sticky fierce

anonymous asked:

Its.OK if not but if you want would you write about George asking Martha to marry him?

He was pacing a little in the anteroom, trying to remember the story he had concocted on the way over. He had been passing by, and had been giving mind to when they last spoke at the Assembly, and she had never been far from his mind, and -

“Mr. Washington, what a pleasant surprise to see you here!”

“Mrs. Custis!” Oh, how fine she looked in all her flounces and petticoats! His brother had often joked that a dark-haired woman would be the death of him, and Lawrence had been right - he had taken one look at tiny Mrs. Martha Custis and been lost. She was everything a woman ought to be - kind, polite, clever, a good hand at cards and an even better one at a dance, and with a smile that would brighten the coldest of days. That she was also quite rich had been mentioned by one or two malefactors, but he would have loved her if she were the village barmaid with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back.

He took a moment to compose himself in the presence of such loveliness, and, stumbing for a moment, blurted out the very first thing that came to mind. “I have been giving some thought, recently, to the matter of Jacky’s schooling.”

“His … schooling?” Even so practiced a woman as she could not hide the slightest bit of disappointment in her voice.

Oh, hell, that was not how he had meant to start.“Yes, you mentioned he had been intractible of late. Of course he is too young yet for school, and that would spoil a boy like him, to be sent away too early, and of course a tutor would not do, either. He must have a… It occured to me that it…might be better if…” He was floundering, and loosing his nerve by the second. Oh, give him Indians, give him floods, fires, and the twelve plagues of Egypt, impassible rivers, razor-sharp rocks - give him anything but a woman and a message to give her!

“…he had a model to follow?” Martha asked kindly.

“Precisely,” George said, feeling bolder, wetting his lips again. “And I…would…would…”

“…Would like it to be you?” she asked, watching him very intently with one of her dear smiles.

Oh, if she would but stop looking at him so! It would undo him! “Forgive me, Martha, I have not words sufficient for this, I am not a poet, I cannot -”

“Are you asking if I would like to marry you, George Washington?”

“If you will have me, yes,” George said with a feeling of tremendous fear. “I have little land of my own, at present, and only White House, you know, which is scarcely fit for a woman of your -”

But he had not time to finish - there was a racket at the door and Master Jacky, the scamp of whom they had just been speaking, as well as Miss Patsy, sallied into the room at full gallop.

“To Mama, Patsy! Before the dragon gets us!” The two made a desperate bee-line for their mother’s lap, crashing into her without any regard for the close quarters in which she found herself. George pulled back, feeling sheepish, as Martha attempted to sort out what sort of game was going on. Of course the children would be about - it would have been silly to pretend otherwise. She was a mother, first and foremost, and her time was never really her own.

“We’re being chased by a dragon, Mama!” Jacky said quickly. “He doesn’t like grown-ups, so we’re safe now.”

“Oh, I see that,” Martha said with a smile, arranging Jacky on her lap and making room for Patsy as well, her arms tucked around both of her children. “Have you time to help me with an important question, do you think?” Both children nodded, immediately solemn. “How should you like a new papa?” Martha asked, looking first at Patsy and then at Jacky, who, at five, probably had a better idea of what having a papa meant.

“Do we need one?”

“Well, I am not sure you need one, John Parke, but Mama would like you to have one; they can be awfully nice sometimes. And– ” her eyes met George’s for a moment, full of sparkle, “-it would make your Mama very happy.”

“You should be happy, Mama!” Jacky opined. “But only if he’s nice,” he added, very serious. “Not Mr. Carter - he frowns all the time and he’s old.” He suddenly seemed to remember that George was in the room, and his eyes suddenly lit up. “Can we have Mr. Washington for our Papa? He’s got a uniform and he lets me ride his horse!”

Martha could not help but smile at those excellent commendations, obviously a great deal more important than her own. “Well, we shall just have to ask him, won’t we?” she suggested. “Politely, now, remember your manners.”

“Will you be our papa, Mr. Washington? And make Mama happy all the time? Please?” Jacky asked, and Patsy echoed “Please” just as she’d been taught. From behind them on her lap, Martha was beaming, her eyes bright with tears as she asked, silently, her own “Please.”

“I should be honored,” George said with a smile, and Jacky gave a wild whoop of joy and threw himself into George’s lap, and Patsy clambered down to wrap herself around his knee (the nearest part of George she could reach) and for a moment it was all tiny arms and fierce, sticky little hands, until there was another set of arms, longer and softer, and another set of lips, too, pressing a grateful, happy kiss to his cheek.

He had never felt a victory more secure and complete than this.

Original Sin

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Percy Weasley

AU: Canon-divergent; time traveling Head Boy Percy

Word Count: 1138

Written For: draconisms + muclbloods + zbini + flight-seer + bunimalsfiberdolls + dorkfitz + i lost track i’m sorry <3


Percy Weasley is a mistake.

An accident.

He’s a tall, lanky, spectacularly irritating error in judgment and he makes the skin beneath Tom’s fingernails fucking prickle with the weight of his anger—and annoyance—and awareness, God, like an itch Tom can’t quite manage to scratch, maddening and captivating and impossibly, implacably persistent.

Percy Weasley—

He rankles.

He bothers.

He purses his lips when he’s trying to decide between apples and bananas for his breakfast porridge; he uses his ring finger to push his horn-rimmed black glasses back up the bridge of nose when they slip; and he’s constantly adopting an offensively smooth, deeply pompous drawl while informing Tom of the ‘scandalous state’ of his ‘improperly polished’ head boy badge. Percy’s morning routine involves steam-pressing his shirtsleeves and tie—and Tom’s, too, now that they’re roommates—and taking exactly eleven and three-quarter minutes to shave the intriguingly coarse auburn stubble that springs up along his jaw, seemingly overnight. He keeps a 1994 edition of the Hogwarts Official Rules & Regulations tucked into his front trouser pocket, and if he runs out of multiverse time traveling theories to analyze, he starts to systematically proofread all of Tom’s homework. His thoughts are as clean and neat and organized as the drawers of his wardrobe—divided into sections based on functionality, and then subsections based on relative positioning on the color wheel—and he has big hands and red hair and blue eyes and freckles everywhere—including the tops of his surprisingly well-defined shoulders—and, perhaps most importantly, he sleeps without a shirt.

He also nitpicks and complains and quirks a dubious, judgmental eyebrow whenever Tom’s ties aren’t knotted to his invasively precise standards—a classic Windsor, timeless and fashionable, easy to tie and easy to learn.

This is the root of their current argument.

Keep reading

paw prints and shadows

my feline shadows
stick to the ground
confused
with paw
prints

they were
once poems
that bled from
my literary bones …

one
is a
tiptoe
tattoo
in a window
on a stale street
making statements
to the arms of vanity … but today

my
silly cat
is restless
telling me she wants to travel
in a Leonard Cohen briefcase.

poem crazy
but
illiterate
she hides under
the bed …

her dirty paw prints
are poems of her travels

rodents
are the demons
she writes about …

hiding in my
sticky shadows
tender and fierce …

and
our poems
get lost in the dark …

only
stones
have felt
their power