#like. oh my god the chorus. ''someone's got blood on their hands'' how it accuses and decries

[razzle-zazzle]

Dear Hunter's "We've Got a Score to Settle" is so Woodland Stan to me.

[voiceless-terror]

Oooo 16 mixed with 39 w Jon for the fluff/angst prompts?

Hello there, anon! Can you believe, that in all of my whump fics, I’ve yet to tackle the bread knife incident? High time we corrected that. The two prompts this is referencing are- “Do you need to go to the hospital?” and “If you don’t rest you won’t get any better.” Had this written for a bit, but I spruced it up and decided to post as I’m working on reconstructing chapters. Hope you like!

“Jesus Christ.”

“I-It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Admittedly, it doesn’t look great.

There’s a trail of blood following Jon to the sink, a bloody handprint or two on the counter (and probably a few door handles), and his shirt is similarly stained, the rumpled white button-up painted with red. The slice (more than a slice, probably a stab) to his arm bled more than he anticipated and is probably still bleeding under the towel he’s currently using to stifle the flow. Jon’s swaying where he stands; the loss of blood has him feeling weak, and the dizziness and dull throb in his head leftover from Michael hasn’t abated. All in all, he must look a mess.

Judging by Martin and Tim’s expressions, this is probably a fair assessment. Martin immediately goes to his side, though Jon flinches away as he tries to reach for his arm. He tamps down the guilt he feels at Martin’s look of rejection. “It’s n-nothing, really-”

“Nothing?” Tim scoffs, slowly making his way over as he dodges Jon’s mess. “We leave you alone for twenty minutes and suddenly you’re finger painting with blood. The hell happened?”

“Did you reopen one of your wounds?” Martin’s hands are hovering above his arm, like he’s trying to approach a skittish animal. “I told you not to pick at them-”

“Uh, n-no.” Jon leans against the counter- his vision’s starting to go, he should’ve sat down instead of puttering about like a fool. “It’s-it’s a new one.” Sufficiently cowed by Martin and Tim’s worried stares, he gently removes the towel with a hiss and yes, it’s still bleeding profusely. Damn. 

Tim hurriedly pressed the towel back down, leading him over to a chair as Martin lets out one of his disbelieving squeaks. Tim’s always been good in a crisis and Jon wants to lean into the touch but something in the back of his mind rebels against it, whispering paranoid nothings in his ear. Wrong wrong wrong. There’s something wrong, something bad. Find out. So instead he flinches out of his hold as soon as he’s sat down, ignoring the exasperated look this gets him and putting pressure on the wound himself. 

“What did you do?” he asks but Jon doesn’t meet his eyes, instead looking down at his lap. “How’d you get that?”

“A-A sandwich.” He can feel Tim’s stare, practically hears Martin’s fretting. “I-I was-”

“A sandwich,” Tim repeats, his voice deadpan. “A ham and cheese stabbed you.”

“No!” Words aren’t making sense, they’re hard to put together. He wants to lay down, he wants to sleep, he wants to be far away from these people and what they’ve done and what they might still do to him. “I cut myself...making a sandwich. W-With a knife. A bread knife.”

“A bread knife.” Martin’s talking now, his voice high-pitched and concerned. “A bread knife did that.”

“Where is it, then?” He wishes Tim would let up, would just take the story and leave him be, let him bleed.

“I-I put it back. I cleaned it and I put it back.”

“Let me get this straight-”

“For God’s sake, Tim- that doesn’t matter right now!” Now Martin’s at his side, hauling him up out of his seat with a steady hand that takes the brunt of his weight as he lists to the side. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I-”

“Why am I even asking? Of course you do.” Martin’s muttering, already dragging him halfway out the door. “I’ll get us a cab. You two will just bicker the whole way. Take care of all this will you, Tim?” He gestures with one free hand to the mess Jon’s made and Tim just sighs wearily, nodding his head. He throws Jon one last glare but it’s weak and more worried than anything. He feels the guilt bubble up again. He should apologize for the inconvenience, tell them what happened, who visited. But then the voice creeps up, starting its chorus in the back of his mind.

He stays silent. He doesn’t speak as Martin takes more and more of his weight and the world tilts around him. He’s in a cab. Martin’s hand is warm and should be comforting but it isn’t. His arm stings and Helen’s gone and Michael’s laughter echoes and he can feel the worms burrowing back in, and over this cacophony of pain is the miserable choir singing wrong, wrong, something’s wrong someone’s there someone’s watching, waiting until they’ve got you alone-

He struggles in Martin’s hold but its weak and must seem more like a squirm of discomfort, for Martin doesn’t let go, just keeps up his murmured reassurances and his touches that sting like a thousand tiny needles.

He doesn’t know how long they’re at the A & E for. He barely registers Martin dragging him inside or talking to the nurses. He watches dispassionately as the wound’s stitched up, his other scabs disinfected from constant picking. Nobody lectures him or says much of anything- one mention of the Magnus Institute shut them right up. Jon is as much thankful as he is discouraged. He really is alone. He feels it even as he’s shoved back into Martin’s arms with a disingenuous smile and a ‘get well soon!’ 

