#i need to get new colouring pencils my red pencil is clinging to life by a thread lol

[mountainshroom]

Playing around with human OP designs 👀 plus a bonus

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

A Piece of My Soul

Fandom: The Mentalist or rather the Marcus Pike fandom

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN! Artist Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Lots of fluff, but there’s that undercurrent of angst as the reader has been hurt before and made to feel less than important so if that’s too much right now that’s okay!

Summary: Marcus has always known that you protect your art, that it is a reflection of your soul and something you guard after being hurt one too many times. He never expects you to share your sketchbooks with him, assumes he will never have the honour and he’s okay with that because he’s happy to just have you. Until, one day, you show him just how much you trust him.

Notes: For me, I always feel like when I share my art with people they’re very meh about it or they are backhanded or even mean. I’ve not had the best experiences when sharing my sketchbooks or my work with people in my life and the idea of someone being so wholly awestruck just by the trust and openness of sharing something like that gets me. So here we go back on the Marcus Pike train because if I could ever explain what I want in a husband, he’s the man.

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Marcus had known of your love of drawing from the first date. You had been a little shy when he’d asked about your hobbies and interests, when you’d quietly and cautiously told him you liked to draw. When he asked for more detail, the mediums you used, the style you preferred, it had opened you up just a little more, his interest making you preen a little. Although still cautious, gauging his reaction to your answers. It had been like seeing a part of your soul that you kept hidden from people, it had made him simultaneously proud and angry. 

Proud because you trusted him, from that first moment, to take you seriously, to listen to your interests and passions and not dismiss them. Angry because at some point, at some time, it was clear someone had dismissed you, made you feel like you weren’t worth listening to, weren’t worth investing time in. It was maddening to think that anyone could make you feel like that, like anyone couldn’t see your worth. 

It was baffling because he found you captivating in all your passions and quirks. The way you ranted and rambled on for minutes, sometimes even hours, about something you were passionate about, never failed to draw him to you like a moth to the proverbial flame. The way you managed to trip over anything and everything, clumsy to a fault, was as endearing as it was concerning and he found himself eager to compensate, to pre-empt you going flying because of a step or a crack in the floor. He found the small things, not just the large things enthralling and enamouring, the concept that anyone might think different was just unfathomable. 

So he worked to cultivate that trust, to show you that he was interested in you and all the things that made you up. He listened when you talked, never told you he was bored or showed a shred of disinterest. He remembered things you mentioned or were interested in, brought you books on the subject or sent you a link to an article he’d seen. 

Watching the way that trust bloomed, the way you opened your heart and soul up to him in little pieces was nothing short of amazing. Still, he knew your art was precious to you, a piece of your soul. Your interests, desires, thoughts, opinions, and preferences are all laid out in pages and pages of thick white paper and red pencil marks. He never pushed it, never asked to see what you were working on or to show him your art, not because he wasn’t interested but because he respected the intimacy of it. You were not some famous painter who put their work on display for the world to see and scrutinise. You were just you, just someone who used art as a form of stress relief and self-expression, someone who guarded their work like they guarded their heart. 

So the little trickles of your soul that you shared with him were enough, it didn’t matter if you showed him it all or only select pieces, anything was enough to tell him you cared, that you trusted him, that you wanted his approval. Not because you needed him to give it, not because he was that fundamental or important, but because recognition from him made you smile, made you feel important. You were important whether he liked your work or not. 

He still remembers the excitement you exuded, happiness blinding and bright and so brilliant, when you’d finished a new painting and bounded to show him. You’d bundled it up safe and made the drive to his house, rushing up the steps so quick, he’d heard you trip before he heard you knock.

You’d been bouncing on the balls of your feet, painting kept within a folder, nondescript, the sort you kept your certificates in. The wide grin on your face, the shine of your teeth, and crinkles at your eyes had him smiling the moment he opened the door to you, leaning a shoulder against the door frame to watch you adoringly. 

“I finished it! It only took me 20 hours but I finally finished it!” You’d rushed inside, pulling him by the arm so fast he had to laugh as he nearly tripped over his own rug. You’d been so excited and so proud as you’d sat him on his couch and carefully pulled the A4 piece of watercolour paper from the folder, plain back to him. 

He’d been patient, watching you with the softest of smiles as your eyes flicked back and forth between him, sat with hands clasped between his thighs, elbows on his knees, and your painting. As you grappled with the gravity of showing him a piece of your soul and not knowing how he’d respond, how he’d behave. Patience was the least he could think to give you, and it had brought the best sort of ache to his chest when you’d shyly turned the painting around to show him. 

20 hours of work and you looked away, eyes focusing on a plant he had in the corner of his living room rather than on his expression or what he might think. You’d been so nervous to show him and he’d taken the time to truly look at your painting. The colours, the composition, the subject, it didn’t ultimately matter to him whether he truly liked it or not, although he did, because he’d love it anyway. He’d love it anyway because you’d chosen to share it with him, when you were oh so private and careful with your art. 

“Sweetheart…” You’d been prepared for rejection, to face the fact that your boyfriend didn’t like your painting, your art, that it was something you just shouldn’t share with him in the future. “It’s amazing! 20 hours? Can I?” He’d gestured to take it, to hold it and get a better look and you’d let him, a little stunned, but overjoyed that he liked it, that he wanted to look at it.

That had been the starting point for you sharing more little bits of your soul with him. You’d bring him finished paintings to look at, occasionally the odd doodle here or there that you completed at work. Not everything, and never your sketchbooks. Those were off limits, something he’d respected because he knew they were more than just a tiny piece of who you were, but quite a large one. Pages and pages of you sat for perusal and to have that rejected would hurt more than anything. So Marcus had been grateful for what little pieces of your art you did choose to share with him. 

He’d always made it a point to show how much he liked your art, to shower you in praise and to make you feel listened to, seen, important. Your art was amazing to him. He was an art history major, he loved art, hence his job, but he wasn’t an artist. He’d never had the patience to sit and develop the skill set and so he focused on the work of others, yours was quickly becoming his favourite. You had your own unique style, something he found hard to describe or explain, but that he’d know if he saw your work. He’s almost certain he’d know if someone tried to pass a fake off as your own and if anyone asked who his favourite artist was he’d probably change his answer to you. 

Still, he had hoped that one day you’d share that last bit of yourself with him. He hadn’t expected to actually happen, just a hope, a little dream, something he thought about at night before falling asleep. 

Certainly not something he expects on date night. 

He’s cooking dinner for the two of you, your favourite main and dessert, because he hasn’t had the chance to see you in a good week due to a hectic case, when he hears the tell tell sound of keys in the front door. He’d long since given you your own, letting you come and go as you please, with the excuse that when he was away on a case it meant you could keep an eye on the place and make sure he didn’t get robbed. In truth he liked having you around, liked that you came over just because you wanted to, that you felt welcome and at home and if he wasn’t so dead set on not scaring you off, he might have already asked you to move in. But, he wanted to take his time, not rush it. 

