#'twas fun I miss cooking for them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ultimate-vergil-simp · 3 years

Text

My first wholesome ReaderxVergil fic! 🎉 I wanted to start my blog off with some lovey feels instead of starting with something more risqué

I hope whomever reads it enjoys it 🥰🥰

Jabberwocky

Dinner with the Devil May Cry family was always fun. If jobs went particularly well, the crew would celebrate with a family feast. Usually Nero and Kyrie would host, but you had volunteered for the task. You had been working with the crew for over a year now and you were confident that you could deliver a great feast.

Kyrie had offered to come and help you with dinner whilst everyone chatted or played games. The two of you were currently in the kitchen peeling and slicing vegetables. You enjoyed Kyrie’s company and you appreciated the help she was giving you; Twelve mouths to feed was not an easy task.

Out in your living room were the twins and Nero, the three ladies, Morrison and the three boys Nero and Kyrie adopted. They weren’t drinking as the children were present but they were having fun. Nero and Dante were playing video games (Nero was kicking Dante’s ass and taking his money), the ladies and Morrison were locked in a card game and the boys were rough housing each other while the toddler watched a children’s cartoon on television.

The only person missing was Vergil.

You noticed his lack of a presence when you stepped out to take a break, Kyrie insisting that she has everything in the kitchen sorted for now and that you needed a break.

“Hey, has anyone seen Vergil?” You ask, scanning the room for the Dark Slayer. The ladies and Morrison shrugged and shook their heads, more invested into the game than anything else. You frown and step out into your garden, turning your head left to see Vergil sitting on your swingset.

The irony of a forty-two year old half devil who was technically the reigning monarch of Hell sitting on a children’s swingset was not lost on you.

“It’s cold out here…” You trail off, approaching him slowly. Vergil looks up at you and regards you for a moment before looking away.

“The cold does not affect me…” He responded quietly. Somehow, you find yourself sceptical of him.

“Okay, Elsa!” You giggle, his raised eyebrow of confusion only making you laugh more. You calm down and clear your throat before speaking again.

“You don’t have to be a tough guy right now, you could let loose and have fun for once…” You suggest, trailing off.

“Are you implying I don’t have fun? You’ve seen me on the battlefield.” Vergil retorts, an expression of mock insult on his face. You had to give him that one; Vergil looked like a graceful, but deadly dancer when he fought and the battlefield was his dance floor.

“Okay, fair enough, but why limit your fun to murder and mayhem? Can’t you come in for a meal at least? Your grandsons are here….” You say, crossing your arms almost like you were scolding him. Vergil did not appreciate that, but he couldn’t fault your logic. He hadn’t spent much time with Nero and his partner’s adopted children and he didn’t want to admit that the very thought of the act made him uncomfortable.

“.....I’ll sit down for a meal…” Vergil finally says after a moment of silence. He stands and allows you to lead him back into the dining room, where he sits in your armchair in the corner. You suppose that’s the best you would get and returned to the kitchen to help Kyrie cook.

The oldest boys are playing tag and running around the house, but they’re getting a bit too rough with each other as Julio accidentally knocks Kyle into a table. When the boy falls over into a slump, his lip quivers before he starts to cry. Kyrie is a blur before you as she immediately exits the kitchen, fawning over the boy.

“Kyle are you okay? That fall looked nasty…” The soft woman crooned, inspecting the bump on the poor boy’s head. Julio stands on with a guilty look on his face, not intending to have hurt his brother. Kyle stands to his feet with Kyrie’s help, but he has a full blown, slowly reddening bump on his head.

The group have looked on in sympathy for the boy, noticing the hot tears running down his face. Vergil seems to be particularly interested, the vision of the soft Kyrie tending to the injured boy bringing back fond memories of his own mother. The blue twin had to admit that his son had chosen well for himself.

You poke your head out of the kitchen at the commotion, a mixing bowl in your hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Kyrie grasps the boy’s hand and leads him into a private room, passing you as she does.

“I’ll just be a sec, y/n….” She says as she hurries the boy off to give him some aid. You nod as you step back into the kitchen, whisking the cake mixture in your hand into a cake tin and setting on the oven rack. You didn’t hear the silent steps of the blue-clad twin behind you.

“I can help in Kyrie’s absence.” Vergil says, causing you to jump and throw the now empty mixing bowl into the air. The blue devil is quicker than that, however and deftly grabs the falling bowl with a grace you could never hope to match. You must have been making an expression of awe, because Vergil was currently smirking at you.

“Don’t be too amazed, y/n…” He teases and you can’t help but find yourself gigging at his comment, making his smirk turn into a genuine smile.

“Kyrie was just helping me slice vegetables and, while she’s definitely a pro, you’re… well….” You trail off, leaving the implication out there. Vergil snorts at you, finding amusement in being diminished to nothing more than a glorified vegetable slicer.

“Stand aside, y/n.” He says curtly, summoning Yamato in his hand and levelling it towards the kitchen counter. You step out of the way, giving him a wide berth. The cerulean devil shuts his eyes, exhaling slowly for a moment before sending a few rapid slashes towards the vegetables, Yamato singing a word-less melody.

You stand in awe as Vergil precisely cuts every vegetable on the counter into pieces. Not just into cubes, either, but into wedges, slices and (wow!) even star and moon shapes for the boys. All you could do is blink as the seemingly cold man sheathes his beloved blade and turns to you to inquire about his work.

“Is this acceptable to you?” He asks you, crossing his arms and holding Yamato against him.

“Acceptable? Vergil that was so friggin’ cool! You were like a whirlwind! I could barely even see you!” You gushed over him like a fan girl, earning you a slight reddening of his ears and cheeks. He had never been the recipient of such blatant praise before. It was…. nice.

________________________________

All of you had sat down to dinner. Your dinner table could only seat eight, so Morrison and Dante decided to sit on the couch whilst Lady and Trish sat at your smaller, round table. Vergil’s veggie shapes had gone down really well with the boys and, although he would never admit it, the blue clad twin was glad that they were happy.

Said twin was sitting adjacent to you as you sat at the head of your table, currently tucking into the potatoes Kyrie roasted. Vergil was eyeing you subtly; He had been secretly appeased when you had put some of those “super cool” shaped vegetables on your plate.

He thought you had looked cute eating them, your childlike innocence coaxing a strange feeling from him. As the group feasted, you and Vergil chatted together and sometimes with the others. However, you and Vergil seemed to have this unspoken air between you two, and it didn’t go entirely unnoticed.

Dante had been glancing up at his brother and then at you every so often, with Trish doing the same. You hadn’t noticed, but Vergil had, and he decided that he didn’t like the implications in said looks.

Vergil became more reserved towards you after that, and you had noticed this. As everyone finished their plates, you and Kyrie began to clear up the cutlery, with everyone in the group going back to their activities. The blue clad twin enters the kitchen again under the pretense of helping you clean.

Kyrie stepped out of the room to ask Nero something and had left the two of you alone once more. Vergil picked up a few dirty dishes and a washcloth and helped you clean up, the least he could do after the satiating meal.

“You’re an excellent cook…” He offers, earning him a blush in return, almost like a reversal of the events before dinner. You thank him, rinsing the plates as he soaps them.

“Thanks, but I did have a little help…” Whether you were referring to Kyrie or himself, he wasn’t sure, but he did nod at you in response. You both turned your head to hear Dante getting rowdy in the living room, a death match between him and Nero on whatever video game they were playing on your console beginning.

Kyrie had stepped into the room with the toddler, Carlo in her arms. Said toddler was currently squirming endlessly in her arms, trying to get away from her. The songstress huffed with fatigue, trying to set the child in a toddler’s travel bed Nero had stashed on the van.

“Fussy today, huh Carlo?” You quip, chuckling at the sight of the restless babe. You offer to take the baby from Kyrie, picking him up and setting him down in the travel bed. Kyrie sighed with relief and went to see how Kyle was doing, stepping out of the kitchen.

Carlo immediately starts to whine and get even fussier, you and Vergil sharing a look of worry that the child may start to cry. You shh him and try to distract him with something. Nothing comes to mind until you remember the book of poems you had bought recently.

“Hey, little guy, would a poem put you to sleep?” You asked, your question garnering a look of interest from Vergil. Poem? He didn’t know you were interested in poetry…

You open your new poem book, quickly selecting one that seemed appropriate for the wriggling baby: Jabberwocky, by Lewis Caroll. It was a nonsense poem and that is exactly why you chose it. Vergil eyes the page you’re on, stepping back to watch as you begin to recite.

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.” You begin the first verse, your eloquent voice a stark contrast to the complete nonsense that you were spouting.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!” Vergil cocked an eyebrow at you in amusement; He had heard this very rhyme when he was Carlo’s age back when his mother had read it to him and Dante.

“He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.” You continued, further enrapturing Vergil is your low, but narrative voice.

“And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!” The baby was no longer struggling and was now wriggling in delight, staring up at you intently as you rhyme on.

“One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.” Suddenly, the blue-clad twin was seeing you in a different light; The rosy tint to your cheeks, your plump lips exaggerating every word, how the kitchen light made your hair shine….

Were you always this beautiful?

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.” The baby had stopped wriggling in delight, his eyes drooping as he made an adorable tiny yawn.

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.” You finish softly, slowly closing your book. Carlo was fast asleep, tucked warmly into his portable toddlers’ bed. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

As you turned to look at Vergil, you suddenly felt rough, calloused hands on your cheeks. You looked up just in time to see the cerulean devil gently press his lips to yours. You were caught off guard, but you found yourself melting into his embrace. Vergil grunts softly as he feels your fingers start to run through his hair.

His lips were so soft and the way he held you was so gentle. You’d never felt so safe before, strangely.

When the kiss ends, you stare at each other, either of you drowning in each other’s pools of colour; You found his eyes to be infinitely mesmerising. A smile creeps it’s way onto your flushed face as you lean up to kiss him again, his hands moving down to your waist to pull you close to him.

“I didn’t think someone could make a nonsense poem so beautiful and, yet, here you are…” The enraptured devil croons into your ear, a shiver going down your spine. Your rosy blush turns hot pink as you whisper in his ear.

Vergil had found the sight of you and the toddler to be strangely warming, feeling a heat bloom in his old, frozen bones. He smiles at you, another one of his rarely genuine smiles creeping on his angled face.

“If you want, I could show you my other poetry books? Not all of them are nonsense…” You offer, finding his smile to be dazzling; He really was rather handsome. The devil in disguise chuckles at you, nodding in response.

“I would be honoured to listen to you recite, you have a wonderful voice and impeccable rhythm.” Vergil speaks, wanting to spend more time with you alone.

“Then it’s a date…” You tease and that earns you another soft kiss from the infatuated devil.

You should really host dinner more often.

#devil may cry #devil may cry fic #Vergil #vergil x reader #Vergil devil may cry #devil may cry V #Vergil devil may cry V #vergil fanfiction

71 notes · View notes

minetteenfers · 3 years

Text

Day 4: Breaking More Than My Heart (Chapter 2 of Hello, My Old Heart)

Here is Day 4 of @blancweek! Nothing NSFW in this chapter, but I will post the link to the story beneath the cut at the end since the fic is Rated E. ^-^

Chapter 2: Day 4= Breaking More Than My Heart

Marinette stood in the kitchen, pouring her soul into making a meal for Chat Blanc. She had worked all day out picking herbs, spices, and gathering a swan for the dishes. Then, she had come in to turn it all into something. Her father had taught her many things as a child, one being how to make the most delicious food that they could create. It was a hidden talent that she had since she was small. Something that she could do well.

Her mother had perished during childbirth and she had always dreamed that she had met her. Her father always told her that she would have loved her because she was exactly like her in many ways. She sighed and finished up supper, putting the items onto dishes for Chat.

Marinette wiped her hands on her skirts. Normally the kitchen of a castle would be full of bustling servants and people with duties to help bake and cook, but this one was empty. She assumed he must have gotten rid of them all. Which meant this only made her life that much harder. She took a deep breath and carried the courses out to the massive dining table.

Chat sat at the table drinking his wine and speaking with guards about how much he disliked people in the keep. It seemed to be his go to conversation until she would set the table. She didn’t know why the man never spoke of anything but hatred and negative things, but she really couldn’t blame him for being so broken.

He peered up at her and a dangerous smirk appeared on his full lips. “Ah, there you are. What have you provided me with today?”

“Swan and vegetables with bread, your grace.” Marinette grabbed her skirts and curtsied, waiting for him to respond.

“Come. Join me at my side.” Chat kicked the chair beside him away from the table, and she stood up straight to sit down beside him.

Marinette took his fork from him and sighed, taking a bite of swan from his plate. She knew it wasn’t poisoned. She had made it herself and she wouldn’t do that to him, but clearly his trust was lacking.

Chat watched her for any signs of being ill before taking his fork and stabbing a vegetable holding it out to her. She stared at him with a blush, gazing around at his court.

“Go on then.” Chat gestured with his fork and she swallowed hard.

She leaned in and grabbed the bite from his fork. She chewed and took a moment. “Tis good, your grace.”

“Very well then.” Chat cut some of the swan on his plate and took a bite, letting the spices and herbs settle onto his tongue. “Rather delicious.”

“Thank you, your grace.” Marinette smiled and tried to look poised beside him.

“Did your father teach you?” Chat stabbed a potato and brought it up to his lips.

“Yes, your grace.” Marinette licked her lips and tried to not focus on how her stomach rumbled.

“Are you hungry? Surely, you did not eat.” Chat poked a piece of swan and held it out to her. “Eat.”

Marinette shook her head and chewed on her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t.”

“I insist.” Chat smiled and something about it was different than before.

She parted her lips and wrapped them around the bite of meat, taking it into her mouth with a soft hum. “I do miss my father’s cooking.”

“Your father was a good man. Tis a shame my father rid the castle of him ages ago. I should have loved to have him here still.” Chat stabbed a carrot harder than he had intended to, his knuckles turning white around the utensil.

“Twas not your fault, your grace.” Marinette touched his fist, and he licked his lips and sighed.

“Perhaps not, but my father was still my flesh and blood.” Chat grabbed his knife and sliced it along his palm, closing his fist, and dripping the blood onto the tablecloth. “You told me so. I am very much alive, even if I erase the name. Until I perish, I will still be an- an- never mind.”

