The writing on the label changed from 'Shampoo with citrus notes' to 'Permanent color intense red'.

"MORDELIAAAAA!" he screamed as Simon rolled with laughter.

"April Fool!" he managed to exclaim between a laugh and another.

That’s totally inspired by a fanart of @vkelleyart​ 💖 :  that 

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5. Trick or treat? 👻

 "Well, Baz! If you don't move, we'll only have the sub-brand candy left!" Simon railed.

With all the peace of mind he could, Baz went down the stairs and joined his screaming boyfriend, who was immediately silent at his sight.

"Morgana, Basilton; you really mean it" Penelope commented, watching him as she lit another candle to put in the Jack o 'lanterns carved by Simon and Baz (which occupied all the flat surfaces of the apartment).

"I've been doing some accurate researches over the last week" he began, making a theatrical gesture in his vampire cloak.

"You even have the same jacket as Gary Oldman" she observed excitedly.

He, in response, gave her a perfidious look, baring his fangs.

Simon was still in his silence and couldn't take his eyes off him.

"What's up Snow, the cat got your tongue?" Baz asked, amused.

He answered with a tongue sticking out and approached him with a raised eyebrow (in perfect Baz style).

"Wow" he commented after kissing him on the cheek.

"Enjoy yourselves!" Penelope exclaimed as they came out hand in hand.

  "Where do we go now?" Baz asked.

Simon moved with great ease between one bell and another, meticulously illustrating the specialties offered by each house.

His phrases were: "Here you can always find top quality stuff", or "No, better to avoid an indigestion".

After scouring all the houses on the first five blocks, Simon had an epiphany.

"For a thousand snakes! Baz, we absolutely have to go to the 'Spooky night' party!" he screamed, making him jump.

"Crowley, Snow! Calm down!" he retorted irritably, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

"You don't understand," Simon insisted.

"Our loot is loser when compared to everything you can find there; Strawberry Blood Drip, Every Flavour Beans, Pumpkin PIE, Butterbeer and, hold on ... Oreo with Orange Cream!"

Baz, seeing him so excited ('like a child', he thought), couldn’t say no to him (although he wanted to go home more than anything else; his feet protested against Count Dracula's boots).

"And where would it be?" he asked, trying not to smile.

"A couple of blocks from here; hurry up!" Simon urged him, taking him by the hand and starting to run.

  "A delusion!" Simon snapped, leaving the bag full of sweets on the doormat.

"What happened?" Penelope asked Baz, who had just closed the door behind him and limped desperately as he headed for the sofa.

"In short at that damn party they had finished everything and told us our costumes sucked" he explained.

Simon was with his arms folded, all sulking, sitting in the armchair.

"Look at their costumes! And let me have something to eat, rather!" he barked.

Penelope approached him and, looking at him tenderly, reassured him:

"We always have our repertoire of horror films."

Simon shrugged, hitting the nearby lamp.

"And I was prepared for any eventuality," she went on, snapping her fingers and popping up a pack of Oreos with orange cream.

Simon's face cleared, illuminated by a huge grin.

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Ty @letraspal​ for tagging me 💕

That’s all; hope u like it!  💜

Happy new Year! ✨

[walker-journal]

Pyrrhic Transfiguration (Adam Solo)

Participants: Adam Walker (Hunter) Danica Vassliev (NPC Spellcaster) 

Context: Adam’s strength is fading fast as cult infiltration, wounds from Bloody Mary, and Apoleia Dynamis bring him close to bodily and metal collapse. Calling in favor with one of Penelope’s covenmates leads to more questions than Adam can answer about his relationship and malady. 

Follows: Into the Fold Part 1, Deep Sea Blues

Content Warnings: Body Horror (Medical Transmutation), Chronic Disease (Apoleia Dynamis),  Mention of Drug Use (Elixir), Animal Sacrifice, Allusions to Physical Abuse

Sorry its long

“How long has it been since your last drink Adam?”