“Marcus?”

“In the kitchen, honey!” He’s wiping down the side quickly, hiding the fact he’s a messy cook, when you walk in a heavy looking tote bag over one shoulder. It peaks his interest and from the little laugh you let out you can see it on his face. 

“Are you busy?”

“No, it needs a good half hour before I have to check it again, why?” You watch him wipe his hands with a towel and brush at a small stain on his white t-shirt, the one that clings to his arms just right. 

You're nervous, you know he can tell from the way your hands grip the bag straps tight over one shoulder to how you bite your bottom lip. He’s always been able to tell. One of the beautiful things about Marcus was the attention he gave to people, not just people he cared about, but people in general. He learnt everything he could about them, stored it away in his mind, and used it to show them how much he cared, how much he knew them, really knew them. 

“I...I want to show you something.” 

You grab him by the hand, the same way you always do whenever you want to share something, and begin pulling him towards his living room. It’s cosy in here at this time of night, warm light from a couple of lamps, soft blankets thrown over his couch, the ones he’d brought after realising how much you loved a good blanket. It’s a calming thing, to be in here, with him, somewhere you associate with home. 

It often seems so silly to you, just how nervous you get about sharing something with Marcus, but you know it’s not. Know it’s not his fault either. Marcus has never given you any reason to doubt him, but other people have, so you push past the nerves because you do really want to show him and watch his face light up like it always does. 

You sit him down in his seat, and curl up next to him, kicking your shoes off and placing the bag on the ground. He’s so warm and for a moment you just lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body and the way he nuzzles a kiss into your temple, nose tracing little lines gently for a moment. He brings you peace and it is that, that gives you resolve and has you reaching down for the items in the bag. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by you that Marcus places his hands at your waist, worried you might take a tumble off the couch, something you’re prone to. It warms you inside, that he cares so much, that he’s so casual with his affection and so concerned with you and your safety. Even something as simple as making sure he can catch you if you start to fall. 

You come back up with a couple of books in hand, plastered with stickers over the front and a little dogeared at the corners. Marcus doesn’t remove his hands from your waist, just pulls you firmly back against his side and watches as you anxiously smooth your hands over the cover of one of them. 

“I..I wanted to show you my sketchbooks, or well...the two most recent ones anyway. I...I don’t really show people them...but I want you to see them.” Your eyes are so wide and earnest when you look up at him, that he can’t help but cup your cheek in his hand and rub his thumb across the apple of it. God, he never thought...he never thought you would. Always thought you’d keep this little part of yourself private, separate, guarding it like a dragon guards a horde of gold. But, here you are, so earnest, so nervous, so open, telling him that you want to share this piece of your soul with him and he can’t stop himself from pressing his forehead against yours. Can’t stop himself from the gentle nudge of his nose with yours or the slow press of his lips against your own. 

It’s a surprising reaction from Marcus, the way his nose presses into your cheek as he presses a firm but still tender kiss to your lips, the way his hand slides down to cup underneath your jaw, thumb pressing into the hollow there. It’s so surprising that it distracts you for more than a moment, to the point your eyelids take a little bit of time to flutter open after he breaks away, you leaning further into him. 

“What...what was that for?” 

“For trusting me.” He’s so warm and earnest, but still, he’s patient. He doesn’t grab for the books or open them himself, instead he waits for you to pull back and pick one up, settling it between the two of you. 

He waits as you find the courage to open the cover and turn to the first page and every breath leaves him at what he finds there. It is a sketchbook and so it is messy, that’s the nature of it, it is practice and experimentation and you enjoying yourself, and it’s so clear, as each page turns, that this is you in book form. 

Each page is either a confirmation of a fact he already knew about you or a new discovery. It tells him little things like how you prefer to draw certain subjects and the colours you lean towards when you reach for markers or coloured pencils. He’s reverent in the way his fingertips brush the paper and trace over the lines, in awe of the way your hands have worked in tune with your mind to put these things to paper and he can’t actually help the tears that start to well up in his eyes. Because you trust him so much, you’re opening the last part of your soul up to him with only a hope that he will not crush it or throw it back at you, that he will not abuse it. 

“Baby, why are you crying?” You’re so concerned for him, hands pawing at his cheeks, brushing the rivulets away and cupping his jaw to make him look at you. Brown eyes watery but so happy, so in love and he hopes that you can see that, see how desperately he loves you. “Are you okay? Did...did I do something wrong?”

It hurts him so much to know you assume that you’re at fault. That his tears are bad or that they are a product of you doing something wrong, when they’re a result of just how much he loves you and just how happy he is at the trust and faith you have in him, the love you have for him, that you’ll bare your soul. It’s those moments that make him angry at the people before him. Family, friends, lovers, people who took your trust and crushed it, bent it out of shape and tossed it back malformed and damaged. 

“Nooo, no, no, honey. Sweetheart, I'm crying cause I'm happy,” He covers your hands with his own, pulls you impossibly closer, “I’m happy because you trust me enough to show me this and I...I never thought I'd earn that.” 

“Oh...well, I love you.”

“I love you too.” It’s said with a laugh, but not at you, the sort of laugh that’s just a bit of a huff of happiness, that comes from being overwhelmingly happy. It’s enough for him that you come to his house, that you share little bits of yourself with him and that you love him enough to do that at all. 

While dinner cooks, you keep an eye on the time more than Marcus, he continues to flick through the pages. He comments, sweet little things. How something looks cool or how he likes the colours on a page. Each comment thrills you, fills you to the brim with pride and joy, to the point your cheeks ache from smiling. Perhaps to some people it seems understated, boring, the sort of date night that some would hate, but to the two of you it’s more than just date night. It’s a bonding experience, a sharing one. He feels impossibly lucky to look at your work, to have you there leaning on his shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck, impossibly lucky to have a piece of your soul right there in front of him. 

It’s that moment that he knows; you’re it for him. He’s certain. You’re the person he’s going to grow old with, with your sketchbooks in a dedicated bookshelf and he’ll die saying his favourite artist is you. 

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

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[artificialqueens]

Or The Thought Of You? (A’Whora/Joe Black) - Juno

Summary: Aurora has a chance encounter with the singer in the bar which leaves her wanting more.

I hope you like this slightly late submission for the rarepair songfic challenge! The song in question is Nightwish’s Slow Love Slow.

For once Aurora was early.

It gave her time to take in the optics of the bar she sat at, warm amber light that illuminated the deep mahogany finishing, sophistication clinging to it and to the air. There were so many bottles of spirits in the back behind the bar, spirits with names she could barely think of how to pronounce. On the stage, a live band played soft jazz music - a piano, a double bass, a cello - with gentle precision that was just distinguishable over the delicate chatter of everyone around her.