He flipped his knife and stabbed it into the table, leaving it standing on its sharp tip. “Never mind, shall we finish our meal so that I may make more decisions for the town.”

Marinette wanted to mend his hand and help him, but she didn’t know how. She had no idea how to make him come back to her. He was too full of pain. The bad outweighed the good, and she needed to figure out how to bring him back.

“Shall we take a stroll through the garden?” Marinette hoped that he would agree. She wanted to get him alone, away from his father’s guards.

“Why ever would we do such a thing?” Chat raised an eyebrow at her. “I have far too much to accomplish.”

“Taking a moment to breathe is always a lovely idea.” Marinette touched his arm and he peered down at her hand with widened eyes.

He ripped his arm from her hand, and she sighed. He had done a complete one-eighty since they had played in the kitchen. She felt like her touch burned his skin and no matter how hard she tried, he wouldn’t let her in. He had put up the highest walls with the best guards that their currency could buy and she couldn’t storm it.

“Fine. I shall entertain your idea.” Chat sighed and finished his meal.

Marinette took his plate to the kitchen and went to her chamber to get ready to walk through the garden. She had barely finished getting ready when a knock sounded on her door. Marinette rolled her eyes and opened the door, finding Chat standing there.

“I have yet to explore the gardens since my mother’s death.” Chat worried his bottom lip and she warmly smiled, grabbing his forearm in her hands.

“Allow me to reintroduce you two then.” Marinette led him out of the castle and down to the garden.

Purple and white wisterias hung down from the overhang as it opened up to elegant topiaries and overgrown rose bushes. It was like a dream and it also needed a lot of work.

Chat Blanc held his hand out, catching petals as they fell with a blank expression like he could care less. It had been so long since he had gone out there. So long since he had seen the garden that his mother had insisted on having. To be honest, he had been afraid to venture out to it again. Too many memories of being a child with her. Too many fractals of her smiles and laughs before it was taken over by coughs and tears.

“Your mother loved this garden.” Marinette sighed and ran her fingers along the flower bushes. “Tis sad to see it overgrown like this. Although, I am sure that it can be mended easily. It just needs a bit of love.”

Chat swallowed hard as memories of his mother and him flooded his memory. Memories of her sneaking him out to play like she had felt a kid should.

“My mother would sneak me out here to play as a child,” Chat spoke quietly, and Marinette nearly missed it.

“Mm-hm. She was fond of children being able to play. She would always speak of children needing to have a bit of fun even if society has deemed it to be inappropriate.” Marinette giggled and plucked a white flower, spinning it between her fingers, as she walked back towards him with swaying hips. “I used to dream of what it would be like to be in Eden and I always felt that this must be what it is like when I came here. Though, not often. There were duties to be done.” She reached up to place the flower in his paled golden hair. “You had them too.”

“Too many. Still do, I am afraid.” Chat took the flower from his hair and flicked it across the garden.

Marinette watched it land in the pond, sending slight ripples through the water, and she nodded. “I see. Well, I shall not keep you then.”

Chat tried to ignore how he felt surrounded by his mother in the garden. He tried to ignore that he felt like she was whispering to him and trying to pull him out of the waves of disaster and pain. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want to be helped, even if he had told Marinette to.

“Marinette.” Chat stopped her from leaving with his hand held out to her.

“Yes, your grace?” Marinette turned around to stare at him, watching how the fallen petals swirled around him and for a moment she thought she saw Adrien instead. But it quickly faded away as fast as it had come.

“Do-” He had no idea what he was going to say. His words had left him.

“Yes?” She walked closer to him and hoped he was coming back.

“Do you think that my mother is watching?” Chat swallowed hard as he thought about it.

“I think… she never left.” Marinette warmly smiled and ran her hands down his doublet to smooth it out, stopping to play with a button.

“What do you mean?” Chat peered down at her slender fingers on his button, fiddling with it.

Marinette slowly peered up to meet his saddened gaze, “Your mother lives on in your heart.”

“My heart has frozen over.”

Marinette placed one hand over his heart, “If it is merely frozen over then it just needs a bit of warmth. The forest is not dead all year. Eventually, the sun comes out to warm its leaves and streams. The forest rebirths into something wonderful again with spring. The flowers bloom and the leaves green. The streams flow and trickle with beautiful waters. Much like our hearts. The memories and pain may never take their leave, but we can heal with time. Just takes a bit of love and warmth. Someone to tell us that everything will become well again.”

Chat swallowed hard and touched her hand, searching her gaze and struggling to not let tears fall. Why was she not running? Why was she still here? Why was she saying everything that she was? He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve anything she was telling him, and he knew he had to prove it. He had to prove that he was as bad as they say in the town. She was getting too close.

“You know what my father told me?” Chat took her hand from his chest and she raised an eyebrow at him as he walked away with his hands behind his back.

“I am sure he told you many things.” Marinette didn’t know what he was getting at.

“He told me how useless your father was in the kitchen. How much he loathed the man and his subpar cooking.” Chat peered up at the wisterias.

“Yes, well he was not too fond of father.” Marinette sighed and walked towards him again. “But his grace rarely enjoyed the company of anyone except your mother.”

“My father also spoke of you.” Chat slowly turned to face her and she swallowed hard.

She knew what was coming and she wasn’t prepared for it. He was spiraling backwards, and this experiment had only turned south. She took a deep breath and prepared herself.

“And?” Marinette cringed as she spoke the word.

“He was correct. You are good for nothing more than a mistress.” Chat’s words sliced through her heart and her bottom lip quivered.

“You do not mean that!” Marinette stormed towards him and he glared at her as she held up her hand about to smack his cheek.

“I would think wisely before you choose to do such an action to your king.”

“I do not see a king or a prince, but a scared little boy,” Marinette spit the words at him and ran back to the castle.

Chat growled beneath his breath as he watched her run from him. He still considered himself a prince, but he needed to say something stronger. While he was now the King, he didn’t want it and so he kept his title as prince within the castle. And while he was terrified of being alone, as he was, he wouldn’t go as far as saying he was a small child. He had grown and become mature because he had had to. There wasn’t another option. And if he let her get close, then she would know how truly broken he was and he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t be a burden for her.

***

Marinette laid on her bed and sobbed into it. She just wanted Adrien back. She wanted the boy that she grew up watching in secret back in her life. She wanted the man that had been in the kitchen the other day back. But right now, he was nowhere to be found. She sniffled and got up, visiting her vanity to wipe the tears from beneath her eyes. She had to clean up his chamber among other duties around the house.

It was the last duty that he had put on her list for the day. She had no idea how he lived alone with no one to keep up on housekeeping. It was more work than one person could handle alone. She knew that it wasn’t his fault that he had obliterated everything, but a few guards. That he had done away with most of the servants because he was afraid of hurting anyone. His heart was broken after his father had been trialed and his name had been soiled. Not only that, but he had been shoved onto the throne with little time. The whole town had erupted into questions over the late King.

Adrien hadn’t been ready to deal with it and she knew that. She knew that it had been too much too soon. He had been trained since birth to do his father’s bidding, but that had not prepared him for something such as this. So, the man had shoved everyone away and locked himself away with few guards. Ones he trusted since he was a child.

She took a deep breath and brushed her trembling hands down her skirts and put on a fake smile. She could do this. She had to do this. She had been told that no one could change him back but her. There was something about her that would make his mind flip back to being the kindhearted boy that he had always been. She felt more tears threaten to fall and she reached up to wipe them away.

“Seize your sobbing, Marinette. You are merely being silly.” She rolled her eyes at herself and walked out of her chamber, making her way to his.

Guards whispered near the door and she stood and waited for them to let her inside. They stepped away from the double doors and she opened them, finding Chat sitting on a chaise lounge.

She gasped and about turned around to leave when he stopped her, “Are you not going to wash my items?”

“I thought you would be in your study.” Marinette cleared her throat, as he stood up and walked over towards her in only a tunic and a pair of trousers.

“Tis true that I should be making decisions, but alas, here I be.” He spread his hands out and relaxed them beside his thighs on the cushion. “So, feel free to wash up around me.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and walked over to his bed, stripping it to begin to get it ready to be laundered. She worked around him, ignoring how his eyes seemed to follow her every move.

“Do you really intend to watch me?” She peered over at him as she placed new linens onto the bed.

“Would you rather I helped?” Chat raised an eyebrow at her and she scoffed at him.

“I would rather you were more of a gentleman,” Marinette mumbled under her breath as she fluffed his pillow.

“Pardon me?” Chat stood up and walked over towards her.

Marinette sighed and let her hands rest on the bed before she stood up straight, “Do you know what your mother would speak to us every morn?”

“Enlighten me.” Chat set his jaw, and she knew that he didn’t want to hear it.

“Every morn, she would come gather the children to tell them a tale. Usually, one with a moral story.” Marinette shrugged and went about the room, finishing up other duties.

Chat Blanc watched her with no words, mostly because he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about his late mother that had passed away from an illness. He didn’t want to venture into the pain that still gripped at his heart and made it hard to breathe, hard to live.

“Have you heard of The Songbird?” Marinette opened his curtains that appeared to have not been parted in God knows how long.

“I can not say that I have.” Chat gave in and sat down in a chair, grabbing a cup of wine. He held it out to her, and she sighed, grabbing a tasting bowl from the bag hidden by her skirt.

She took the bottle and glass, pouring some into the bowl and tasting them for him. “Tis good, your grace.”

She passed them back and he took a long sip from the glass. “Enlighten me.”

“Once there was a songbird, that was free to fly about the land. A knight was wandering through the forest and came upon a beautiful melody. The most beautiful one he had ever laid his ears upon. He peered up to find a golden songbird on a branch. The gorgeous little thing sang and sang. The knight thought that his maiden would love such a prized possession so, he captured it in a cage.” Marinette sighed and folded a few more items.

“Seems quite ridiculous.” Chat scoffed and rolled his eyes, drinking more wine.

“The knight brought the little bird home to his maiden and presented it to her. She was quite delighted, and of course, she wanted to hear the bird sing.” Marinette leaned forward a bit with an awkward smile.

“And did the damned thing sing?” Chat leaned back in his chair with his forearm draped over the arm of it.

“He tried to make the songbird sing. He tried everything he could ponder up, but nothing seemed to work. He failed in every way. His maiden became quite upset and questioned why he would present a broken gift. He told the tale of how he had come upon the little bird. How beautiful the bird had sung in the forest.” Marinette sighed and sat down on the chaise lounge. “For days, he would shake the cage and demand for that poor bird to sing. But the bird would do nothing but sit on the small perch made from a twig in this gilded cage. He called it useless and unworthy, pathetic, imperfect. The poor thing dropped its head and became sadder. Trapped, it’s beautiful golden plumage dulled to a pale butter.”

Chat moved on to tipping the wine bottle to his lips, ditching the glass onto the table beside his chair. He didn’t want to hear more of this story. He had had enough of this silly game.

“The knight became angry and grabbed the cage, taking it outside. His maiden had followed him, wondering what the commotion was about. The knight opened the cage, and the little bird was shy. It would not budge from its gilded cage, feeling like it was nothing more than an imbecile bird. Too damaged and imperfect. Unloved and unwanted. But the sunshine warmed its wings, comforting it, and coaxing it from its cage. The poor thing began to gently flap its wings, before taking off. It landed on a branch somewhere in the forest and began to sing its sweet melody again. For how can a trapped bird sing?” Marinette searched his expression and watched his eyes flash to emerald before shifting back to sapphire again.

Read and bookmark the whole short fic here!

Some of the songs I wrote To:

youtube

This one for some reason screams Chat Blanc for me in this or in general:

youtube

#blancweek2021 #chatblanc #mariblanc #ml #miraculous #miraculousladybug #marinettedupaincheng #day 4 #day 4 breaking more than my heart

17 notes · View notes

cotccotc · 3 years

Note

I TOOK AN EXAM TODAY! twas scary T^T and then i have an audition on friday for orchestra </3 BUT BESIDES THAT I’VE BEEN GOOD! ^^ i kinda just chilled the whole day after school and practiced violin and stuff. ALSO I SPENT THE WHOLE DAY FREAKING OUT ABOUT HUENINGKAI’S YOUNGBLOOD COVER?? ME = HEALED !! 😩 that boy is on another lvl (´°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥ω°̥̥̥̥̥̥̥̥｀)

i also wanted to cook something today! but i couldn’t </3 i needa order from the market lol ALSO sumtin i’ve been doing recently is recording little vlogs! i don’t make them public or anything tho, it’s just for old lady kat to look back on and wish she was a hawt young girl again when she’s a fossil sitting in her rocking chair with her cat lmao. also lately i’ve been wanting to make new friends and go to parties and be stupid (but not unsafe! >:T) yk? 😔 (that cliché teenage yearning i guess -_-) i saw a group of kids my age hanging out together and having fun at the outdoor mall the other day when i was driving by and it made me lowkey sad cuz i miss my friends and socializing hella bad😭 but what can u do yk? ʅ（◞_◟）ʃ BUT ANYWAYZZZ HOW HAVE YOU BEEN RONIIII ??? what have u been up to? (*´꒳`*)

AYYY I HOPE IT WENT WELL 🥺🥺 im proud of u for getting through it !!! and good luck on ur audition omg that’s so exciting !!!!!!!!!! i bet it’ll be great :) and if u have the jitters beforehand feel free to hmu !!

OK WAIT IM SO BEHIND ON TXT CONTENT I HAD NO IDEA THAT HAPPENED ???$:$;$3$;$ I HAVE TO LISTEN IMMEDIATELY HOLY SHIT

ooo yes cooking is a vibe. if u ever make smth tasty send me pics 👀 and HAHAHAHA OMGGG YES that’s a great idea !!! do u edit them? i used to want to be a YoUtuBeR so i’ve definitely got a lot of those 😂😂 and as for the hanging out thing, i get u 🥺🥺🥺 i really miss it too. like part of me wants to be like fUcK iT and go to like 100 parties but a.) am i invited to parties? No and b.) don’t want to ,,die <333 JSJS

i’m ok :) the past few days have been a lil rough lol. i’m back in school and i’ve just got a lot going on haha. but yee :)))) OH and today we finished recording the school musical 🥲🥲🥲🥲 (we pre-recorded and it’s going to be live-streamed later this month) im SO GLAD IT’S OVER i’m TIRED OF THAT HOE- *clears throat* anyways yeah :D OH OH OH AND i’m doing something really really super duper secret & also very very cool on saturday 😏😏 so i’m looking forward to that !!!!