“Why,” Adam asked from where he lay in the exact center of a ring of river clay, the Hunter so maimed from the tender mercies of Ma’al’s cult that he could barely stir from where Danica’s assistant had set him down. One half of the circle’s interior was covered in lush grass while the other half was dead burnt ash. 

“I don’t want to transmute your blood into red sugar syrup by calculating the toxicity incorrectly,” Danica pointed out as her basilisk fang stylus scratched more runic equations into the soft clay circle. 

“Three months.”

Danica looked up from where she had been drawing sigils on Adam’s right wrist with Lampade blood ink. “You? Adam...you’re shitting me.” 

“Nope,” the fraternity captain confided, hoarse voice a wane attempt at being cheerful, “been straight edge lately. Don’t tell anyone, I’ll lose all dudebro cred and have to go into soyboy exile.” 

The sorceress took one of Adam’s bare legs in the business-like fashion of a medical professional who was too familiar with wounds and physiology to be made bashful by her patient’s state of undress. “Tragic,” she affirmed, “any other stimulants, tobacco, or…”

Adam watched as Danica painted diagrams on his calf and thigh in Fae blood, eldritch mathematics evidently meant to guide magic through his body like silicon traces channel electrical currents through a circuit board. “Well I had to pop some Elixir during those hauntings a while back..”

Danica made a guttural sound of disgust and frustration in her throat. “That’s poison Adam! It’ll rot you from the inside!  Jak mogłeś! Próbuję cię utrzymać przy życiu, durniu!” Danica continued to heap imprecations on Adam in Polish for his stubbornness and general dumbassery as she smoothed some calculations on the clay circle with an iron spade. She began scribing new sigils to account for any necrophage elements that still lingered in Adam’s tissues. 

“Why not ask Penelope to perform regeneration rites,” Danica asked later as she took skin, hair, and saliva samples in order to account for the specific concentration of enzymes and other proteins in Adam’s body. “I can sense her power all over you, and the connection between you both would make this easier.” 

“Uh her ...what...all over me?” 

Danica helped raise Adam up to a sitting position, gingerly trying to avoid the lacerations and bruises that covered the athlete’s body like livid craters. “Relax Casanova,” she teased, stylus tracing a geometric web of interconnected eye-like runes up the length of Adam's spine while trying not to wince at jagged slashes, claw marks, and yellowed contusions that lined his back. “She’s used sanguimancy to put you back together a couple times now right,” she posited, earning a nod of confirmation from Adam. “Magic like that is all about bonds, an exchange of essence that catalyzes a change in reality. It’s in your marrow now Adam.” 

The Hunter thought back to that night of that cursed full moon when Nell had performed what she thought would be her last full moon. She’d used both their blood to enkindle new flowers to bloom and that evening had left Adam with an inkling of the grand unity of life her arts entailed. “Yeah, that makes sense I guess.” 

“There's another connection too,” Danica began, “emotion is a higher…”  

Adam’s snort of jocular derision turned to a hacking cough as his broken ribs sent shuddering spasms of pain up his chest. “Sorry, I’m shit at talking about that stuff,” he admitted. 

“Well you might need to start,” Danica snapped. She pressed Adam’s head down to start on a greater symbol of cerebral warding on the nape of his neck, the closed eye surrounded by a Solomonic temple and pentacle serving as a sort of occult circuit breaker that’d stop the spell’s energy from liquifying Adam’s grey matter. “Look Adam I’m not trying to slut shame you here,” she began more gently. “But Nell’s exile now, the support structure we grew up in is closed to her. We’re forbidden from even speaking with her...” 

Adam met Danica’s grey eyes and comprehended that he was the sorceress' only point of contact with the woman she had to publicly denounce as an apostate. “Nell’s more than just a good time to me,” he rasped quietly, breathing shallow. “I know I’m a piece of shit when it comes to girls but I wouldn’t lie...not about that.” 

Danica’s soft exhalation of relief might’ve been a bit insulting, but Adam had never been shy about explicitly stating what he wanted and what he had no interest in. “I know Esther raised all you Walkers to survive the zombie apocalypse or whatever,” Danica sighed as she began tracing the veins and muscles of Adam’s battered left arm in symbols. “But maybe drop those defenses a little for Nell? She needs more than a soldier.”