The clientele, evidently from another era, Aurora was surrounded by a sea of form-fitting Donna Karan dresses and Rolex watches. Aurora thought she looked like she blended in, at least in appearance, in the long black dress with the slit up the leg and the patent black stilettos she’d ‘borrowed’ from her housemate, gold trim accentuated by her earrings, her hair still in its perfect shape.

But she stood out a mile because she was early , or maybe the other two were just late . Leaving her on her own, alight like a lighthouse or so she felt.

When Tia had suggested this place one lunch break, it had been a half-hearted joke, too posh for them and full of rich folks, but then Lawrence had piped up that she’d always wondered what it was like inside, so now all three of them were come down for the night, along with Tia’s flatmate Tayce. It sounded like a laugh. Live cabaret, posh drinks, and unpronounceable cocktails on the enormous menu with tiny writing that Aurora had in her hands right now.

The barman came to Aurora eventually, and she ordered herself a cosmo, the only one she recognised (even though she’d never tried one), enjoying watching the other bar staff shaking cocktail mixers as she waited, and when it was served to her on its own little napkin, Aurora felt like she’d fallen into a Bond film. Maybe she had.

For a split second she saw herself as a Bond girl, but the illusion was quickly shattered as she reached for the drink; it went flying, knocked across the bar by a hand, waved emphatically from a woman who had appeared on her right.

By some miracle Aurora seemed to have missed getting soaked, but her wrist was seized by a hand in a powder-blue opera glove and squeezed in condolence. Aurora was met by a pair of grey eyes, framed by pencil-thin eyebrows, and a peplum gown that matched her gloves in colour.

“I’m dreadfully sorry for that,” the woman said earnestly. “Let me get you another.”

Aurora was taken aback by how much this woman’s low but melodic voice made her scalp tingle. It made her want her to keep talking. But - is it … - Aurora inhaled when she realised. The blue gown with the white tuxedo embellishment, the quaffed red hair in victory rolls? She knew this person. She’d seen her before. She was plastered on the posters on the windows of this place, her name in that gilded-age font …

“Joe Black?”

Joe turned back to Aurora at her whisper of realisation, an impish smile spreading across her face at Aurora’s awed voice.

“In the flesh, darling!”

Joe threw back her head and cackled, a garish contrast to the silkiness of her voice. Aurora expected the clientele around her to stare, but no one batted an eyelid at her outburst.

“You - you’re -“

“Short?” Joe giggled, leaning closer to Aurora and dropping her voice lower. “I get that one all the time. That’s all people say to me when they see me. ‘ Oh, Joe, I thought you’d be much taller!’ ”

“No - I mean, you’re -“

But Aurora’s words vanished as the barman scurried over with Aurora’s new drink, and what looked like the same thing in the same Martini glass for Joe. Joe curled her fingers around the stem of the glass with delicate precision, swiveling on her stool to face Aurora dead on.

“Here’s to …” Joe shook her head and waved a hand dismissively, “… I don’t know, Glenn Close. First person that came to mind.” And she smirked, before raising her glass to cheers with Aurora and then to her lips, her eyes holding Aurora’s as she did the same.

Aurora almost choked on her sip as Joe continued to drink, until she had almost drained the glass, licking her lips and sighing contentedly.

“What the -“

“It’s my usual, darling. Don’t worry! It’s only water!” Joe threw back her head and laughed again. “You wouldn’t think I’d want any liquid courage before taking my place on stage, would you? Ah, no - the old Joe Black, now - she was a bit of a boozy cow, but nowadays, it doesn’t do one’s reputation any good to be plastered before your first song!”

The odd lyrical quality to her voice made Aurora convinced she was putting on a character, but she couldn’t deny that she found Joe’s eccentricity utterly fascinating, found herself being drawn towards her aura.

“Why don’t you order just a normal glass then?” Aurora asked, not even trying to hold back her amused smile.

“Well, because - I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t catch your name.”

Joe had shuffled her stool closer to her now, resting a gloved hand on top of Aurora’s where it lay at the base of the Martini glass.

“Aurora.”

“Ah. As in Borealis.” Joe let out an exaggerated sigh, her eyes misting as if with memories. “A thing of glory. Illuminating the Arctic skies. Did you know that they can come as far south as here? Well, not Brighton,” she added with a wry smile, “but here in a broad sense.”

“I - no?”

“Well anyway, Aurora - I would order water in a plain tall glass, but I do like the martini glasses, gives it an air of splendour. Matches my style. After all, why would I want to shatter any illusions? No one here seems to want to have their illusions shattered, don’t you think?”

Joe gestured to the people around them, none of whom were looking at them, all in their own worlds with those around them, the chatter and the music threading between them all.

“It’s all an illusion, isn’t it? This space here, all these people, they’re all on their own stages. All their own performers. Even you!” Joe winked. “Life is a stage, we’re the actors.”

Aurora blinked in wonder, rendered speechless. But something about Joe still fascinated her. Aurora took another drag of the cosmo, her tongue loosening more and more.

“What’s your excuse then? Is this all an act too? Is Joe Black just an act?”

Joe just chuckled, the sound deep in her throat sounding a little sinister, and Aurora watched as finger by finger, Joe slid the opera glove off her left arm, revealing more tattoos than Aurora would have ever thought, all the way down her arm and onto her fingers.

“Maybe the patrons of the establishment wouldn’t care if they saw their cabaret act in tattoos, but the illusion that I’m a proper lady singing jazz atop a grand piano apparently needs to be an illusion in itself. Although the management didn’t say I couldn’t use my David Bowie dress, especially if it’s Bowie I’m singing.”

Joe was nudging the tips of Aurora’s fingers with the tips of her own, smiling through her eyelashes, her eyes full of mischief.

Aurora found herself slightly tongue-tied, but her voice came back to her eventually. “Did they hurt? The ones on your hand? I wanted to get one there, but my friend says they hurt a lot more than what they’re worth and they never stay too long.”

Stupid question, Aurora.

“They feel like having your hands dipped in warm honey, darling.”

Aurora frowned. “Really?”

“No, not really.” Joe cackled. “They all bloody hurt! But beauty is always pain.”

“Not always,” Aurora protested. “I’m not in pain.”

“Indeed,” Joe said softly, and Aurora felt her thumb slide into the palm of her hand. “Look me in the eyes and tell me those shoes aren’t killing you.”

Aurora met her eyes, triumphant. “My feet are fine. Thank you very much.”

“Really?” Aurora could feel Joe’s thumb on a tender spot in the centre of her palm, one that made the rest of her hand tingle. “I’m not convinced. Body language. These sorts of things give people away, you see, in a way that speaking will not. And really, the body language of everyone here?”

Joe’s eyes glittered, wicked and smug. Aurora was still acutely aware of the sensation of Joe’s thumb on her palm, responding by curling her fingers around Joe’s, and as she leaned closer, Aurora found herself frozen as Joe’s lips found her ear, her voice a slow whisper, sending another tingle down from her scalp down her spine, causing her to shudder.