#ask v ☆#fwens :)#kat ♡#this was fun to answer sjdjd #i love u <33 #alsO UH [jams earbuds into ears] YOUNGBLOOD TIME

2 notes · View notes

drangues · 4 years

Note

When you think about it, there are. SO. Many ways for the ADA (and Chuuya) to get back at Dazai for being an Asshole. They can draw on Atsushi (because, while Dazai can also do that, he gets pouty about others “marking” him, like you said). They can pet him if he goes even slightly fluffy (which Dazai CANNOT do, so its Prime revenge material). They can just take him out for food because he’s Always Hungry, like Kenji. (Nyanon, 1/7)

(and Dazai can’t argue because he knows it isn’t a date but hE WANTS IT TO BE WHEN HES THE ONE DOING IT-) It’s great. And! I love Atsushi cooking for Kyouka??? It’s so good, PEAK older brother material right there- And I can just imagine him making lots of like, cute bunny faces out of rice and stuff? And those cute octopus sausages! Hhh this is making me wanna look up, like, cute and fancy bentos and those cool anime bentos aaahhh- (Nyanon, 2/7)

And yeah, I could see him punishing Lucy to punish Atsushi, especially since they both have abilities, but also. As you mentioned, he has a weird ass obsession with Atsushi, so I could just as much see him taking Lucy’s defense of Atsushi as an excuse to punish him more for “corrupting the other children” or some bullshit like that. He’s just That Kinda Bastard. And! She would absolutely join with Atsushi!!! And they’d be such,, Different? (Nyanon, 3/7)

People that I almost feel like everyone else would be Perplexed by their friendship and how protective they are of each other? Like, how? Did they meet??? Why are they so close? Oh, maybe they even think that they’re, like romantically involved at first? And when they say they aren’t the ADA is just like “wait what.” Anyways LISTEN he was not allowed a childhood when he was an Actual Child and the ADA isn’t gonna take this away from him!!! (Nyanon, 4/7)

If that means accepting flower crowns and even wearing them in public then that’s what they’ll do! And yes this is in a universe where they take his trauma seriously. No I do not take criticism. But that sounds like something that would happen. Dazai sends Atsushi to get, like, Akutagawa or Chuuya or something because he wants to mock them because That’s How He Is, only for Atsushi to inadvertently become friends with Elise and a kinda favorite of Mori. He Is Not Pleased. (Nyanon, 5/7)

(Bonus: Mori tries to duke it out with Fukuzawa for parenting rights. The rest of the Port Mafia helps because hello? Giant fluffy cat??? They wanna be able to pet him- Cue the next big ADA versus Port Mafia fight.) ANYWAYS moving on to my next General Atsushi Concept: How he meets Chuuya!!! Because it hasn’t happened in canon yet but I’m still a sucker for their friendship. Anyways, I like to imagine that they meet at, like, a farmer’s market or something? (Nyanon, 6/7)

Because someone there sells REALLY good wine, but Chuuya’s always missed getting it. So he gets there early... And sees them giving it away, even though it’s really expensive. So he goes to confront the receiver, only for him to turn out to be a sweetie who doesn’t want it? But he feels bad saying no, so he just gives it to his peers. So Chuuya ends up feeling awful, because Atsushi goes to give him this wine that Chuuya was yelling at him for. Cue them bonding somehow. (Nyanon, 7/7)

the moment everyone realises that atsushi is dazais primal weak spot they take advantage of it So Much, especially chuuya. AND YES THOSE BENTOS ARE EXACTLY WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUTTTTT GOD HE WOULD HAVE SO MUCH FUN MAKING THOSE AND TAKE PICTURES OF THEM (omg au idea where dazai is kyouka’s teacher and he sees her always coming to school with overly cute bentos, one day he overhears how her older brother atsushi is the one that makes them and dazai cries a little on the inside imaginening the cute boy making them)

oh ya people would definitely think lucy and atsushi are together, well not exactly, they give off just really protective vibes and some hetero normative asses will mistake that as “romantic”

wdym the ada does take his trauma seriously <333 they really do <333 (though i refuse to believe They Actually Dont and i think that they just DONT KNOW, because all atsushi has said is that they said hes good for nothing, and kunikida probably took it as a misunderstanding cus he transformed into the tiger and ate all the food so he told the agency members the same thing so they all thought twas a misunderstanding as well- aND ILL DIE ON THAT HILL)

CHUUYAAAAAAAAA well, they do meet in bunguo stray dogs wan but- I WANT THEM TO MEET IN THE ACTUAL MANGA AS WELL UGH AND THIS SOUNDS SO CUTE <333

#anon #ask #ask anon #anon ask #bsd #nyanon #nyatsushi anon

8 notes · View notes

hgamesfan · 5 years

Text

Unmasked ~ Sixteen

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @hgamesfan and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the sixteenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 16 ~~

After my talk with my father, I am strangely full of nerves. I manage a bath and change of dress, although given the uproar the house is in, Mary is not available to help me dress, and so I wear an older dress, something simple and loose that does not require a corset. I wrap a light shawl about my shoulders, feeling oddly bare without the undergarment, and spend a few moments in the study, attending to tasks left neglected while Peeta and I were caught in the stables. In truth, the tasks could wait until tomorrow, but I am not certain I wish to be near anyone right now, my head awhirl with so many thoughts and the enormity of the events of today. The tasks do not take long, however, and I then return to my parents’ rooms in time for yet another uproar.

“Really, Kent. We can have dinner brought up to you,” my mother insists.

“Darling, you know I respect your opinion as a healer but this is too much,” my father argues, hobbling from his room with the aid of a cane, garbed in a dressing robe and slippers. “I have been bedridden for months and will continue to be so no longer. It is a simple trip down the stairs and then dinner. Nothing to it.”

“Perhaps some assistance the first trip down the stairs,” I suggest then.

“Pish, child. Will my own daughter now dictate my actions? I am not an invalid any more. Step aside.”

“Kent–”

“Cease your fussing.”

My mother purses her lips and retracts her hands from my father. My throat constricts. I have no memories of my father speaking to my mother or to me thus. With such…anger and annoyance. No memories of them fighting so openly, nor of him scolding me. It is not like him at all.

He approaches the stairs and, for one breathless moment, sways precariously. Gasps fill the air and then Peeta’s there, grasping my father by the elbow to steady him. Father glares at Peeta.

“It changes the balance.”

“Twas not a leg,” my father argues and Peeta nods.

“Do you hold your arms stationary when you walk then?” My father ponders this for a moment and then shrugs.

“I suppose not,” he concedes.

“It takes time to adjust. Which hand do you write with?”

“The right,” my father says.

“That is most fortunate. You’ll not need to relearn writing. Other tasks may require some adjustment, but no matter, they are still possible,” Peeta says as he takes one step, exceptionally slow. “It took me at least three months to learn to walk properly again. Learning again how to ride a horse turned out to be easier, once I could manage to get in the damn saddle. And stairs…well that is a more recent accomplishment.”

“You did not sleep on the ground floor… on a sofa, for months, did you?”

“No, but there are other ways besides walking to ascend and descend the stairs…have you watched a toddler learning to take them? The way they sit and use their arms more than their legs?” At this, my father actually laughs.

“Apologies. I mean no offense,” he says.

“Of course not. Small victories are in truth not such small accomplishments with a missing limb.”

Peeta continues talking as they descend, one step at a time with Peeta supporting my father. Peeta tells another story of the first time he tried to ride a horse after his amputation and my mother clutches at her throat with one hand and my arm with the other as we follow their sedate pace. A concerned footman moves to assist, but Peeta waves the man off as Father laughs again at the image Peeta paints of himself relearning how to walk and how to mount a horse with his tone humorous rather than piteous.

“Then I found Cicero and that changed everything,” Peeta explains, prompting my father of course to ask about Cicero.

Absorbed in their talk as it shifts to horseflesh and how Peeta and Joe trained Cicero, my father and my husband safely reach the landing. My father is intrigued, I can tell, at this idea of training a horse to bow to assist in mounting. Father is short a hand and will need to learn how to mount one handed or make similar adjustments.

He wheezes and pauses at the foot of the stairs, reaches out for Peeta to steady himself.

“I do not recall there being so many stairs in this house,” Father says.

“You should try them with a wooden leg sometime.” My father stares at Peeta for a moment and then chuckles. The sound is wondrous and then he nods, seeming to reach some sort of conclusion.

“Perhaps some assistance into the dining room,” he says. “At least until I am more recovered.”

Two footmen hurry forward and I hear Peeta whisper, “Small victories, Mr. Everdeen,” then he leaves my father in their care. Beside me, my mother releases a heavy breath and my heart begins to beat normally again. We reach the first floor and my mother lets go of me to grasp Peeta’s face. She pulls him down to kiss his cheek and then hurries after my father.

Peeta offers his arm to me and I stare at him rather than take it. I stare until his cheeks turn pink and he lowers his proffered arm. Then I finally ask what I need to know. “Why would he listen to you and not his wife nor his daughter?”

“How often do you use two hands for a task? Eating? Bathing? Dressing? Reading a book? Working in the fields?” My cheeks burn as I begin to understand what Peeta means. “There is no aspect of his life that will be left untouched by this and that is a difficult thing to accept, especially when one has no knowledge of the amputation until much later. You, your sister, your mother, the servants, even Madge, have all known him as an active and independent man. Now he requires assistance or time to relearn simple tasks. He will want to do these things on his own, to prove to himself and to everyone in his life that he is no less of a man.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His eyes flash in the dim lighting of the hall and I see in them the challenge. The dare to deny that what he says is true. “If you do not believe me, then hold your left hand in your lap tonight for the entire meal. See how well you can slice your meats and wield a knife one handed.”

And the trouble is, Peeta is right. I cannot imagine the amount of pride my father will need to swallow tonight in asking assistance to cut his food, like a child. We could rage about the unfairness of it all, but my father is a man of strong constitution and of strong convictions. He always has been and I know that while the road may not be smooth, I have hope he will travel it successfully. Perhaps with some help.

I loop my arm through Peeta’s then, my fingers curling around his bicep. Angry with myself for not understanding my father’s psyche, yet grateful for how steady Peeta is now, for how quickly he responded upstairs to prevent another disaster. I only wish I had thought to act sooner. I would have thought that concern might be easier to accept from a daughter than a stranger, but then again, perhaps not. Peeta has never known my father until today. Perhaps this is another role tailor made for my husband. Doctor Aurelius has said repeatedly that Peeta’s experience would be invaluable in helping my father adjust. Tonight’s scene must be precisely what the doctor referred to.

“I shall talk to Mrs. Chilton tonight about perhaps adding more stews, dishes eaten more with spoon or just a fork, and tender meats, to the menu for the upcoming weeks. Fish is easily sliced with just a fork is it not?” I say quietly as we enter the dining room. Madge and Prim are already here.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Dinner is a strange, informal affair. There is father in his dressing robe and slippers, myself in my faded walking dress and shawl. The other ladies of my family have been so absorbed in the excitement over Father’s recovery that none bothered to change from their day dresses. Of our party, Peeta is the only one both freshly washed and formally garbed for a usual dinner.

For months now, our seating arrangement has been fluid and shifting, although Peeta would usually sit beside me. With father back at the head of the table, Primrose has seated herself in her old position, leaving the seat to father’s immediate left open for me. Peeta sees me seated in my old chair, between father and Prim, and moves around to the other side of the table, to sit in between my mother and Madge. I shift in the chair, for some reason unsettled. At least I am not the only one. Peeta appears suddenly ill at ease.

Mother, however, appears to have recovered from our fright on the stairs. She glows brighter than the candles. I have not seen her so happy in months. Primrose is full of stories and news, and thankfully she mentions Rory Hawthorne, which shifts Father’s focus of concern from my romantic interests to hers, as well as to the matter of inheritance.

Otherwise the mood is light as Madge and Primrose swap stories across the table of recent months mingled with those of a more distant past, with stories of our youth, ones that my father laughs at. He even refrains from commenting at his much different meal – a bowl of broth, another of tender cooked apples, and a crust of bread. I am relieved to see him accepting the doctor’s orders at least and the dishes tonight for him do not require a knife.

The stories, however, only seem to push Peeta further into his state of quietude.

My hand in my lap grasps tightly to the folds of my skirt as I eat, blowing gently on my vegetables to cool them before consuming, watching my husband across the table as he withdraws further into himself and wondering if our path together will ever be straightforward.

There is no denying the joy I feel at Father’s revival. His laughter and loving presence have been sorely missed. Several hours ago, I would have given anything to bring him back to us. Now that he has, I wonder if the cost will be what little gains Peeta and I have made in our relationship. Yet, I cannot see why that should be.

“The Doctor says I am not to ride for at least a week, until I gain my strength back a little, but I cannot stay confined to bed. Tomorrow, Katniss, we shall take a cart and you can drive me about the estate. Show me what you have been up to.”

“Are you certain that is wise, Kent?” Mother asks, worry plain in her voice. I should have Peeta speak to her as well and perhaps help explain Father’s mental state.

“I think it necessary. I’ve been abed for months. It is high time I cease being so lazy. Katniss, what say you?”

“Of course, Papa,” I agree immediately, before I realise that the invitation did not include Peeta, and what my father proposes is something that Peeta and I have taken to doing together since…well since my father could not.

I briefly catch Peeta watching me before his eyes return to Madge and he speaks quietly to her, answering whatever question it was that she asked him. I did not hear and I am not sure that I care. There is a sudden tightness in my chest and a sense that he is somehow slipping away from me, just as we had begun to truly understand one another.

The dinner is excellent, and most are in high spirits as we adjourn to the drawing room. My father is ensconced on a settee, my mother fussing over him while he pretends to be annoyed by her attentions. His quick swings between accepting and rejecting help will be difficult to deal with, but we will manage, I tell myself. We must.