Adam bit his split bottom lip, watching Danica’s expression with bloodshot eyes. “You’re really worried about her aren’t you,” he noted, choosing not to take offense at this butting into his personal life. 

Danica brushed dark tresses of hair away from her face, bracelets inscribed with aspects of the many-faced goddess letting out a metallic click on her wrists. “Necromancy, exile, hooking up with a Hunter, and getting into ...this…” Danica held up Adam’s arm to his own face, giving him a clear view of livid lesions and fingers snapped by blunt force trauma. “Yes I’m worried!”    

“I’ll make sure she makes out, no matter what,” Adam assured, before raising both lacerated eyebrows at Danica’s fervent curse in Polish that he was probably luckily not understanding. 

“That's exactly what I’m afraid of,” Danica sighed as she wrote equations in alchemical script across the Hunter’s forehead and temples. “Look I’m about to rip your body apart and put it together again.” The witch nodded to the human corpse and stone slabs with struggling animals tied to them that formed a sacrificial perimeter around the clay circle, raw fleshly materials for the spell. “Even with all this? There's a good chance you won’t make it Adam.”   

“I know.” 

Danica met those dark bloodshot eyes, so eerily devoid of fear or hesitation. “Fuck Hunters,” she exclaimed under her breath while placing a ward on Adam’s right pectoral that’d hopefully keep his heart from suffering a corner spasm during the impending ritual’s trauma. “Whatever took your powers? It’s a wound in your psyche, your soul even, and I don’t mean that figuratively.”

“That’s a thing?”

The healer nodded as she drew an intricate branching tree of overlapping runic circle’s down Adam’s sternum, with its roots twinning around his abdominal muscles. “Whatever you and Nell are doing is making it worse...like alot worse,” she emphasized. “There’s nothing I can do for that, the soul can’t be transmuted,” the medical alchemist admitted. “The best thing you could possibly do right now is stop whatever this mission is before …”

“I need to do this,” Adam said with quiet firmness, unmoved even after realizing the cults’ attempts to break his and Nells’ will to resist were hitting deeper than he’d even thought possible. “I just need to last long enough to see it though.” 

“Does that still take priority over everything,” Danica prodded, as if holding out hope that Adam would fight harder for the people closest to him rather than the abstract of humanity.  “Even with your powers gone?” 

Adam’s silence and thousand yard stare at the sanctum’s cold stone walls was answer enough. He didn’t stir at the shrill screams of rabbits having their throats slit by Danica’s sanctified athame. The high squeal of slaughtered swine joined the last braying of a goat rasping into silence. 

Blood slid down long slanted groves in the stone floor, flowing into the alchemical equations that Danica had scribed into the circle of river clay.  A hiss was followed by an eruption of viscous scarlet vapor, as if the blood had become a silken cloud. The clay began to writhe and shift of its own accord. Animal bodies and a human corpse wriggled down through groves in a grotesque parody of animation, melding into the roiling clay in a sickening crunch of bones and sloshing meat. 

“Last chance Walker,” Danica said, almost pleadingly. 

Adam looked at the roiling ring of earth, blood, and flesh that’d become a single promethean substance. Nausea filled his gut at the thought of whatever the hell this was getting inside of him. But Adam hadn’t been raised to flinch from duty’s cost. 

“Whatever it takes,” he answered. 

Bowing her head, Danica spoke the concluding sequence of the grand equation written through the room and Adam’s very flesh. 

Adam watched in sweat-soaked shock as his own arm ripped open, the slick strands of nerves, veins, and tendons uncoiling like unspooled thread from his bones. Adam’s world went white as ocular nerves and muscle were torn from his skull. The ring of flesh clay rushed inward, smothering Adam’s flayed body in a glissading mass. Everything became pain, sickening warmth, and the bodily alienation of things slithering around inside of him. 

Danica’s chanting rose as ambient power thrummed through air, incantation harmonizing with Adam’s agonizing screams till all was one.