“Everyone’s faking it, darling!”

And with that cackle, right at the back of her throat, Joe let Aurora’s hand go, drained the rest of the water from the Martini glass, and sauntered away from the bar, swinging her hips exaggeratedly, her laughter floating away behind her, but Aurora noticed that no one else turned to look at her.

It was almost as if she wasn’t even there. Aurora was left staring after her, shuddering again, her skin suddenly warm and tingly …

“A’Whora! Wakey wakey, eggs and bloody bakey!” Tayce was snapping her fingers under Aurora’s nose before Aurora noticed that she’d appeared, brows furrowed; and Tia behind her had tilted her head to one side.

“What’s bitten you, Aurora? You looked as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

Aurora blinked, her eyes darting between them both. “You - you saw her, right?”

“Who?” Tayce turned once to the direction Aurora looked, before whipping her head back to face her. “You feeling alright? How many did you have while you were waiting for us?”

“Shut up!” Aurora giggled, giving Tayce a gentle shove, which was reciprocated with a gleeful chuckle. “Where’s Lawrence?”

“Just went to the loo.” Tia pointed. “She’d better hurry up, she’s gonna miss the beginning!”

The lights were dimming. All eyes and all attention was turning to the stage, a hush developing around the bar and the room, as the sound of heels on the wooden stage drew nearer.

The crowd clapped politely as Joe Black came on, beaming down at them all, her smile wide and glorious. She paused to toss one of the victory rolls from her shoulder, before wrapping her fingers around the microphone stand and putting her lips millimetres from it.

“Good evening. I hope you are all having a wonderful time tonight. I am Joe Black, and this is my … microcosm of wonder.”

And even just the greeting, the low deep voice, was enough for tingles to spread down from the base of Aurora’s scalp once again.

“Is that the ghost you saw, Rory?” Tayce teased. “Because she doesn’t look like one from here!”

But before Aurora could say a word, the pianist hit the first note of Life On Mars, and the whole room was mesmerised by her. Not a soul spoke, not a whisper, just Joe commanding the stage, quiet but enrapturing at once.

Maybe not a ghost, but there was definitely something … otherworldly about her.

Aurora craved more.

[frangipanidownunder]

Could you write a story where Mulder comforts Scully after a panic attack or nightmare?

Same Old: fic

Angsty, longish, with a trigger warning for panic attacks/mentions of depression. This is also for @kega-umi and @baronessblixen who both requested “Don’t you dare touch her!” from the angst dialogue prompt list. Thank you, guys.

It’s the biggest irony that she put her all into trying to improve Mulder’s mental health, yet she failed to see her own emotional wellbeing withering away. From the gentle exercise program they did together (“I’m only doing this because you’ll be wearing yoga pants, Scully”), the soft therapies he didn’t outright dismiss (“I used to like colouring in when I was seven, and I still can’t keep my pencils between the lines.”), the midnight conversations on the deck as silver moths flitted under the lights (“I don’t think either of us has ever truly gotten over William, Mulder.” “We shouldn’t, Scully. If we do, all hope is lost.”), to the medication (“Please, Mulder, there’s no shame in taking anti-depressants; you wouldn’t think twice if I prescribed you Ventolin for asthma, would you?”), she pushed him uphill towards wellness, never considering the damage to own her physical and mental shape.

After all, she left him.

But he’s still the same old Mulder. Believing in anything except the truth in front of his very eyes.

Now, as sweat trickles down the back of her neck, she is paralysed with fear. Her heart bursts against her ribcage, temples throb with bruising pain, skin prickles with gooseflesh. This is the third night in a row where a nightmare has ripped her from the numb comfort of sleep. Her fingers scratch at her throat, as though to open up her airways.

All she wants is to breathe. To simply breathe.

She turns her neck and it creaks slowly. Her vision hasn’t quite adjusted in the dim of her bedroom. Red numbers drip from her alarm clock, an absurdly chilling reminder of her waiting responsibilities. Surgeries, ward rounds, paperwork, Mulder. These are the compass points of her days. There have been times when she’s forgotten to eat, where she’s woken in bed with the dull ache of dehydration tugging at her limbs, where she’s driven through an intersection on autopilot.

Physician, heal thyself, Mulder regularly teased her with the saying during their tougher cases, ones where he might have received a blow to the head (that man has the skull of an ox) and she tended to him or other victims or did a string of autopsies or chased alleged mutants into foggy forests and would end up on the verge of physical or mental exhaustion. To allay her exhaustion, he might draw her a bath, order the pepperoni pizza special, plump up a pillow and pat the mattress next to him while finding a black and white Hollywood classic to fall asleep to. Physician, and Mulder, often healed themselves that way.

But that was before she left him.

She’s still the same old Scully. Denying everything except the truth in front of her very eyes.

Getting out of bed is Herculean. Every cell is screaming at her to retreat back to the safe, anaesthetic nest of covers. She feels as fragile and hollow as bird’s bones. Her feet plant on the carpet but she is graceless and uncoordinated as she moves to the bathroom. A shower will provide temporary respite, the stinging water will open her pores, and close her mind.

There’s a missed call from Mulder when she gets out. He never leaves messages, instead she is left to run through the gamut of possibilities as she dials his number – has he forgotten his house keys and can he drop by to borrow hers, has he got himself arrested for stalking a supposed shapeshifter who’s haunting children, or is he on the verge of a breakdown? She doesn’t even try to guess any more.

“I need you to witness some papers, Scully.” His voice is distant, cagey. Years ago, he might have created a slideshow to support his evasive baiting. Teased her with the promise of a nice little trip somewhere. Asked her point blank why she doesn’t believe him when he’s right most of the time.

Now he just expects her to be where he wants her to be with little warning.

Still the same old Mulder.

On the drive to the café he’s chosen for their meeting, she tries to think what papers they could be, what has necessitated the sudden need for her assistance. She doesn’t see him for weeks. He goes for days without returning her calls, spends hours away from the house on ‘expeditions’ or ‘assignments’, and she’s found him, more than once, in bed at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, wearing stubble bordering on a beard, and smelling like a laundry basket.

There was a time when they couldn’t afford secrets. It was a matter of life and death. Those days on the run, every shadow under the motel door, every lingering look from a cashier, every click on the phone line had them hastily stuffing their holdalls into the trunk of whatever rusty sedan they’d picked up along the way, and finding a back road to a new town.

As she waits in the traffic lane to turn into the car park, with a headache binding itself over the middle of her head like a steel band, she couldn’t care less if she were to sign him up to a dodgy pyramid scheme or help him cash in his father’s stocks. She sits, indicating to pull into a spot being vacated by an overly large SUV driven by an old man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Without warning, his car lurches backwards at speed. She braces both hands on the steering wheel as metal crunches against metal and her car jolts back. Her head whips forward, then rights itself, tendons groaning at the sudden movement. She’s stunned. Unable to think, let alone move. The old man is out of the car, looking at the back of his vehicle, then up at her, fear written across his face.