Prim sits at the piano and my father asks me to sing. I cannot turn down such an entreaty, and soon become engrossed in the music.

It is after the third song we perform, as my father applauds with enthusiasm, that I realise our audience is short one person. I hadn’t even noticed Peeta slip away. Wherever did he go? When did he leave? Does he find my singing deplorable? I have been told that my voice is quite pleasant, beautiful even.

I am not given a chance to investigate, however as that is when my mother yawns, insisting that she is much too tired for further amusements. I hurry from the room as soon as I see that Father is willing to accept assistance from one of the footmen in escorting my mother to their rooms.

My mother’s protests follow me, but I hear my father’s calm voice halting her objections. “Let her go, dear. They are still sorting through what it all means.”

I shake my head, confused at what exactly my father is referring to. My feet carry me from one room to the next until I find Peeta in the study, bent over the desk and sorting through a stack of parchment.

“Is my singing voice so dreadful to you?” I ask and he startles.

“Katniss!” His hands scurry to order his papers. “I did not hear you enter.”

“Hunter’s tread and soft slippers,” I say as he finally holds the stack behind his back where I cannot see them, not quickly enough, however. I spot the edges of what is clearly one of Peeta’s drawings. “What are you doing in here?”

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says then, finally meeting my eyes and holding my gaze for the first time since we entered the dining room. “The first day I heard you sing…even in your sadness your voice was mesmerising. I think even the birds outside cease their song to listen to yours.”

“That is a pretty piece of flattery,” I say, my cheeks warming as I maneuver to trap him against the desk. “But it does not answer my questions, husband.”

“I did not wish to intrude further on a family evening,” he says. My feet halt as I recall something he once said to me in our bed at night.

I am used to being unwanted.

“I came in here to clean out my mess, make the drawer available again and–”

“And what? Strike your presence from our lives?” Such a question would normally come forth with venom in my voice, but I think I begin to understand my husband and what motivates him, perhaps even the direction of several of his thoughts.

“I am aware that I am no longer necessary to you, Katniss. The only reason you sought a marriage was in case your father should die, and now he is thankfully recovered.”

“Not entirely. You could help him, as doctor Aurelius said.”

“And I will. I shall also endeavor to not cause problems for you. As it turns out, you needn’t have married anyone at all.”

“Tis a little late for regrets and second thoughts now, don’t you think?”

“Yes, well. I told you we should have stopped,” he says. “You should be with your family now, Katniss. Tis a joyful thing, your father returning to you.”

And that for some reason, triggers my anger. The idea that I could celebrate even as Peeta withdraws from me, the thought that perhaps he now regrets what transpired between us in the stables when I cannot, that implications in his words that Peeta is somehow not a part of my family. I reach around him and snatch a handful of papers before he can respond. Several of them are torn from both our grips and flutter to the floor. Peeta makes a sound of protest and grasps at me, but I am too quick and move out several steps out of his reach.

“Are these for the plant book?” I ask. “Why would you hide them?”

“They’re not for the plant book,” Peeta says and his words halt my feet. I watch as he carefully bends to retrieve the rest from the floor.

“Then…what are they?” He sighs heavily and I hold them close to my chest. “May I see them?”

“You may as well,” he mutters and waves a dismissive hand at me. I scowl but glance down at the one on top of the stack.

My heart stops.

Only for a moment as I stare at the drawing in my hand and flip to the next and then it roars back to life.

Me. They’re drawings of me. All of them. Here I am smiling, lounging in the garden, head tipped up to absorb the warm rays of the sun. There I am riding Sagittaria with a serious mein and then with laughter on my lips. Perched in a tree with a book and my skirts draped towards the ground. Another of me with head bent and eyes half closed, lost in contemplation. In my nightgown, feet curled up beneath me in my chair as I gaze into the fire, a glass in my hands. Pouring tea with a scowl on my face. Playing happily with Maysilee. Walking and sharing secrets with Madge. Several studies of eyes and braids and even my hands holding a bow. At least two dozen sketches, all exquisitely drawn with ragged edges on their left side. Torn from a book, I realise.

I am too stunned to speak at first. My upset and jealousy – yes I will admit now that I was hurt and jealous that Peeta seemed to use everyone and everything in his life as a model for his art except for me — is now proven so very wrong and ill founded.

“Why…why would you hide these?” The words stick to my throat like stale bread.

“Things were uncertain enough between us. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable with my obsessive scribbles,” he says, finally catching me as I have not been able to move since looking at the first drawing of me. He reaches for the papers in my hands and I hold them to my chest, out of his reach.

“Why do you draw me like this?”

“Like what?” he asks, and I can hear the frustration in his voice.

“As though you find me beautiful! Or hold me dear to you!”

He laughs then, although there is little humour in it. “Are you mocking me?”

“I think you mock me, sir. All your pretty words about my singing and the things you said to me in the stables today…yet you would hide these from me? Give up on our marriage?”

“I am not giving up on our marriage!”

“But you are withdrawing from it. Are you not? That is what this is about, lessening your presence in our lives.”

“It’s clear that other than assisting your father adjust, I am no longer needed here, and that will only be a temporary requirement. He will get better, and soon. Therefore –”

“You are needed! I need you!”

Peeta is finally silent then. As am I, as the truth of the words manifests in my chest. I have come to rely on him in so many ways I can scarcely take stock of them, not just in helping to care for my father. Our lives have become…entwined. He remains silent as I hand the drawings back to him.

“You made me beautiful,” I accuse again. “I am scarred and you have made me beautiful.”

“I did not. I draw you as I see you. You are already beautiful. Scars could never change that.”

“Then perhaps you need spectacles,” I say as he shuffles the papers together and sets them on top of the desk.

“I assure you, my eyesight is perfect.”

“Really? Such a claim to make when you are blind to what is right in front of you. Circumstances have changed since our betrothal.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he says with frustration and a hand in his hair.

“Therefore I think it time we re-examine the terms of our alliance.”

“Of course, madame. As you wish,” he says, with a slight incline of his head. All business and aloof, perfunctory.

“Grant me patience! You are insufferably noble sometimes.” I grasp his hand and drag him from the room. Up the stairs as he questions what I am doing. I do not stop, nor do I answer him until we are in our chambers.

Mary stands, wide eyed, from a seat by the fire. “Mrs. Mellark, I–”

“Your services are not needed tonight, Mary. Enjoy the evening,” I say, uncaring what sort of servants’ gossip my actions will unleash. She curtsies and races from the room with one astonished look over her shoulder at me. I shut the door in her wake and lock it. There will be no interruptions tonight.

All of my bravado vanishes when I face Peeta.

Despite the fact that we consummated our marriage in the stables today – oh good heavens! I consummated my marriage in a bed of horse food. Father Crane was quite right in calling me a tart when I was fifteen and still running around in breeches. Now my transgressions have taken on a new form and my cheeks burn as Peeta stands there and waits. Clears his throat and watches me expectantly.

“Now what, madame?”

His insolent smirk gives me a conduit for my frustrations and I stand tall, lifting my chin to deliver my next words.

“Now you take me to bed.”

I am left reeling by my own words. That is not at all what I meant to say! and Peeta’s lifted eyebrows reveal that it is not what he expected to hear me say.

“It’s a little early for that. What will the servants say?” I scowl at this, at the knowing look in his eyes that tells me he has determined my dislike for being the topic of gossip in the kitchens.

“I have had a most trying day. How do you know I am not seconds away from hysteria and need to take to my bed?”

“I rather doubt that, Katniss. As you have told me repeatedly, you are not so fragile. Try again.”

“I need a reason to take my husband to bed?”

“I’m not certain that it is a good idea, given–”

“Of course it is. You take me to bed, removing my corset this time. Don’t think I didn’t notice you neglected to remove my clothing this afternoon–”

“I was concerned with being discovered. I thought it wise to leave you somewhat dressed in case we needed to respond with haste.”

“Yes, well that is a fine excuse, but I have locked the door and we are husband and wife. What we will do in our bed is quite expected.”

“Quite expected,” he says and takes a few hesitant steps towards me. He gazes down at me with fire in his blue eyes. “How very…responsible of you, madame. You are playing pious again, hiding behind duty. Or is that what you truly want? The way you were today in the stable, and last night, was that all an act to convince me to consummate this sham of a marriage? To perform my duty to you?”

“No,” I deny, unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, nor my mind from the memory of what extraordinary things that mouth has done to me, even as my heart aches at his words. “And our marriage is no sham!”

“Then what happens tomorrow morning? What am I to you then? A nuisance?”

“You are my husband, my partner, my…” I gasp out and lift my eyes to his. He seems a little stunned. I fill the silence with words I cannot seem to stop. “I expect you to wake beside me tomorrow and perhaps kiss me before we dress, then break the fast with me. I expect you to plan adventures with Maysilee while we eat and to be there for her as you have been. She has come to love and rely on you and I will not see you break her heart. I wish to work more on our book, as we were…distracted today and did not accomplish much on it.” As I speak, my words gain strength and conviction. “I want you to ride with me, and my father tomorrow, to help me show him how we have cared for our home and to see to any pressing needs. You are expected at dinner and then in whatever family amusements claim the evening. And after all of that, I expect you in this room, in that bed,” I fling my hand towards it now, “With me, where you will sleep beside me unless we choose to not sleep. And I most certainly expect flowers and a drawing from you. You promised them, and I took you for a man of your word, Peeta Mellark, a man with a sense of honor that is unmatched.”

I turn away then, unable to face the possibility that I have read this entirely wrong and just made a fool of myself. He grasps my arm and turns me back to face him. “Our home?”

“Yes, you obstinate bastard. Our home,” I say, although there is no bite in my words, because I can see in his eyes that those two words are precisely what he needs to hear.

Our home. And it has become so, hasn’t it. Just as I can no longer imagine Everdeen without Madge and Maysilee, Peeta too has planted himself firmly into this place. Without him…I do not even want to consider it.

But at the moment, I can see that his fears need assuaging. I see in his eyes the flickering remains of a child whose world was upended first with death then with a simple game played with the wrong boy. But wrong to whom? I see the pain of a boy on the cusp of manhood abandoned by the only person left whom he’d known to love him unconditionally, abandoned for a supposed chance at a better life in the dubious care of those who would spend years making him feel unwelcome, unwanted, inferior, even as they saw him educated and dressed in fine clothes. And I see the ghost of a man who was sent away to the military when his presence could no longer be tolerated, with the expectation that he would not return. The shadows of the man who survived anyways and was then forced to relearn how to walk through a world that did not wish to see him for two reasons rather than one, and most especially I see the man who was coerced into marriage with his brother’s discarded fiancé. I understand fully the sting of that last one. I felt it myself the day we signed our engagement contract.

I can see in his eyes the reflections of a man who was required to be content with the leavings and table scraps, yet has somehow found it in his heart to create a life – a good life – here with me out of what could have easily been a misery. But Peeta has needed to act in this manner nearly his entire life, as a matter of survival, learning when his welcome had run thin and it was time to move on to another sphere or change his purpose to those around him.

No longer. His welcome has not run out here yet and I intend for it to never run out. We shall take the table scraps given us and make a feast.

I slide my hands up his chest then, up to his neck as I press my body to his. “I want you to be here tomorrow, Peeta, and the day after that, and the day after that one, just as you have been. You promised to love, honor, comfort, and cherish me, until death do us part, husband, and I will hold you to those vows. Are those terms agreeable to you?”

“I suppose those will work,” he says, his hands resting on my back, a light touch as he lowers his head towards mine. “You are not disappointed? Now that you are truly and needlessly stuck with the crippled, bastard son?”

“I know exactly who I married, and I am not disappointed at all,” I whisper right before he kisses me. I savour the touch of his lips to mine just for a moment before I allow myself to sink into his embrace, into the depth of feeling and sensation.

There is no rush this time, no frustration or doubt. No fear of being discovered nor interrupted. We both know where this kiss will end and yet neither of us are in a hurry to arrive there. He kisses me as though he has the rest of our lives to do so and yet it awakens a towering need inside me.

I search through fabric until I find the ends of his cravat and slowly untie it. Peeta lifts his head, ending one kiss and resting his forehead on mine as I pull the length of silk free and leave it on the floor.

“The poor valet,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. I laugh and guide his hands to the sash tied about my waist. He understands and grasps one end, pulling until the knot falls apart. We take slow steps towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothing across the bedroom floor as we undress one another. My skin tingles. Alive with the touches of air and Peeta’s skin on mine. Alive in the way one feels after a good, deep yawn, and yet I am not the slightest bit sleepy, despite my eyes drooping. They do so with want. We peel off layer after layer until we are down to my chemise and stockings, his trousers and shirt as we come to stand right beside the bed.

He kisses me again, a language more profound than words, in some ways, his hands gently holding my jaw. We reaffirm territory already explored. The taste of him sparks recognition and comfort as well as desire now. The trailing of my fingers down his neck, down over soft linen shirt, down to his waist, gives rise to such goose flesh and need. His eyes never leave mine as I gather fabric in my hands and lift. Up and up and over his head until I must stand on my toes and then can reach no further. Peeta takes over then, discarding his shirt and standing motionless for me to examine him.

I allow my eyes to roam over the expanse of skin now bared to me, uncertain where to even begin touching him. I step back slightly and take him in – the broad shoulders and chords of muscle on his arms, the burn scars extending down from his face to cover one side of his neck and splay over his left shoulder, like a handprint forever etched onto his skin in flames, the touch of violence and war leaving its visible marks on him. A curved line over his ribs that looks like it was perhaps caused by a knife. The scattered dark blonde hairs on his chest that tighten into a line pointing down, down to his trousers where I cannot see the end but am eager to find it.

“Are you simply going to stare all night, wife?” he asks, and while there is teasing in his tone, there is also a slight thread of uncertainty. I lift my palms and set them on his pectorals, breaking the thread of uncertainty and casting it aside.

He is so warm and solid, like a stone kept in fire to heat and soothe in the coldest of winters. His breathing lifts his chest and my hands in unison, and with a quick glance at his eyes to ensure that I am not overstepping, I run my hands over him, learning the shape and the feel of him beneath my palms. Up to his shoulders then down his arms to his wrists where my fingers tickle slightly before venturing back up to his shoulders.