There’s a cold blast across her body as her door opens. “Scully? Scully, are you all right? Don’t move. I’ll call the paramedics.” From the corner of her vision, she sees Mulder tapping at his phone with his thumbs before barking something into the mouthpiece.

“I’m fine. Don’t…” she says, but there’s no energy in her voice and he doesn’t hear her.

The old man is holding the brim of his hat, mouthing something about the gas pedal, and Mulder swings round to confront him. She recognises the dark glint in his eye and tries to get his attention but she calls out too late and he’s already lashing out at the man.

The buckle of her seatbelt is jammed into the slot and it won’t release. Her finger presses the orange button over and over but nothing happens. The old man is cowering under Mulder’s interrogation and in the distance, a siren wails. A gaggle of people have gathered around the vehicles. The blink of her indicator is percussive background pollution. Rain begins to batter the windscreen. The pressure in her skull builds. Her fingers crawl up the sides of her head to cover her ears.

“You didn’t even look!” She can hear Mulder’s accusations even through her hands. The same tone he employed every time he burned her about giving up William or about her trust in him or about the value of her weekend conferences.

Not the same old Mulder, but the cruellest version of him.

Finally free, and stumbling from the car, she slides along its side. In the frigid air, steam rises like fog from the hood. Her shoulders are tight, her legs heavy. She takes a breath in but the air is sharp, and it tastes metallic. She pads at her mouth with trembling fingers. Did she bite her lip, her tongue in the impact? She can’t remember. Perhaps the seatbelt caused an injury. Looking down at herself, she sees only her feet, enclosed in black pointed boots, her charcoal wool pants, her sleek belted jacket, all designer wear, all for show. Vanity. Fulfilling a need in her to prove her worth since she left him. Not just to the new people in her new life, but to the old ones too. Her mother. To Mulder.

Mulder is still ranting at the old man. Arguing over semantics instead of trying to get his details. The siren is louder. Her chest aches and with every inhalation, it burns, as though her lungs are on fire. She can’t find her voice. It’s stuck in her throat along with the breath she desperately needs. Her knees soften but she locks them, stubbornly clinging to the mirror of the car. Rain soaks her hair, sticking it to her face, her shoulders. Stupidly, she thinks about cutting it off, clipping it so that it swings about her chin, freely.

So she could be the same old Scully.

A thousand images rush through her mind. Blood. Albert Hosteen. Ice. Lightning. Her distended stomach. Lasers drilling. Cassandra Spender. William’s downy head. The scars on Mulder’s face. His coffin. Emily’s sweaty forehead. The brooding ocean. Melissa. Mulder’s scratchy beard. His wild eyes. His bitter silence at her goodbye.

She hears herself cry out. Pitiful.

Each breath stabs at her. Her heart sprints then slows. Sprints then slows. She clutches at her chest as though it might even the keel. Sweat mingles with rain on her face. The pavement is cold, wet, unforgiving. Mulder kneels at her side, taking her arm into his hand. Fear knits his brows together. The old man appears next to him and goes to bend over her.

“Don't you dare touch her!” Mulder’s voice cuts through the fog in her mind and the old man startles back. His hat falls and she’s struck by how absurd it looks, floating on a puddle that’s formed. Mulder’s hands are everywhere, her brow, her arm, her cheek, her chest, her thigh. He is panicking, yelling for paramedics. Bellowing her name. But she keeps watching the hat listing as it's pelted by rain.

Same old Mulder.

She can’t calm him because she can’t summon her voice. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, nausea pools in her stomach, bitter, churning. Her neck stiffens as she turns her face away from the staring eyes, then she vomits. This sends Mulder into overdrive and he tugs at her chin, twisting her face painfully around, eliciting a moan from her that shocks him into pulling his hand away.

“Scully? What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

She is. She’s hurting. Everywhere. But how can she tell him it’s not from the collision. “I’m fine,” she says in the end. Closes her eyes to his dismissive headshake. “I’m fine, Mulder.”

Same old Scully.

The paramedics arrive and check her over. They declare her unresponsive in their radio missives and load her onto a stretcher, despite her weak protests. Mulder is effusive in his thanks and squeezes her hand, promising to follow. Inside the ambulance, she closes her eyes against the hazy faces, concentrates on her breathing, lets other people carry the burden.

When she wakes, Mulder is on a chair pulled up so close to her that his legs are slotted under her bed, his head pressed into his crossed arms, at her ribcage. She can see a few greys and she strokes his hair, tenderly. Turning his face, he grins at her.

Same old Mulder.

“You scared me, Scully.”

She nods, still not sure if she can speak.

“They said you had an elevated heart rate. High blood pressure. We thought you were having a stroke.” Her hand finds his. “But then the doc said it could be a panic attack.” He waits a beat, for confirmation. “Scully?”

He shakes his head at her silence, stretches, scratches at his chin. She tries to move but it’s such an effort, she slumps back against the pillow. Her hair feels tangled and she rakes her fingers through it. He takes her hand, crushes it in his.

“Scully? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

This is the man who spent days holed up in his office, poring over the same ridiculous, paranoid conspiracies, who left the house without telling her, disappearing for days on the flimsy pretext that she ‘didn’t need to know for her own safety’, who would spend more time nursing a glass of whisky than their relationship.

“It’s nothing,” she manages to say. “Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

His eyes roll to the heavens. There’s nothing up there that she hasn’t already beseeched, yelled at and dismissed out of hand, she thinks to herself.

“Scully, you drove into a car. You collapsed. You haven’t…” His hand withdraws from hers and he grabs a fist of the thin woollen blanket.

“He backed into me. I’ve…I’ve been…I haven’t slept well. I’m just tired, Mulder. That’s all.” Speaking is exhausting. Her words sound pathetic. He knows it, she knows it.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

A nurse enters, eyes Mulder to move his chair. He stands, loiters in the shadowy corner as she goes about her business. When she’s gone, the air in the room is dry. Mulder scrapes the chair back to her bedside and plays with the plastic band on her wrist. Laying his forehead on her arm, she feels more than the weight of him as he begins to sob quietly. His shoulders move, his chest rocks the bed. She twists and caresses his hair with her free hand. Her tears drip down her face, gathering at her chin, falling as one onto his head. His tears flow around her wrist, burning his sadness at her pulse point.

“I’m sorry,” she says gently.

He half-chuckles, a strangled sound. “For what?”

“For scaring you.”

His watery eyes find hers. “You being sick is the thing that scares me the most, Scully.”

“I know,” she says.

He sits up, brings his arm around her shoulder to pull her into a fierce embrace, squeezing the breath out of her lungs. “Don’t do that again. Don’t…please.”

She can’t promise. She won’t promise. 

“What were the papers?” she asks.

“What?”

“You wanted me to witness something. What was it?”

“Oh,” he says, his body reverberating as tears turn to laughter. “I needed a new passport. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on vacation.” He chuckles, still clinging to her.

“On vacation?” 

“It was going to be a surprise.”

“I’ll say,” she murmurs, letting out a small laugh too, and burrows her chin into the dip between his neck and shoulder.  

She lets him soften into her and pats the plane between his shoulder blades. His heart pumps next to hers. In perfect synchrony.

Same old Mulder.

Same old Scully.

[zimniysoldat-fiction]

Angel Eyes

Summary: An angel/demon AU featuring demon!Bucky and angel!Reader based on this request:

Pairings: Bucky x reader

Warnings: Religious imagery, probably some blasphemy, language, unprotected (graphic) sex

Word Count: 2,915

A/N: Ask and ye shall receive. I kinda got carried away with this one. I do hope it’s okay? (.gif has nothing to do with the story. I just like staring at it)

What happens when an angel knocks up a demon? You get a devilishly handsome half-breed with angelic charm and passion like hellfire running through his veins���you get me. Maybe I’m not as impressive as Lucifer, I didn’t fall from grace, I didn’t cut off my wings to spite my father—I never had wings—but I am more impressive than other demons. I’m stronger, smarter…just overall, I’m better. My unique position comes with perks from Luci, but jeers from full-blood demons. They say I’m not pure, that I have a disgusting heavenly glow about me. They say I don’t belong in Hell.

They’re right. I belong on Earth.

I belong in the realm of fallibility, temptation, desire, and rebellion. And over the centuries, I’ve come to realize that I really fucking enjoy destroying the bliss of ignorance so many humans cling to. Usually, this is welcomed by the people I share some of my knowledge with, but sometimes it is met with fear, anger, and violence. I’ve been ‘killed’ a few times by those desperate to remain ignorant. Hell. One time a few of them pushed me off a train in the Swiss Alps. I survived that, somehow, but my arm most definitely did not. I’m not a lizard, my limbs don’t simply grow back after being cut off, and I really didn’t want to be another one-armed Joey returning home after the War. So I went out and got this badass metal arm. It isn’t a set of wings or a spine of spikes, but it does set me apart from humans. It feels nice having a visual cue that I’m not like those I walk amongst.

The twenty-first century has been interesting. It took a while to find my footing among the technology and growing apathy. That is, until I walked into this place. This gorgeous, turn-of-the-century building with an open concept interior and a speakeasy in the basement immediately grabbed my attention and refused to let go. So I bought it. And I renovated it. And now it’s an independent bookstore and coffee shop. With a speakeasy in the basement. The speakeasy is my pride and joy.

So imagine my ire when two officials from the state strutted into my shop this morning asking questions about a possible illegal drinking den on the premises. As soon as I saw her, she made my blood run cold, sending a shiver through every nerve pathway in my body. She seemed to glow in the morning sun that filtered through the shop’s windows. And her hair…

Sure, silver/grey hair is trendy at the moment, but hers… The grey locks highlighted by metallic silver wisps… It reminded me of Luci’s hair. Minus the charred ends. It was captivating, but it also made me bristle. She was captivating, but also made me bristle.

I could tell that she took an immediate disliking to me, her features contorting as if she just drank battery acid the second she laid eyes on me. Normally, my chiseled jawline, sharp cheekbones, and icy blue eyes were enough to turn women into putty in my hands. Failing that, the henley shirts that feigned modesty while clinging perfectly to my muscles and haggard jeans that could barely hold in my dominating thighs definitely caught their attention.

And yet this woman could only look at me with contempt.

Being a Servant of the Lord is like walking on eggshells. If the eggshells were already smashed to dust before you entered the room and have to glue each bit back together, all the while trying to prove you weren’t the one to break the stupid things in the first place. So when you accidentally allow a megalomaniac to sit in the most influential, most powerful seat in the world while you were trying to prevent a race riot that would lead to genocide, nothing you could say or do will save your ass. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m living in New York like some mere mortal. A millennial. Do you have any idea how confusing and tedious this generation of humans  is? Extremely. The answer is ‘extremely’. If it weren’t for the internet, I would never have survived this long. Even though the more I read it, the lesser the likelihood of ever going home again. My fondness for Neil deGrasse Tyson alone is enough to have me permanently exiled.

One part of living like a human that really, truly sucks is having to work. It’s just so boring. I managed to get a job as the Mayor’s secretary, which isn’t too bad, but it feels like I’m always working. How do these things manage to have a life outside of the ‘daily grind’? I mean, just finding a job was hard enough. I lost count of how many employers assumed I dyed my hair and were disapproving of, what they thought was, my tattoo. None would believe that silver is my natural hair colour and that the celestial locks refused to be dyed any other colour. And I couldn’t very well tell them that the ‘tattoo’ of an albino snake slithering about my shoulder, traveling across my collarbone and whispering in my ear is, in fact, a very painful brand I received for my failings. Luckily the Mayor didn’t care about any of that. Honestly, I think he hired me just because he finds me attractive.

That would certainly explain this morning—his temper tantrum over being told someone from his office had to accompany an inspector, and that I was the only person available. Honestly? I wasn’t much happier than he was. This dress isn’t made for ‘official visits’. The pencil skirt alone makes it hard to walk at a respectable pace. But here I am, still desperately in need of a cup of coffee, walking into some bookstore. What business the Mayor’s Office had with a bookstore, I couldn—holy shit! Is that coffee I smell? I wonder if I can slip away to grab a cup?

Fantasies of coffee evaporated as soon as I saw the proprietor. He is most definitely not human. But…he’s also not an angel? Despite having the ice blue eyes of our race? What is he? And why is he so goddamned cocky? What I wouldn’t give to just tell this poor human that whatever it is he’s looking for is in the basement, behind the supply closet, so I can just go get a cup of coffee. But this…Bucky. He just said his name was Bucky, didn’t he? He’s a seriously adept liar. He has the poor rube convinced that he was mistaken and wasting his time.

Whatever. At least I can get some coffee now.

No matter how hard she tried, the exiled angel couldn’t get her mind off of Bucky. What is he? Her brain, her curiosity, wouldn’t drop the question. Even after getting home, getting out of that uncomfortable dress, and indulging in a bottle of wine, the question danced on her brain. What is he?

She couldn’t take it anymore. It was keeping her up in the middle of the night (not that she really slept—she mostly just drank coffee and wine). So she decided to throw caution to the wind, pulling on her favourite pair of boots—black stilettos in the style of combat boots—over her aubergine yoga pants. The black, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that used to be an oversized hoodie was warm enough for the walk from her apartment to the bookstore. Or rather, the speakeasy underneath the bookstore.

Luckily for her, Bucky was still there, laying on the bar and puzzling over her. He had kept the speakeasy closed tonight, wanting the space and alcohol to dwell on her hair, her eyes…her. Could she be…? Maybe she’s just a hipster, riding the trend of silver hair and white tattoos on white skin. Was it even a snake? Maybe it was just some tribal scribble. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was familiar. Like he had seen it somewhere before. Turning his head to the side, he carefully sealed his lips around the neck of the whiskey bottle before chugging its entire contents in a desperate bid for relief.