I trace the outline of fire branded into his skin, watching my fingers as they skim over ridges and crests. We are both of us marked by flames. A pair of beasts forged in fire and branded as unwanted. A scarred should have been a spinster woman, and a crippled bastard man. I can feel tears in my eyes as I think on the pain I endured and how such pain exists in his past as well, perhaps tenfold with his leg. I flatten my palm over the scars and lift my gaze to his.

Without a word spoken between us, I somehow know that we understand one another in ways few others can. So I continue learning his body. My palm skimming over heated flesh, curving over the scar on his ribs, meandering down to his abdomen.

As in the stable, certain muscles of his flinch and contract, but he remains planted where he stands and allows my exploration. I step forward and slide my hands around his waist to his back, finding that expanse to be much the same. Warm, solid, responsive to my touches. I cannot look at him as a curiosity takes hold and I press my mouth to his skin, just at the edge of one scar. He sighs and finally moves, lifting one hand to my hair. He plucks pins from my tresses as I kiss him. They fall discarded to the floor with each caress of my lips over him until my hair hangs loose down my back.

Peeta buries one hand there, cradling my head gently as I explore with my lips as I did with my hands. He lifts his other hand to caress over my shoulder, to move aside my chemise and mirror the touches over my own scars. When my lips reach the barrier of his trousers, though, his hand tightens in my hair and he brings me up to stand before him again.

“Now your turn,” he whispers with a smile so beguiling, I can forgive the interruption of my exploration. Especially when he first joins our mouths in a heated kiss that soon has me clawing at his chest and his neck, bending my body to bring myself as close to him as possible. I feel the hard proof of his arousal against my belly so that when he grabs fistfuls of my chemise, I eagerly lift my arms for him to remove it, shivering only slightly as the removal of the fabric, warmed from its hours spent so close to my body, leaves me slightly chilled and standing before him in naught but my stockings.

Peeta takes my hands in his then and lifts my arms out to my sides, his eyes taking their turn in roaming over me, their blue depths lit with an unmistakable flame of desire. I cannot hold such an intense gaze and drop my eyes, only to see the effect I already know our kisses and touches have had on him in the tenting of his trousers.

I look away then, focusing on the candle set beside our bed as he steps closer. Then his lips brush over my skin, on my shoulder. Higher until he reaches scars. I hear a soft sigh, ripe with longing and wonder if I am responsible for such a sound or if he is.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, his fingers scarcely touching me as he caresses over my body. He traces round my navel, down to tease dark curls, then back up to circle nipples, with such reverence that I am tormented, burning and yearning yet not ready to move on from how this feels.

“Draw me like this?” I gasp and he laughs, the sound light yet somehow tortured.

“Not now?”

“No, of course not,” I say. Then something occurs to me as I cling to his shoulders and my knees quake with the kisses he paints over my neck, the way his fingers barely seem to connect with my skin as he traces over shoulder blades then down my spine to my hips, arcing over swells and curves, teasing hidden places. “Would I have to pose for you?”

“Not unless you wish to, my love. You are now etched permanently in my memory. I do not think I will ever forget the way you appear right this moment.”

“Oh,” I say, more in response to his kisses than to his words. They leave me aquiver in a most delicious manner.

“I would have to hide that drawing in a very secure place, for I do not wish to share you in this state with anyone else.”

“Nor I you,” I murmur. His lips gift me with sweet, indulgent kisses, sensual licks and suction that makes my eyes roll back in my head and my knees weaken to the point that they buckle and he has to hold me upright. “Oh God my thoughts were quite right about you that day we met.”

I have to step out of his embrace and sit on the bed, moving to the center, away from him before my brain is turned completely to slush and my skin burned away to ash.

“Oh?” he asks, a smile playing about his lips.

“You have a sinner’s touch,” I say and he laughs, his cheeks turning pink.

“You make it sound like I am a rake.”

“Well, it is twice now that you have gotten me into bed and failed to remove my corset…”

“You weren’t wearing one tonight,” he says, his voice dark and delicious. “And we weren’t in bed earlier.”

“Details,” I say with a flippant wave of my hand and then wait for him to proceed. He does not at first, and I decide to give him some encouragement.

“Go on then,” I motion towards his lower half and bite my lip.

He shakes his head, smiling slightly as he begins to unfasten his trousers while my teeth bite deeper. My pulse spikes once or twice in anticipation. I’ve never seen all of him, not even this afternoon in the stables, my skirts and our bodies blocking my line of sight. His eyes stay on mine, perhaps searching for doubt or regret, but he will not find any, for I feel none.

He turns and pushes the garments down. I am gifted with a brief view of taut buttocks and narrow hips before he sits to finish removing his clothes and his false leg. Then I am given the chance to truly admire his back and shoulders and the strength so readily apparent in them. I’ve already experienced that strength, plucked from the mud with such ease, like a dandelion after it has gone to seed.

Bracing one hand on the bed, he turns to face me, halting on his knee and the truncated end of his left leg and spreading his hands to his sides for my examination, one eyebrow quirked and his head cocked in question.

I am leisurely in my perusal of him, his thick thighs of which I am already somewhat familiar, the thin trail of hair that I can now see fully, leading all the way down to a thatch of more cradling the source of my curiosity and many a maid’s anxieties. Yet I can no longer feel anxious, now that I already know how it feels to be joined with Peeta and that he will take care with me. It is a good thing too, otherwise I might be concerned that he would not fit. I am fortunate to already know that he fits quite well. There is, however, one detail that inflames my cheeks and teases my desire to new heights.

“Are you blushing, husband?”

I refer to the pink shade of his engorged flesh, so striking set against the rest of his fair skin. He glances down and blushes in truth, his cheeks and neck turning a matching, ruddy color.

“I suppose in a way I am. Not out of embarrassment, though, I assure you madame.”

“Hmmm, I should think not,” I tease and rise to my knees, crawling upright on them towards him until I can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto mine. I glance down then and reach out to watch my own motions as I touch him. Peeta sucks in a sharp breath and rests his hands on my elbows in a light touch. “I am not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” he says through a strained laugh. “Though I may expire from this.”

“Is it not acceptable for a wife to touch and discover what pleases her husband? You did for me,” I whisper and he sways but does not stop me. I marvel at the heat of him, the weight in my palm and the contrast of softness and rigidity.

“It is perfectly acceptable.”

“Am I doing this wrong then?”

“God no,” he says with such vehemence. “Your touch is… so pure.” If I were not already blushing, that would turn me bright red. Then something terrible occurs to me. A brief image of another woman touching my husband thus. A woman who knows how to please him where I am only just beginning to learn, and perhaps the purity of my touch is not a compliment.

“Have you been married before?” I ask, my grip tightening in reflex as the cursed words leave my mouth. I never thought to ask before now. Peeta groans and sets his hands over mine. He leans towards me and begins kissing my ear.

“No, Katniss. I have never been married before, and before you ask again, I have lain with two others before you. One was due to the stupid impetuousness of youth, the other lasted only one night and happened because I was feeling sorry for myself, certain that I would die alone a crippled soldier. They were both well over a year ago, nearly five years ago in the case of the first.”

“Oh,” I say, a strange lightness lifting my spirits as our eyes meet, my hands still full of him. “Did you remove their corsets at least?”

He laughs then, full and hearty. “I honestly do not recall enough of either encounter to remember such details. I was not in a fair state of mind… to be frank, I was drunk.”

“A tactful answer. Will you forget me then and blame the wine?” I say and he glances down at where I have him in hand. My eyes follow his for a second before meeting his blues once more.

“I am not exactly in a position to anger you and limp away unscathed, madame.” I blush furiously at that, but there is something in his eyes that makes me feel bold and empowered, rather than chastened or cowed. Somehow I know, Peeta is enjoying both our banter and our touches as much as I. He leans forward and brushes his lips over mine. “And I am completely, blissfully aware of everything we have done today. It will not be easily forgotten.” His words flow through me, intoxicating like wine, and warm. Mollified, I am able to tease him further.

“Are you not going to ask me how many men I have lain with?” A smile curves his lips and mine mirror the action. I tilt my head and shoulders in what I hope is a coy expression.

“God do I love your spirit,” he whispers as he cups my jaw in his palms again and kisses me. “How many men have you lain with before me, Katniss?”

“None, and I shall thank you to never ask me such an insulting question again, husband,” I say with false superiority and no bite to my words. I could not summon any if I wanted to. My lips are consumed with kissing him and my hands with touching him, learning him. In between kisses, he whispers to me. He whispers words of guidance and promises. Such delicious promises that make me eager to hand the reins back to him, but not before I am completely familiar with his body.

It is not long before his breathing turns ragged and his eyes hazy. His head tips back and he bites into his lip. The sight of him thus makes me think of what he did with his mouth in the stables. Surely there must be an equivalent act for me to perform for him. I kiss the hollow of his throat and am working up the courage to try loving him with my mouth when his hands drop to mine and pry my touch away from him.

“Stop. You have to stop.”

“Why do I?” I ask, confused and hurt.

“Because if you do not, I will spill all over your hands and the sheets.”

“Oh,” I say and let go of him. Then I was doing well, I think with a small thrill of pride.

I’ve no chance to ask him though, as his kisses have turned insistent. Passionate and deep as he shifts us both so that our naked bodies press together. I moan into his mouth, the sound undignified and desperate, but I cannot control the way his heat feels, engulfing me in a sensual embrace like nothing I have experienced before. The intimacy of flesh to flesh unparalleled in my memory as I cling to him and match his kisses as best I can, with every ounce of fervor I feel for him.

I know a moment of unsease as he lays me on my back and covers me, but then his mouth and his hands touch everywhere. I relax beneath his almost reverent kisses and yet I am strung tight as a bow, ready to spring. His hands precede his lips, and soon I am quivering on the sheets. Desperate so much so that when his hand curves around my hip, down to cup one thigh, I open my legs without question for him to settle between them.

His mouth returns to mine then and something slender slides inside me. “Oh mercy. Katniss,” he groans to the space between my parted lips then kisses me again, rough and fast before lifting his head to gaze down at me. “You overwhelm me.”

I cling to his arms as he touches me and finds hidden patches inside me that make me shudder and moan and beg. I can no longer draw a decent breath and plead with him, gasping his name and writhing against his hand, a sinful tart drawn to his touch.

“I wish to be inside you when you climax,” he whispers then bites gently on my ear. I give a breathless agreement and wonder to myself if he will be able to last. My only experience thus far is the stable, when he finished before and without me. Granted there was the way he kissed me to completion before that—

His fingers find the small patch of need his tongue worshipped in the stables and I cry out, the sound sharp and loud in our room. His mouth covers mine and our breaths make ragged music in the night as I plant me feet on the bed and let my hips move freely, seeking and aching for those rolling waves of release.

My muffled sounds crescendo against his tongue as I draw tighter and closer. My fingers rake bars of delight into his skin. I cannot get close enough and then he rolls on the bed, taking me with him so that I am sitting on his stomach, straddling him. My body aches, denied the pleasure it so desires, right on the cusp.

“What are we doing?” I ask, uncertain of his plans. I have no scullery tales, no whispers of maids nor cooks, nor even Madge to place what is happening as he pushes my hips up and back so that I hover over his erection.

“You are going to ride me,” he says and I sputter at that.

“What like a horse?”

“With a few noticeable differences but yes. Very much like a horse,” he says with a laugh and a cheeky smile. “More like bareback riding. And do not try to convince me that you’ve never ridden a horse bareback, you hoyden. I shan’t believe you if you try.” His words carry no insult, and so I take none, only desire and wonder. His hand caresses up my thigh then, back to my sex where he resumes what he was doing just seconds ago until I am mindless in my arousal and unable to hold still. “Yes, like that my pearl. Open for me.”

I vaguely feel him again, sliding past my entrance as his fingers leave me. A growing fullness and his low, elongated moan until my hips are flush with his and I am dizzy with the need to move, although I do not know how until Peeta rests his hands on my hips and guides me in a slow circle over him. I make an incoherent sound. My fingers dig into his chest and my head rolls back, hair brushing my back and his thighs. I find a rhythm and surrender to it, riding after the spreading pleasure that warms me throughout.

“Wait! Wait!” Peeta gasps and grasps my hips, holding me still on top of him. Frustrated, I growl and stare down at him, annoyed with the interruption, since there’s no good reason for it.

“What about…” he swallows before finishing his question. “…what about children?”

I glance around the room and growl again. “There are none here.”

“No,” he says with a slight laugh and a shake of his head. “No I meant the possibility.” He flattens his hand on my belly and I stare down at it. His fair skin almost pale against my darker tone. “Of… our children.”

My eyes meet his again as it registers, what he’s asking. “You want to discuss this now?”

“Admittedly my timing is poor.” His eyes drop to where we are joined and he makes a small whimpering noise as I shift my weight on him. “And I realise that I am also late raising this issue. Given what transpired this afternoon, but there are precautions we should take if you do not want children yet or at all…” he trails off as I laugh. I laugh and rest one elbow on his chest, leaning down onto my hand.

“Yes, I know. My mother is a healer after all. There was a tea she would give to women who did not wish more children. She tracked cycles on calendars to advise them on when to abstain.”

“I see,” he says. “So then you’ve had some of this tea recently?”

We remain motionless, joined together, prepared to copulate as I consider his questions. In an instant, I live a thousand moments with him by my side. Birthdays and holidays, every season and every harvest. A parcel of children in a motley mixture of our features crawling across the rug, clamoring for his attention, climbing into my lap for kisses and cuddles. Peals of potential laughter and the echoes of future joy bring tears to my eyes, an unbearable overflowing in my breast. If it feels this way to merely consider children, what would it feel like to carry them? To nurse them and raise them? To bestow all of this love I now feel surging through me upon them?

Exquisite. That is how it would feel.

For years I had never considered my own desires where children were concerned. Romance and marriage and family seemed such an unlikely possibility after the fire. Who would want a family with an unbiddable, scarred and surly hoyden? But as Peeta gazes up at me, his eyes shining in emotion, and I think on those sheets upon sheets of his hand forever capturing me on paper as someone beautiful and intriguing, I know. He would. I ask him despite this growing certainty, if only to hear him say it.

“Do you wish to have children, Peeta?”

“Perhaps some day. If you wish to,” he whispers but his hand caressing my belly, the rasps of longing in his voice, and the feel of him throbbing inside me speaks volumes. He is too wonderful with Maysilee. If there were anyone in this world that I would wish to have children with, it would be Peeta.

My body hums with the need to move, to love him and relieve his body if it’s seed, to accept him into my womb. I can feel a content smile curling over my lips then and the widening of his eyes as I lean forward and kiss him, our chests brushing together as I feel heavy with want, with need.

“Then there is no need for precautions tonight or any other night, husband.” To prove it to him, I begin to move again. His hold on my hips loosens, though he does not fully release me, only loosens his hold enough that I may once more move freely. I am glad of his touch, the flex of his fingers on me and the additional connection keeping me grounded to him.

“Take what you want, my love. See what feels best for you.” His whispered words barely register as he cedes control to me and I move my hips, my entire body over him as I test first one movement then another. Some create a slow, melting pleasure. Others cause bright bursts of it that are nearly unbearable in their strength. Still others coil as pressure low inside me. I recognize those feelings and follow them, bracing my hands on his chest and shoulders as I feel the need to move with more urgency and strength.

“What about you?” I ask at one point and he smiles at me.

“Your pleasure pleases me.”

Through it all, Peeta’s eyes remain fixed on me – on my eyes or my body as I move over him – but even when I look away for a moment to close my eyes and focus on the feel of him stroking inside me, against me, or of his hands spreading loving touches over my body, whenever I open my eyes, his are there to meet me again. And I can see in his gaze, the way he looks at me now, that his drawings are no lie at all. Moving over him thus, I feel exactly as he depicts me – beautiful, powerful, desirable, spirited.

We are unguarded in expression and I cry out for him to not stop when he takes one breast in his mouth, the heat and suction unleashing a torrent of mirror sensations as it builds and builds until I think that I can stand no more.

Then he rises up slightly, setting one hand behind him as he joins me in movement, bodies gyrating together. He caresses over my back, down to my buttocks where he flattens his palm on me and pushes me to ride him harder. His soft words and groans spur me on and I chase the rapture until it bursts inside me, an explosion of sensation.

I know that I scream. I know that I lose control of my limbs and my hips as I continue to move erratically. I know that Peeta grasps my hips with both hands, his hips rising up into me and his hands controlling my motions in bouncing on him in a handful of rapid pulses until he shouts into my neck.

As we lay there after, both of us heaving to gain control of our lungs, his fingers trace over me. The touch is gentle and sensuous, through the coat of perspiration dotting my skin and the gooseflesh arisen from his touch and the cooling of the air breathing over my naked skin. When I am able to look up at him, he is smiling. I shift to kiss his jaw and curl my body closer to his, although I am not certain it is physically possible. His lips press a kiss to my forehead and he begins to run his fingers through my hair.

“Satisfied?” He whispers to me.

“Not until you put my pictures back in your sketchbook where they belong,” I say, barely getting the words out before a yawn takes over.

“I will do that tomorrow then.”

“Now I am satisfied, husband,” I murmur and he chuckles softly. His fingers still comb gently through my hair as I fall asleep.

To be continued…look for chapter seventeen on the blog of @katnissdoesnotfollowback

#unmasked #m #everlarkficexchange #prompt 88 #everlark fic exchange #spring 2019 edition #so excited #but I have no time to read it today!#but I wasn’t going to keep it from you!#thank you m!#submission

162 notes · View notes

axelsagewrites · 5 years

Text

Welcome Home*Shadowhunters

Masterlist HERE

Wattpad HERE Alec, Isabelle, Magnus, Jace, Clary X Platonic!Lightwood!Reader

"uh," I groan and squeeze my eyes shut as sunlight blinds me in my bed. The shrill ringing of my phone is still going on. I roll over and lazily feel around for it before turning the alarm and prying my eyes open to see the time. 4:23 am. Uhh. I fling my phone somewhere and curl back up. Why am I getting up at 4 anyway? Wait, "Is it..?" this time I actually sit up and grab my phone, "It is. I'm late!" flying the covers off, I run to my wardrobe and stuff on jeans and a jumper over my pajama top. Grabbing the first suitcase, I begin cramming all my clothes inside, flinging my shoes in as well with some non-breakables. Suitcase 2. I sweep everything off my shelves and out of my drawers into my suitcase. mi not stupid so I save all my souvenirs and breakables for my backpack. Glancing over at my desk I sigh. I don't even pay attention to what papers I'm gathering as I try to make them neat enough to fit in a folder then in my bag. Finally done. The clock reads 4:56 here. Okay, this is fine. I double check for loose ends and when I'm sure I stand in the doorway and look over the room. This was-had been my room for the past year. I'd grown accustomed to it, loved it even. Despite its faults and culture shocks. As I walk along the hallways for the last time I nod to the few awake at 5 am. Most people awake were night shift desperate for a bed. They give me smiles and nods in returns, even a few goodbyes. I quickly duck into the kitchen. Hayato was hunched over the coffee maker. An older man with greying hair and wrinkles deep in his forehead and in his smile lines. He was always smiling, a good thing really as he was my mentor, "Morning," I said. He rolled his eyes and scrunched his lip up to his nose, "Or evening," I laugh. "I'm 58, I shouldn't still do the night shift," Despite his grumbles, he pours me a mug as well, "Here," "I should really be going; I only came for..." I trailed off knowing id sound stupid. He raised an eyebrow, "Your mug? It's in the cupboard," he smirks at my red face, "Nothing wrong with being a little sentimental," I shrug as I grab the 'I heart NY' mug my friends had given me before leaving. "See you later," Hayato didn't say goodbyes. He nodded, grabbing something from the cupboard, "For your collection," he added as I took the box. "Open it later." I nodded and left. I don't bump into anyone else as I head to the portal. We said goodbye last night. When I get their Kaori was waiting, "It was good to have you," I smile, "Good to be here." Normally her hair was pinned back but she left it down for once, a waterfall of ink down her back, "if you ever need anything just send word," "Same goes," She grins, "Okay go. You're missing them after all," I take a quick breath before stepping through the portal. I hate portalling. You feel weightless and there's always the chance of getting stuck. My eyes open to a sight and a half. All the stations were filled with people silently doing their work, like a perfect machine. Frightening. But New York had always been like this. When I didn't see any of them I began to retrace the hallways. Sure, it was a little different but also the same. It was dinner time here and it smelled like takeaway. The dining room was filled with quiet chatter. It used to be before I was even alive, that a cook would make the food for everyone and the dining room would always be filled. It's different though. Maybe 10 to 20 people are in here. Tony and David, two older men sit up at the top of the table playing cards like always and drinking a pint. Tony had been my teacher so when he saw me he nodded but cards were important. A group of pencil-pushing 30-year olds sat at one table, no one attempting to talk to them, eating their food while talking about work. About halfway down the middle table was a group of 4 teens. I leave my suitcases at the door and walk over. I drop my bag into the crook of my right elbow, silently. Moving silently without notice is one area of being a shadowhunter I always excelled at. I dropped the bag next to a chair, grabbed a chip off someone's plate, and sat down, "So what's the gossip?" I ask. They all turn to me, "(Y/N)!" Alec smiles, arms pulling me into a hug, "I didn't think you were back today," "It was a secret," I laugh as he finally realizes me. "Stop hogging (Y/N)," Izzy whines, forcing me to sit in between her and Alec and across from Jace. "I missed you," she says, hugging me as well. I let out a breath and look at Jace, "hey," "Hey," He said plainly before we both burst out laughing. He stands up gesturing me to do the same. Despite the table making it awkward we sort of hug over the table. I plonk back down, sliding Alec's plate my way, "Ah breakfast," I grin. Alec rolls his eyes and moves his plate in-between us so we can share. "And this is..?" "Clary, (Y/N). (Y/N), Clary," Jace introduces us. Holding my hand out to her, "Hello. I'm the loveable one of the groups," she laughs, and I grin and shake her hand. "I'm lovable," Isabelle says. "Same here," Jace joins in. Rolling my eyes, "Isabelle, I may love you but your lustable, not lovable," She smirks as Alec chokes on his food. "And as for Jace," he grins, "you're a prick." The table laughs. Before Jace starts a fight Alec cuts in, "How was Japan?" And so, I began recounting my tale. Obviously making it more interesting. "But that's boring," I say after telling the tale of Hayoto and I fighting this rare Japanese demon. My friends roll their eyes but clary's impressed. This would be fun, "What's happened here?" By the end of it I'm staring at clary, mouth gaping, "So you've been here for two months got your friend turned into a vampire, starting going with Jace-" She went to protest but I continued due to his arm being around her shoulder, "brought valentine back, and became a shadowhunter? No offense but please don't plan my return party. I don't think I could handle that," "Technically she didn't bring Valentine back," Jace said. "Is now really time for technically?" I ask, "And besides I think the biggest issue is I wasn't informed of Alec's boy toy," "Magnus isn't a boy toy," he argued with red checks. I give him a look, "Boyfriend then," "He's not," he mumbles. "What are you then?" He shrugs and looks down, "Dunno," I give him my best-shocked look before turning to Izzy, "And you allowed this? If Alec is dating someone it needs to be official so we can spill the tea," I get up from my seat, "Come skyscraper," he rolls his eyes at his nickname, "This cannot last," "What?" Rolling my eyes, I drag him up, "We are going to Magnus' to make this official," his face went pale, "And I need to meet this man," "No," "You act like this is optional,"So, there we are standing outside of the high warlock of Brooklyn's apartment at 8 in the evening for 'no reason'. The rest of the group had joined for 'moral support'. Alec didn't press the button fast enough, so I pressed it. "Who dares disturb the high warlock of Brooklyn?!" a voice boom. When Alec makes no move I step forward, "Hi it's (Y/N), Alec's sibling. We're going out for drinks and Alec wanted to see if you wanted to come," Alec tried to pull me away, but I managed to finish. He held his head in his hands while we waited for a response, "Give me 5 minutes," The door buzzed, and we all looked at Alec. "I'm going to kill you, slowly and painfully," I roll my eyes as did my sister. "Alec, calm down. You'll be thanking (Y/N)," Isabelle said, linking arms with me. 5 minutes isn't as long when you are taking the rise out of your blushing friend. Magnus walks out and I have to take a moment. I get he's not straight, but I thought this was a stereotype; skin tight blue glitter trousers, a black button-up shirt (clearly expensive), smoky eye, and the best highlight I've ever seen. Why does he look so good? Alec one this battle. Magnus grins at Alec and looks over the group, "You," he points at me, "Must be (Y/N)," "Yes, I am that lucky," I say. Jace rolls his eyes. "And you say I'm cocky," "But the difference is I have a right to be cocky. I'm amazing," I say in a 'duh' tone. Magnus cuts us off, "Well who's leading the way?" I look at Jace. "Why me?" "You'll know the way," I grin. He rolls his eyes, "Twas a compliment. Now onwards." As we're walking I hear Magnus ask Alec, "Has (Y/N) been drinking already?" My brother chuckles, "(Y/N) may be weird," understatement, "but it's never boring," "I can tell," I grin and turn, "Thank you," I fake curtsey before linking arms again with Izzy. I couldn't help but notice Alec holding Magnus' hand. The bar wasn't packed, so we were able to have space and play a couple games of pool. Clary had called Simon to join, (who was kinda cute and not as irritating as Jace said) and I bumped into Raphael. We weren't friends but we were? It was strange. We swapped insults, wit, and good gestures. Going back up to the bar I order a coke (pretending it was vodka coke) and sit down. I glance over the bar. Alec was playing pool with Jace, taking it too seriously, clary was watching and rooting for Jace making him smile for real. Isabelle was talking to Simon, making him uncomfortable and giggling at his mundane jokes. Giggling? Really? I smiled at the sight, taking my drink from Maia. "I'll have a Cosmo," Magnus said sitting beside me, "Thanks," he turned to me, smirking, "Do you drink? You can't pretend that's vodka coke with me," I shrug, "I don't need to be drunk to enjoy a night with the family. Someone's got to make sure they end up home in one piece," Magnus chuckled as he got his drink from Maia, "I never thought I'd get on with this many lightwoods," "We're a confusing bunch," He nodded, "Alec has defiantly proven that," "Your...?" He rolled his eyes with a smile. "Boyfriend, official if you must know," he said. I grinned, "Though I suspect you were the one that got him to talk," I shrugged, "Prove it," Magnus chuckled and held up his glass to me. We clinked glasses, "Welcome home,"

21 notes · View notes

siyeonrk · 5 years

Text

you go ahead, let your hair down.

let’s sing , a rendition of corinne bailey rae’s put your records on. september 22nd, 2019 at sphere’s green ribbon festival.

the last time she’d done this was on the mgas and what a trainwreck that had been ( and left her ) but if she’s going to do one thing out of the ordinary today, why not two?

it’d been a fairly last minute decision, stuck staring at the website the night before the event, her phone unlocked on the desk beside her. jeno’s texts stare back at her and she’s not really registering the words, not reading anything that’s coming through, lost in thought. is it a little selfish to wonder what he’d think? she picks it up, drops it back down. no, don’t ask. she sighs. he’s going to say do it, you already know. he’s going to tell you to do what makes you happy.

she signs up and forgets to text him back for thirty minutes.

when the afternoon comes, she’s embarrassed to admit she’s actually nervous. what for, she isn’t entirely sure, but there’s butterflies in her stomach and a shiver running down her spine that has her tugging her tracksuit jacket closer around her body. the run is first, but she’s thinking about the boy beside her, the stage that’ll inevitably be before her and trying her best not to let everything show.