Having heard the click of the door opening, Bucky sat up, sitting crosslegged in the middle of the bar. He should have been on red alert, or at least curious about what was on the other side of the door. Instead, he felt calm, like he was expecting a guest that was running a little late. And when he saw her silver hair and piercing eyes, he smiled widely, like he was just laying eyes on a long-lost friend. Captivated as he was, his eyes couldn’t help but to drop, looking at the tattoo that her sweater put on full display.

She walked into the speakeasy with a stubborn determination. She needed one answer to one question, then she could go home. Though she’d be lying to herself if she said she didn’t find the establishment’s décor alluring, intoxicating in its own right. And the way he stared at her filled her with self-doubt. Why is he looking at me like that? Her stride slowed halfway across the room, slowly coming to the end of the bar, keen on keeping at least that distance between them.

He was indeed bewildering. The eyes of an angel, the body of a demigod, and…a metal arm? He definitely wasn’t an angel if he couldn’t regrow or reattach parts of his corporeal form. Which brought her right back to why she was here in the first place. What is he?

“What did you do?” His voice led her gently out of her thoughts, bringing her attention solely on him.

“Sorry?”

“That brand.” He nodded to her exposed shoulder and subconsciously she pulled her sweater up and over the snake, shame washing over her. “You’re a fallen angel. So what did you do?”

“I…” she sighed and her eyes fell to the floor. “I stopped a race riot and in doing so, let a megalomaniacal idiot gain the power to bring about the end of humankind.” She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “And am a fan of Neil deGrasse Tyson.” She added as an afterthought.

She hadn’t noticed that Bucky had slid off the bar and was now standing directly in front of her. So she flinched with surprise when his thumb and index finger took hold of her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his. His eyes beheld her with warmth, drinking in her beauty for a minute before bringing his lips down to meet hers in a soft, reassuring kiss that lingered longer than even he had anticipated.

“Don’t worry about that idiot,” he murmured, smiling as he finally brought himself to pull away from the kiss. “He won’t destroy humanity. Too stupid.” Both chuckled at this for a moment before falling silent, Bucky still indulging in the angel’s beauty.

Before either of them could process the chemistry between them, Bucky had her pinned against the wall with such a force that a few liquor bottles fell from the nearby shelf, shattering against the wood floor. His lips crashed against hers, taking what he wanted, though she offered no resistance, delighting in this entirely new heat coursing through her veins. His body was enough to keep her pinned to the wall, allowing his metal hand to wrap around her neck, gently cradling it, offering a tender form of support as he neck craned so her lips could meet his. His flesh hand felt its way down her body, hungrily exploring her curves with an impatient passion, until he reached her thigh, fingers digging in as he lifted her leg, wrapping it around his waist. He was grinding his hips against her, his hand pawing at her ass, squeezing and rubbing the soft flesh, when he started to break off the kiss, wanting to ask her if angels even knew what sex was.

“What are you?” She panted before he could even form his own words.

The question stayed his lust momentarily, though the way her fingers ran through his hair, the was she played with the chestnut tresses, and the way she chewed lustfully at her swollen bottom lip reignited it just as quickly, and he kissed her softly, pushing his hips forcefully against hers as he smiled.

“I’m a half-breed,” he barely got the label out before his lips were at the nape of her neck, chewing and sucking at the skin, enjoying the way he could feel her blood pulse with lust. “Mother’s a demon,” he managed as he took a second to catch his breath before bringing his lips to her earlobe, sucking and tugging, knowing the pleasure it would bring her. “Dad was some angel she never talked about.” He finished explaining before biting her lip, pulling her into another passionate kiss.

Having her answer, the angel surrendered herself entirely to this half-breed, chasing the whirling heat that was growing between her legs. Bucky was so turned on by her eagerness that he didn’t bother making a show of undressing, getting naked as quickly as he could, impatient for his next taste of her skin. It was only when he noticed her gaping at his fully erect cock that he remembered the question he had wanted to ask. He cupped her cheek with his flesh hand, pressing his forehead against hers as his chest heaved with lust, forcing him to catch his breath.

“Have you ever had sex before? I mean, do angels even know what sex is?”

“I’ve never had sex before, no.” She confessed, “and angels only have a basic understanding of the concept. But…” She smirked as she pushed him away, throwing her sweater behind the bar, sliding out of her pants. “I know perfectly well what sex is, sir.”

It was his turn to gape now—at her confidence, at her body, at her. The way she said ‘sir’ made his cock twitch and he found himself putty in her hands, those soft, warm hands that were rubbing his chest. As she pushed him back, his smile grew with every step they took, anticipating her next move. And she didn’t disappoint, pushing him down against the plush upholstery of the bench before climbing on top of him, knees on either side of him as she straddled his hips, her dripping wet pussy ghosting over the head of his cock.

He was lost in her eyes, and she in his while she slowly lowered herself onto him, moaning loudly at the pressure, and the pleasure that came with it. She clung to his shoulders as her body trembled, overwhelmed by his size, and the confusion of pain and pleasure that it brought. Wrapping his metal arm around her waist, Bucky leaned forward, bring his flesh arm up her back, his fingers tangling in her hair as he braced her and began to move inside her, doing all of the work while she adjusted to this new experience.

He couldn’t believe how tight she was, his cock tearing at her walls, twitching with the pleasure of her lust pulsating all around his girth.

“Fuck.” He groaned with the obscene pleasure she brought, his lips tenderly molding with hers, his tongue luring hers into a passionate, sloppy kiss.

He continued to slowly grind into her, his hips rocking up against her pelvis, his head dropping, burying his face against her breasts. The way she whimpered and moaned was intoxicating, and his grip around her tightened, not wanting to risk letting her go. Slowly, it became easier to move inside her and he began thrusting gently into her, smiling into her cleavage as he felt her nails dig into his shoulders and rake against his skin as she struggled to keep a grip.

She began to moan louder, completely lost in the pulsating heat while pure, blind pleasure pulled her muscles into her core. She didn’t know something so painful could feel so obscenely good. She wanted more, needed more, and began rolling her hips in time with his thrusting, chasing that obscenity. She was panting when she looked down at Bucky. His eyes were shut, his hair falling in his face as he groaned and growled with raw pleasure. The sight made her smile, inspired her to ride him as intensely as she could manage as she brushed the sweaty hair from his face, her fingers raking through and gripping at his hair.

Soon, she was gripped by the riptide of her climax rushing through every muscle, every vein in her body. As she reached the peak of her orgasm, she threw her head back, screaming with ecstasy while her body stiffened and her wings stretched to their full span, showering Bucky in their effervescent glow.