“hmm? sorry, I was away with the fairies. what were you saying?” each time, jeno patiently repeats himself. she feels a little bad, but he still smiles and makes it all worth it.

park siyeon, you’re up next. she gulps. the backing track is ready on her phone, the previous performer on their final few lines and herself rocking side to side on her feet. she’s still a little warm and sweaty from the run ( and possibly her nerves, but she still won’t admit it ). it’s uncomfortable, but there’s not much she can do about it now, one of the staff holding her back until the girl before her has completely exited the stage. a moment later, she drops her arm, urges siyeon to go out and for a second, she freezes.

is this what stage fright feels like? did the mgas do this? the humiliation of being just enough to stay without leaving any kind of impact? almost like they were stringing her along. she sucks in a deep breath and exhales loudly. no. she can do this. she will do this.

three little birds sat on my window, and they told me I don't need to worry. summer came like cinnamon, so sweet, little girls double-dutch on the concrete.

maybe sometimes we've got it wrong, but it's alright. the more things seem to change, the more they stay the same. ooh, don't you hesitate.

girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song. you go ahead, let your hair down. sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams. just go ahead, let your hair down.

you're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.

the song she’d chosen is a relaxed yet uplifting classic. it’s hard to resist a good summer song this time of year, as the warmth is starting to peter out and the sun sets a little earlier each day. she doesn’t remember when this song came out, she’d only been five at the time, but it reminds her of summers since; seemingly endless days with her grandparents, the people she loved more than anyone else in the world. they’d go to the park, roam seoul’s streets for thrift shops, street food. her grandmother would plait her hair to keep it out of the food as they cooked together, her grandfather recalling stories of his own childhood to help her sleep at night. she misses them. a small, sad smile and she begins to sing.

blue as the sky, sunburnt and lonely, sipping tea in a bar by the roadside. (just relax, just relax) don't you let those other boys fool you, got to love that afro hair do.

maybe sometimes we feel afraid, but it's alright. the more you stay the same, the more they seem to change. don't you think it's strange?

girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song. you go ahead, let your hair down. sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams. just go ahead, let your hair down.

you're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.

she trembles quietly at first, her posture a little stiff as she grips the microphone stand with both hands, but as the chorus builds, her shoulders loosen, her smile grows. she pulls the mic out, watches the cable as she moves to the side, claps her free hand to the beat against her other. as was the case on the mgas, she fluctuates; a smidgen too soft, a smidgen too strong. but as time passes, she falls into a comfortable range just over where she should be. adrenaline rushing through her body, she sings to the crowd as if it’s an arena of thousands, as if they’re here to see her. she leans towards them, moves around the stage— probably only embarrasses herself by how comfortable she becomes once she gets going, but for the time being, it doesn’t matter at all.

she’s already through two verses and choruses, slipping into the bridge. she’s already most of the way there, but she can’t help but wish it didn’t have to end.

'twas more than I could take, pity for pity's sake. some nights kept me awake, I thought that I was stronger. when you gonna realise, that you don't even have to try any longer? do what you want to.

all that remains is two repeats of the chorus, lyrics she could sing in her sleep by now. she tries to show off a little, fits in a run where it likely makes no sense for one. it’s all a bit of fun and maybe that’s the difference from the mgas. today, she’s singing to sing. on the mgas, she was singing to prove herself — to validate herself in the eyes of someone else. it’s kind of sad when she looks back on it, but she’s too stubborn to admit it means more to her than she lets on.

the backing track takes care of the adlibs behind these last few lines, though she wishes she knew enough about audio editing software to have made them herself. maybe next time.

girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song. you go ahead, let your hair down. sapphire and faded jeans, I hope you get your dreams. just go ahead, let your hair down.

ooh, you're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.

as the world fades to ‘silence’, a small applause replacing the melody she’d become so familiar with, the sinking feeling of dread settles back into her stomach. it’s almost as if she remembers where she is suddenly, the eyes on her. she barely remembers to bow before her breath catches in her throat. she’s tucking the microphone back into the stand, rushing off stage to allow the next performer to come on. crashing into his chest is instinct, fingers clutched around his shirt and wordlessly, he rubs her back until her breathing evens back out.

stubbornly, she asks, “so I totally rocked it, right? obviously the best of the day,” and he grins.

#rkgreenribbon #* solo!#* live!#( wc; 939 )#tw: panic #( very brief at the end; it's the result of stage fright! )

2 notes · View notes

go-diane-winchester · 5 years

Text

Misha Collins cant keep track of his own lies.

Misha ''I was a homeless kid' Collins was interviewed by an art magazine, because apparently he is very artsy fartsy. Whilst given the opportunity to speak about his supposedly favoritist subject: himself, Misha couldn't remember all the fallacies he had spouted over the years. I guess Misha figured his mostly underage, deranged fanbase might be too busy, furiously fingering themselves to badly written fanfiction, to actually read something from an intellectual source. Something tells me that, just like in the mugging case, this reporter wasn't quite buying his lies. Here are some of the highlights, with Misha's self-indulgent rambling in italics, and with my running commentary in bold [the interviewer is in bold italics]:

''Like most kids, I liked making things with my hands, and my mother helped facilitate this when I was pretty young. But I followed that impulse to an apprentice-level devotion. I would seek out woodworkers when I was 10 or 11, going into shops and learning how to use a lathe or – just asking. I grew up in western Massachusetts, and by the time I got into high school I was fully into this – just talking to people and learning things from them in person.''

So his hippy, drug addict mom who stashed pot down her youngest child's underwear for fear of being arrested, and who, for a short time, raised poor Misha in a car, honed his artistic skills when he was pretty young? When? When they were living in the woods? And using a bowl of ice as a refrigerator? So either his story of his childhood is greatly exaggerated or....yeah, that's all I got. How gullible does he think people are?

Then in high school, I needed a job, so I started doing some manual labor.

So whilst at his elite private school, where there are rich dads and moms dropping off their darlings every morning, Misha chooses manual labor. He likes to talk to people but he didn't speak to Mr and Mrs Moneybags? He could have been a petty gopher in one of their companies and fared better. After all, he needed a job. I wonder why he chose ''manual labor''? And why he chose to word it like that, instead of saying ''I became a carpenter's apprentice''. I guess it sounds honorable. That's is nothing dramatic about saying that you flip burgers at McDs. Saying that you work in a menial, underpaid job for a multimillion dollar company, does have a more dramatic feel to it.

I built that barn on my mother’s property. Our house had burned down, so with the insurance proceeds, we built that and...

Wait, wasn't Misha's mom a pothead who lived in a car for some time with her two children? Now, not only does she have property but she has the money to pay for insurance. When did you live in the car, Misha? When the house burnt down? Why didn't you live in that house you showed footage of, on twitter? Its a nice house, complete with Christmas stockings. It doesn't quite gel with your underprivileged childhood narrative, but nice nonetheless.

I worked a lot when I was in college, probably 30 hours a week most of the time. I did some handyman stuff, some carpentry stuff. After sophomore year, I took a year off. I interned at the [Clinton] White House, worked at NPR, became an EMT, started a summer camp for kids. It was a great year.

What is he? A career whore? So he was artsy fartsy, but he worked everywhere doing jobs that were unrelated to each other, instead of staying in his field of carpentry, and making money from that. He got EMT certification. Was it free? Did he pay for it with his tuition fees? What was the purpose of it, if making money for fees was of paramount importance? That doesn't make sense, because if he was working 30 hour weeks, when did he have time to study? The average work day is a tad longer, about 40 hours a week. And if he was studying and working, when was Superman sleeping? Why was he working so hard? To put himself to college, don'tcha know. Even though colleges offer student loans and don't accept their fees in installments. And yet, he took time off for one year after sophomore. Was it to make a lot of money for his tuition fees? Nope, it was to become an EMT and start a summer camp for kids. I guess summer camps are big business and you can pay off great debts if you start one. Good to know. His internment at the Whitehouse only lasted four months, and yet he has acquired all the knowledge there is to acquire, to become a political knowitall on twitter. Sidenote: Is it normal for internships at the Whitehouse to last, such a short time. I am genuinely curious, because it doesn't sound right.

This is where I think the interviewer started to sound like she was side-eyeing the wood working maestro and his yarns of tall tales.

After graduation you got into acting, and in 1999, you moved with Victoria to Los Angeles for film and television work. There, in 2001, you bought your first house. Tell us about it. You were a starving actor?

Yeah. Right after we bought it, our realtor said, “There’s a TV show that would like to shoot your house.” They brought this [house-hunting] couple through, and when we saw the episode, they had surveyed the house and were like, “We don’t want to touch this piece of s---.” It was a real wreck, had been seriously neglected. It was built in the 1920s, and built by people who weren’t carpenters, didn’t know what they were doing. It was built so poorly, and everything was sagging – the window frames, the eaves.

Can you believe that? The starving actor bought a house. Let that sink in. He recognized that the house was built by non-carpenters [how was this building standing. Twas a miracle, I tell you.] And despite being a starving actor with a small amount of money, and a knowledge of carpentry, he bought a house that was badly built by non-carpenters. So he knew he was buying a liability. Why?

The kitchen floor you put in is beautiful. Yes, that’s gunstock, from a gun manufacturer in Northern California.

Mr Gun Free supporting the Gun manufacturing industry. Man, this guy is a hypocrite.

You lived in that first house for 11 years. Do you still own it? We rent it out to some lovely people who love it, so it’s good.

Fun fact: Mr Humble Pie has two pieces of property. And he is making money off of one, but he chooses to attend cons with the same torn T-shirts from years ago, or has to fleece off of Jensen's wardrobe and generosity, otherwise he would be doing his panels naked, poor thing. Why doesn't he stop his cruises for a year, and use that money to buy decent threads? One shirt can last a few years. The lies are embarrassing, but miraculously his minions believe him.

On the way to this house, you became very successful with this hugely popular TV series. Life changed. Do you still manage to make time for handwork?

Yeah. I’ve discovered that I really like working. Work can be respite for me, and switching gears is really key. Going from working on scripts to working with my hands is therapeutic, for sure. I am still managing to work with my hands. I was just doing some woodworking yesterday. I do a lot of cooking. That’s a big part of my life, and also I think a barometer of emotional health. When I’m not cooking, it’s a sign that I’m too stressed out and I’ve got to dial things back a little bit. I do a lot of canning. I put up 120 jars of blackberry jam this fall.

What an irony! One of the greatest instigators of stress for his co-workers and their fans, gets stressed out himself. Yeah, guilt can do that. Plus, he likes quantifying accomplishments. That is why Gish exists. Quantity over quality.

Which artists inspire you? I love Christo and Jeanne Claude, because of the mind-bending scale on which they’ve created things, like they’re rethinking what’s possible. I’m somebody who kind of likes to break rules, to bend rules when appropriate.

I could write a whole big post, on Misha's rule breaking and bending. From stealing Whitehouse property [and bragging about it] to telling fans about the scratched line in the Crypt which got Jensen a barrage of abuse on Twitter. The one thing that he spoke about that doesn't make sense is his story about almost getting arrested for reading a book on a building rooftop. It makes no sense. There is a portion of the story that is missing, I'm sure. Misha is a great exaggerator.

Have you turned any Supernatural castmates on to craft? On a set, there’s tons of downtime, a lot of sitting and knitting and crocheting. And I have occasionally been in the mix there. Last year Jensen [Ackles], my co-star, walked up and saw me knitting, and he just looked at me and said, “Really?” But I could tell there was jealousy behind it, more than criticism. So I’ll teach him to knit, and it’ll be fine. We’ll get through this.

Will you look at that? There are around 70 people on set at any given time. Many of them must have seen Misha knitting. And look who Misha decided to mention. Was that a ''just in case, a nutty heller is reading this'' insertion? No mention is made of Jared, because who cares about him, right? Got to give the crowd what they want. I am side eyeing the knitting claim myself, because I do knit and having seen a photo of him knitting, I can safely say that, that is not how you grasp at the yarn. You knit with loose fingers because yarn is abrasive.

The first big project we did with Random Acts was we built an orphanage and community center in Haiti. I would not have thought that was a tackle-able enterprise if I didn’t have a background in building. Our biggest fundraising driver for the projects that we do – like building a school or an orphanage – is we bring folks down in groups of 25 or so to Haiti or to Nicaragua, and they help in the building process. We roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty.

Wow, he built the 500K orphanage with his own hands, but didn't think about lights for the children. His response regarding the lights was ''it's Haiti and it takes three f*cking years to get an electrician''. Wow, I am a third worlder too, but we have electricians. How backwards is Haiti that he couldn't find a single electrician in the whole country, to light the place up for the poor orphans? He couldn't squeeze in one electrician in the group of 25 or so. Are there no philanthropic electricians in his circles? My word, electricians are such selfish people, don't you think? They don't want to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty. Why couldn't he just pay for one instead of waiting three years? Fun fact: According to their website, the orphanage, aka, the Jacmel children's center houses only 15 children, but another page says there are 27 children living in the house. They don't know how many children they are looking after. But that is still a small amount. So where did all these kids go?

Misha either staged this picture with school kids on an excursion or all those kids got adopted by the staggeringly high quantity of rich couples living in Haiti, right Misha? SMH

This question made me smirk. The interviewer had to know Misha has never been to public school. Look how Mr Bleeding Heart answers the question.

As we know, art programs in K-12 public schools these days are in decline, especially shop class, manual arts. How can we nurture creativity in kids, and why is that important? When I was 9 years old, I had a paper route. One day my younger brother and I were collecting money, and Mr. Haigis answered the door. He started talking to us, and he discovered that our parents were separated, and we didn’t live with our father. In the 1960s, he had run a woodshop for little kids. He had stopped doing it because he got busy with his career. Now he was retired. These two boys show up delivering papers on his front stoop, and it just comes to him: “I’ve got to do the same thing for those kids.”

So Mr Haigis left all the poor, underprivileged children and decided to help these two boys who were going to an elite school? Sounds legit. What about public school children, Mr Haigis? Don't you care about them?

I was a starving actor for at least a decade.

Misha was a starving actor who worked on 24 projects before getting SPN, but he still managed to buy a house. Fun fact: he was an associate producer on a docu-movie, ''Loot'' which won best documentary at the LA film festival. His movie didn't need sock puppets to win this one. Misha should produce more. That way he wont be on screen, festering up the frame. The less we see of him, the better.

http://www.jacmelchildren.org/about/team/

http://www.jacmelchildren.org/

https://craftcouncil.org/magazine/article/builder-baker-angel-maker

23 notes · View notes

thexsisters · 5 years

Photo

Because @grxnadxs deserves all things good and euphoric~

BoA & Haneul

“Red, I’m home. You’re officially off babysitting duty.”

“Good blazes. It’s about time you showed up. Small Fry is ten times the handful now that he’s walking and talking.”

BoA laughed softly while being handed the twin girls as the pirate had made them corny paper pirate hats for them to wear. She had no doubt that once all her little ones were old enough, the pirate lord would take them all a ride on her ‘special’ ship.

After setting the girls down in their cribs for their afternoon nap, she decided to try and find her son. It was normal for Red to lose the little boy who was becoming more and more like his mother every day. Energetic and mischievous. Wondering if maybe he wanted some cuddle time with his mama, the tiny queen ventured into her and her husband’s bedroom only to find something very interesting.

“Hi, mommy!”

“Taekwoonie----What are you wearing?”

BoA had walked in on her son rummaging around her husband’s dresser drawer that held all of his ties. Having picked out a flashy red one, the little boy had tried to wear it like a lady’s scarf. He was wearing his Iron Man t-shirt and dark dress jeans to go along with the tie.

“I’m gonna go to work with daddy tomorrow, mommy!”

“You are? Does daddy know about this?”

“Nope! I’m gonna surprise him!”

The tiny mother was now crouched down in front of her son smiling in amusement. She had no idea what caused her son to come up with such a plan but it was hilarious all the same. If it wasn’t for possibly embarrassing her son, she’d take a picture right here and now to show her husband. Deciding to figure out what was going on here, she asked casually,

“So why do you want to go to work with daddy tomorrow? Is Auntie Red no fun anymore?”

“Nope. Auntie Red is funny. I like her. But I heard daddy talking and I think he’s sad. And when daddy is sad, mommy is sad. And I don’t want mommy to be sad.”

Even though her son’s logic was a little winded, she had a pretty good idea what he was trying to say. The other night, her husband had confided in her once more how he feared he would have no heirs to his company. She had done her best to comfort him and reassure him but of course in the end, they would allow their children to do whatever they wish with their futures.

“Okay. Then let’s both surprise daddy in the morning, okay?”

“Okay! Roger that, mommy!”

The next morning, the two had cooked up a plan and when it was time for the businessman to come down and join his family for a quick breakfast, he nearly fell backwards out of the doorway to the kitchen when he saw the sight in front of him.

Standing side by side with each a lunch box in hand, were his son and his wife. His son donning that same red tie as yesterday which Haneul had briefly noticed went missing this morning. That same Iron Man t-shirt, but instead of the dressy jeans he had on yesterday, BoA opted for him to wear a pair of black dress pants she often had him wear for red carpet events. Oh, and the tie was tied correctly this time by BoA herself. He really did look like quite the proud son as he stood there with his matching Iron Man lunch box.

Meanwhile, the queen had resisted the urge to dress more.....risque and settled for a long pencil skirt and tucked in, conservative blouse. She was holding a Wonder Woman lunch box that their son had got her for Christmas last year. He had told her that he and his father both thought she was the real Wonder Woman and it nearly had her in tears that Christmas morning.

While the little boy was racing towards the car his dad would have normally been taking by himself, said father leaned over to his wife and asked in an utterly confused tone,

“Is he feeling okay?”

“Yep. As far as I know.”

Taekwoonie’s first day at ‘work’ was an amazing one. For everyone involved. The staff loved him. Some commenting about how they hadn’t seen him since he was a baby while the female staff cooed and swooned over him. Telling him that his Iron Man t-shirt was super handsome. Of course they were all old enough to be his mother but in his young mind, he was the real ladies man.

Back in his office, Haneul was trying to focus but his wife had other ideas. “Bo---I need to get this document filled out and you’re distracting me.”

“Babe I can’t help it. You’re so sexy when you’re concentrating.”

“Yah stop touching-----”

“Mommy! Daddy! Christine showed me how to use the copier!”

Haneul was thanking his lucky stars. One more move from his wife and he was going to lose all self restraint and that only spelled trouble. Smiling warmly at his son, he said happily, “That’s great, Tae! You’ll make a great business man someday!”

“Like you, daddy?”

It had him stopping in his thoughts. The words were lost on him as he sat there in his seat; staring in awe at his son. Did he really think of his father that way? A great business man? Clearing his throat and composing himself, he nodded and said happily,

“Here. Sit in the big seat. Check out the view from here.”

“Whoa! I can see everything! I can see our house!”

“Yep. I see the city every day. It’s really cool.”

“Can I come to work with you tomorrow too, daddy?”

And that was the queen’s cue to get another playfully naughty jab in there as she leaned on her husband’s shoulder and asked sweetly,

“Yes, daddy, can we come back again tomorrow?”

Good lord. These two were going to be the death of him.

Tiffany & Jin

“Babe, I’m home.”

“I’m in the kitchen.”

Jin slipped his shoes off as well as his coat and yes----It was now very plain to see, or rather smell, that the fairest doe was definitely in the kitchen. Curiosity getting the better of him, the male padded into the kitchen to see what was up.

This house. It was abandoned. Had been for years, perhaps even decades. So naturally it needed a lot of work. Tiffany took what money she had saved up and used it to buy supplies. It was then that the two of them went to work on fixing up the inside of the house but left the outside a mess. Why? So that no one would know they were squatters. Yes. They were squatters. But they were living the best lives of their lifetime.

“How’s my blogger babe?”

“Good. How’s my handsome private investigator? Crack that case you’ve been working on?”

It was perfect, really. Tiffany had taken the advice of her boyfriend and started up a blog where she shared her baking recipes and makeup tips. Of course she couldn’t give video tutorials for fear of being recognized but people still flocked to her blog. If only they knew they were fangirling over a girl they normally knew to hate and despise. It was bittersweet and yet felt like sweet revenge all at the same time.

Meanwhile, Jin wasn’t exactly on the police force anymore, but he was still getting to somewhat live the dream. After convincing his girlfriend that he could physically handle a gun again, he went and got a concealed carry and got his license to carry under his fake ID. The great thing about being in the police force, he knew all the tricks and knew how to avoid getting caught.

It wasn’t the white picket fence type of dream, but for them it felt just as fulfilling. They had jobs they loved, a roof over their head that had long paid for itself and its repairs, decent cars that they parked in the rundown attached garage. But now that things were falling into place, Jin had more.......domestic things on his mind lately.

“Dinner smells great but.......I want dessert first.”

“Jin. I have to watch the over. You don’t want the chicken to burn, do you?”

“No. But I’m more interested in this oven.”

She had been typing up an article for her blog when suddenly her fingers slipped on the keys and she nearly lost the whole page worth of work. Blushing heavily to where she could feel it on her neck and tips of her ears, she swallowed dryly and felt her boyfriend’s hands lovingly caressing her stomach.

“J---Jin---What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on, Tiff. You know what I’m saying. Let’s make a baby. I think it’s time.”

“But----”

She wiggled around in his hold so that he was no loner giving her a back hug. Instead they were now facing each other with the fairest doe’s eyes wide and full of worry and concern.

“But this is no life for a child. We’re still hiding from the world.”

“True. But we’re making it work. Think about it. People would have even lesser of a chance recognizing us if we had a child with us. And I’ve already thought about schooling. We can home school them. And we wouldn’t even need a babysitter because you already work from home. Think about it, babe. You know this can work. All you have to do is say yes. You’d look so adorable waddling around the house with our baby growing inside you.”

She had to admit, she wanted a family with him. But they weren’t even married yet. Sure she wasn’t a stickler for tradition but still. If she couldn’t have her original dream life, then she could at least have some of it. And being married was part of that. So like any couple would, she decided to compromise.

“Fine. I’ll give you a child if you give me a wedding ring.”

“Deal. I’ll fly us out tomorrow and BoA noona and Haneul can officiate our wedding.”

“You’ve been thinking about this.........I can tell.”

“Yep.”

Ivory & Taeyong

“I can’t believe we’re really here. In Paris. On our honeymoon.”

“I am just as surprised as you are, my love. Twas very generous of BoA to lend us her whole chateau for our honeymoon.”

The two pale immortals were sitting at the patio out on the balcony while sipping on some blood wine. Of course it paled in comparison to each other’s blood but it was nice for a change as well. Ivory would never forget that fateful night where her lover asked her to marry him right before she sunk her fangs and venom along with them into her lover’s bloodstream; successfully turning him into what she was. A vampire. A child of the night.

Of course she would marry him. She wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her eternal life with him. And now she could. The wedding had been beautiful and perfect despite it being such a secret. Neither one of them had blood family so the only family that attended was the rest of the sisterhood along with their lovers. It was still a beautiful day all the same. Well......beautiful night.

“I had no idea Paris was so beautiful at night. I mean I had seen pictures in magazines that customers brought in but they aren’t anything like the real thing.”

“Indeed. BoA spoke of how breathtaking the sights are at night time.”

“I can’t wait to live the night life with you every night, Ivory. I really don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.”

The pale royal smiled over at her husband and felt herself glow with happiness. Something told her she wouldn’t get tired of it either. This eternal adventure with her husband. Her soulmate. Her everything.

BoA & Sungmin

“Yah. Stop laughing, noona! It wasn’t that funny.”

“Aigoo. I can’t help it! I told you to be careful when getting out of the gondola.”

Soaked. They were absolutely soaked and smelled like fish but the tiny queen couldn’t help but laugh her royal butt off. Especially when a small fish had flapped and flopped his way out of the male’s hoodie. Well the hood of his hoodie. Giggling, she said in great amusement,

“Your hood makes a great fishing net.”

“Noonaaaaaa. Shush it!”

It had been her first ever gondola ride. Ever. And it was one she would never forget. And there was no one she would have rather spent it with. This boy----This young man......he......he had changed her life forever. But did he even realize it? Probably not. But still, she was grateful. So very grateful. There he stood in all his embarrassed glory trying to ring out the water from his precious hoodie that he refused to toss for a new one.

They had taken the ride and it was perfect. They got to see all kinds of cool things about Venice since she had stated that Paris was getting boring again. Not to mention she wanted to lend her sisterhood sister Ivory and her new husband Taeyong her vacation home for their honeymoon. It all worked out great.

Until it was time to get out of the boat to let a new customer take a ride. Of course she was pretty sure the young male was the only one who saw it as a bad thing but she had a blast splashing around in the water. She had told him to be careful but the male had lost his footing when the boat rocked a bit and down they went. Or rather over they went. Even the gondolier had a good attitude about it; offering them help to get out of the water despite the fact that he too had fallen in.

“Come on, fish boy, let’s get back to the hotel and get dried off.”

“Yah. I like stupid face better. Go back to that one. It’s less embarrassing.”

“How about fish face?”

“Noona!!”

“Okay okay.” She laughed so hard she had to wipe a tear from her eyes while she lead the way back to their hotel. They had the perfect view. But of course the queen had insisted only the best for them and she wasn’t going to settle for anything less.

Life was getting better. Easier. Progress was slow but progress was progress no matter how small. She was slowly but surely gaining proper weight and getting good reports from her doctor in Paris. It felt like it was getting easier to breathe with every nod of approval her doctor gave her.

Not to mention she felt herself getting closer and closer with the male walking next to her. She wasn’t sure if he was doing better himself but if his change in attitude was anything to go by, she could only hope he too was improving. Since when had he become ten times more handsome than when they first met? She had no idea but it made her heart flutter.

Hatshepsut & Aedon

“Look. Are you sure this is a good idea? What if those god guys find out you’re doing this?”

“Those fools are stuck acting like musical nerds traveling from city to city. There’s no way they can weasel their way out of performing their musical duties and tracking us down.”

In other words, the Egyptian gods masquerading around as VIXX were currently stuck on tour in Japan. Little did they know that their punishment for the spoiled brat of a pharaoh may soon be coming to an end.

Egypt. She was going back home. Or at least what was a modern version of her home. And boy did it look different. This was definitely not what she was expecting. Buildings that were similar to ones back in Seoul only not as grand as Korea’s. But she wasn’t interested in that part of Egypt. No. She was after a different building.

A pyramid.

Her pyramid.

Her tomb.

After her private jet landed at the airport, she rented a car for them to take before having to make the rest of the travel by camel. Of course this didn’t bother her any, but it was quite amusing to see the male struggle a bit. She had to admit, when Aedon insisted on coming with her, she couldn’t quite understand why and he wasn’t up for sharing. Just shrugging and claiming he was bored and needed something to do.

It had taken a lot of sleepless nights but she had finally managed to track down what she believed to be her tomb. Her final resting place. It was odd thinking of it that way. Being alive and all and planning on visiting what was essentially her grave. But she had to do this. She had to know who she was. She was tired of living under another pharaoh’s name. She wanted her real name back.

There it stood. The structure she knew to possibly be her tomb. It wasn’t as large as she had hoped it to be but beggars couldn’t be choosers, right? Stepping closer to the huge stone doors, she felt the male walking close behind her. He had remained oddly silent during this time. But soon enough, they were traveling deep into the tomb.

“Shi-----”

The male never got to finish his curse as torches suddenly came to life; lighting the latest room they walked into. There it stood.

Her sarcophagus.

During their adventure through the tomb, she had yet to find anything that might indicate what her name truly was. As part of their plan to try and make sure the queen couldn’t track down her origins, they had wiped any knowledge of her reading hieroglyphics. So in the quiet hours of the night, the woman had secretly been re-teaching herself her own alphabet. Now it was time to put it to use. Finally.

Rushing up to the casket, she started to shove at the lid when the male came rushing up behind her shouting in nervousness, “Hey! Wait wait! What are you doing?!”

“What does it look like??? I’m finding out who I am!”

“But----What if-----What if you’re in there?”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t be in there because I’m standing right here in front of you. But there might be clues in here that tell me who I am.��

“Listen......Hatshepsut......I know you want to believe this is your tomb, but what if it’s not? And besides, who cares what your real name is? You’re a great amazing woman just the way you are. It doesn’t matter who you were back then. What matters is who you are now.”

Well dang. When he put it that way.

#grxnadxs #drabbles #b;drabbles #i;drabbles #h;drabbles

3 notes · View notes