The hot sensation of her cumming over him was so intense that it pushed him over the edge, his hips bucking as he emptied himself inside of her. They rode out their orgasms together, Bucky still bracing the angel’s trembling body, holding her close. Even as they came down from their high, he stayed inside her, letting her body melt perfectly against his as though they were one.

Now that he found her, he was never going to let his fallen angel go.

TAGS:  @oneshot-shit; @marvel-ash; @bovaria; @hymnofthevalkyries; @archangel-trauma; @bionic-buckyb; @lostinspace33; @morbidmary; @bucky-plums-barnes

[rainydaysfun-blog]

10 Simple Boredom Busters for a Boring Rainy Day

Turn the kids bed into a pirate ship

Do your children make their beds in the morning? We're willing to bet they don't, especially at weekends. So, on a rainy week-end, when everyone wants to lay in their pyjamas a little longer, why not embrace it, create a pirate ship right in your child's bed and play a little pirate game. First name your ship, something like The Deceitful Eel, the Flying King or the Good Squid. Then make a team of crew mates - with dolls, toys and teddies and give them names : Hysterical Darius Scarr, or Sweatin' Benjamin Sparrow. Take the top sheet and throw it over the headboard to make a sail. Make sure everyone - the captain, the crew members are on the bed, ensuring that they are not eaten by sharks (remind them of the shark at regular intervals).

After some navigation it is time to arrive at other islands, such as the kitchen or the living room where it is time for a hearty pirate breakfast. You can go ahead and try to make the bed once the children have had enough pirate fun.

Draw the biggest ever picture

It feels like an exciting challenge to draw on a giant picture when you're stuck indoors on a rainy day. If you have rolls or paper or even several bits of paper, begin by unrolling the paper roll or putting the bits of paper together down on the floor through to the hallway. Any theme is possible for your masterpieces: life-size trains, landscapes or animals. You can then reuse the picture to pin it in your children gallery of paintings.

Make a mask and pretend to be a superhero!

Our son loves to hide behind the couch pillows and giggles so we have to pretend we can't find him and wonder why the couch is giggly. He also loves his cat suit and mask that we bought from e-bay. There's no need to buy a mask, though - you can make a very low cost mask with an empty cereal packet ( a large one), a bottle of black paint and rubber bands. Cut the cardboard in the shape of the mask that you desire - can be Batman or any other character and paint it black or any colour you like. You can also stick decoration on the mask, like glitter, feathers or anything else. This should keep the children busy during a long rainy day for a couple of hours. Attach the elastic bands through a hole and hook them behind their ears and they're ready for some pretend play.

Create a family picture tree

You can go as far back as you have pictures - grand-parents or some great-great grand parents. Call out to grandparents to dust off the old albums and pull out the baby pictures. I have a photograph of my great grand-parents, on their wedding day, a black and white almost brown picture from a different century and era. First draw the tree on a piece of card (check out this link here on other ideas to draw trees) and mark the positions for the pictures. You can add as many family members as you want - brothers, sisters, cousins etc. To preserve the photos, use a scanner to make copies. Start with the eldest generation at the top, then work your way downwards, jumping down a step so that the youngest end up somewhere in the middle of the tree. The children will have fun trying to guess who is that auntie or uncle in those baby pictures.

Make art from literally anything

We have made art from recycled material before, but you can use a pair of scissors, chop anything you see in your way (well....almost!) and create some piece of art. The advertising material that you get through your post, can become a pile of colourful scraps. Use anything you have hoarded, wrappers, bottle tops, electrical wire, scraps of shiny paper to create animals, such as a fish with a shiny belly, fins, big eyes and teeth.

Freeze ice moulds and make some sculptures

You can make beautiful translucent sculptures with little treasures inside, such as leaves, berries, or flowers. The simplest way to do this is to fill a container - such as cake moulds, or even sand toys with water and leave it in the freezer. Or you can take more time (always practical on a long rainy day) and make something more elaborate a mould out of clay, line it with cling film and fill the hollow with water. You can also use balloons, fill them up with water and hide a little toy in them like a little toy dinosaur and then pretend to excavate the dinosaur eggs. You can then ask your children to do some archeological digging, to find the hidden treasures in the ice sculpture.

Play I Spy

This game is a classic and can be played not only with the eyes, but with the nose, ears, fingers and tongues. Try to play I Hear With My Little Ear while asking your children to close their eyes. You will soon discover that the range of sounds that you can hear in a house is huge - from the humming of a fridge, through the noise of the rain drops outside, the squeal of the TV on stand by or anything else. This should also be quite a great game for relaxation and mindfulness so that's a bonus for stressed parents!

Make some (non alchoholic) mulled wine for kids

...and some alcholic one for you!

This activity requires some preparation beforehand - in that you'll need the spices. But, if you are used to making mulled wine at Christmas, this will be easy and a great idea for those rainy days. This is pretty easy to do, gather a carton of cranberry juice, the rind of two oranges, about a dozen cloves, four tablespoons of clear honey, a teaspon of vanilla extract, a couple of cinnamon sticks and some freshly ground nutmeg. Heat gently the cranberry juice in a saucepan, add the honey and vanilla extract and stir slowly for a couple of minutes. Drop in the orange rind, cloves, cinnamon sticks, nutmeg and warm through. And now do the same but using wine!

Create your own board game

When you are housebound with your children on a rainy day, you can create your own board game. All you need are 2-3 sheets of A4 paper, some scissors, pencils and a bit of imagination. Board games are great because they teach children things like abstract maths such as probabilities "you have a one in six chance of landing on the square". These games also teach preschoolers social skills, such as turn taking and learning to deal with winning or losing. Choose a topic that children know about, like visiting the doctor while ill, or going on holiday or making new friends. For example, one aim could be to chose a holiday destination like Paris. A roll of the dice will determine which mode of transport is taken, rail, plane or even bike on foot for a giggle. Random event cards can be drawn on specially coloured squares (such as a flat tyre, a train breakdown, or taking a different route).

Capture autumn's colours

Colours in autumn with a large array of red, orange, yellow and brown are very pretty. As daylight decreases, the clorophyll (the green bit of the leaf that converts sunlight into energy) dissolves revealing colours that have always been there, often the product of waste. You can capture those colours relatively easily. As soon as autumn arrives, collect different-coloured leaves, including one still green (nettle or spinach from the supermarket). You will need some surgical spirit or acetone, some small jars, a large flat dish, hot water and bleached coffee filter papers. Cut up the leaves into tiny pieces, then grind them with a mortar and pestle. Pour each colour into its own jar, cover with a few millimeters of surgical spirit or acetone and place the jars in the dish and pour in some very hot water. This may need to be topped up to keep it heated for at least half an hour. Remove the jars from the heat, take the lids off and dip a strip of filter paper into each one, which should be left for at least half and hour. The science behind this is that the alcohol rises up the paper through capillary action, pulling up pigment from the solution. As it evaporates, different colours travel different distances. If you are lucky the paper will dry to reveal a good spread of colours.