Martin’s eyeing him critically as they wait for the cab; Jon’s too tired to fight at the probing hands that inspect the bandages. “Still your story, then?”

“Hm?” The world is hazy, but Michael’s laughter is starting to fade.

“Bread knife.”

“Oh...yes, yes it is.” He tries for some defiance but his voice is small and weary. Martin sighs in turn.

“You know you can tell me about these things, right? Me o-or Tim, maybe Sasha-”

Jon snorts. “Tell you when I’m making lunch?”

Martin’s face remains serious.  “If that’s what you want to call it, sure.”

Jon doesn’t want to have this conversation so he nods in a clear dismissal, sighing in relief as a cab pulls up outside. Martin reaches for the car door, helping him in before hurrying to the other side. Jon’s about to tell the driver to take them back to work when Martin interrupts in a no-nonsense tone, rattling off an address with a please and thank you.

It’s Jon’s address.

How does he know my address? Has he been following me? He is the one who found Gertrude’s body, after all. What if- what if-

“I can see your mind going a mile a minute, Jon. What’s wrong?” He startles, moving as far away from Martin as possible and hitting the car door with a wince. Martin continues, his eyes betraying nothing but concern as Jon’s mind spirals. “You’re not going back to work. You just got stitches-”

“How do you know my address?” The words are meant to be an accusation, but they just sound like the bark of a small dog. Martin seems to agree with this assessment because he rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and every second makes Jon’s heart beat faster until it’s rabbiting in his chest. What does he know, what did he do?

“You don’t remember, do you?” Martin sounds sad, disappointed. It hurts more than Jon would like to admit.

“R-Remember what?”

“You don’t remember the three times I had to do this, back when you were supposed to be on sick leave?” Jon blinks.

He doesn’t remember much of that time. He remembers the pain, the paranoia, the fear- all of it tuned up to a fever-pitch. Trying to go back to work and being promptly shooed out by Martin, who took one look at his limp and still-bleeding wounds and shoved him back in a cab. Was he covering his tracks? Is that why he didn’t want me around? He has the faintest memory of arms scooping him unceremoniously from the trap door to the tunnels at night, this time accompanying him in the cab and making sure he got home, since Jon had exited the cab early and snuck back several times before. It’s embarrassing and disconcerting, these gaps in his memory. Gaps that Martin has to fill. Martin, who he can’t trust. Martin, who’s talking right now. 

“- really, Jon- if you don’t rest, you won’t get any better. Tim tells me you’ve been skipping physical therapy, skulking about-”

“I don’t skulk-”

“Well, it’s sure as hell not sneaking if you leave a trail of blood wherever you go!” Martin’s voice raises in frustration, though it immediately quiets as Jon flinches, again. He heaves a massive sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. “We’re worried, Jon. We’re all worried. About you, about Gertrude, this whole mess- but you’ve got to talk to us. You’ve got to let the police do their job. And for the love of god, let us help you. Because-” he swallows, his next words earnest and spent. “-because we’re scared too. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Martin’s worried. Martin’s scared. Martin found Gertrude’s body. Martin’s always outside his office. Tim’s tired, Tim’s getting angry. Sasha smiles when she shouldn’t smile. Elias is up in his office, telling him everything’s fine and to rest but something’s watching, something’s wrong, Gertrude’s dead and someone killed her and someone’s coming for you next-

The next thing he knows he’s standing outside the door to his flat, Martin at his side. The door looks like a normal door, but Helen went through a door and didn’t come out. She didn’t come out, and Michael laughed, and there’s a war coming and he’s so stupid, so ignorant-

“Are you going to be okay?”

Jon takes the key from his coat pocket with shaking hands, shoving it in the lock. He doesn’t want to go in but he can’t stay out here, not with Martin who found Gertrude, who knows where he lives. “Y-Yes. You can go. Thank you.”

He’s inside before Martin can protest any further, slamming the door shut and leaning against it wearily. It looks like his flat, he hopes it’s his flat. Martin’s talking on the other side, asking him to call if he needs anything. Jon’s not going to do that, of course. He waits for the inevitable sigh, listens until Martin’s footsteps fade away. He’s safe, for now.

He locks the deadbolt.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073586

[kewltie]

His office door slams open and a familiar voice comes through the doorway. "Boss! There is a horde of children, a horde of them," Nagai gasps, "outside looking for you. What did you do?!"

Katsuki doesn't even look up from his paperworks. "Do half of them look like they will eviscerate you if you get within ten feet of the group?"

A beat, and then, "Well, yes," Nagai admits sheepishly. "The oldest girl had stared me down like I'm the scum of the earth and I'd never felt so emasculated by a child before."

Katsuki slides out of his seat and stands up. "Yea, those are my brats alright."

"W-wait, what?" Nagai squeaks, face running through a gauntlet of horror. "Yours? You mean as in yours-yours like they're your kids? You reproduce? How does that even work—?"

When Katsuki gives him a searing glare, Nagai has the grace to look apologetic even as he doesn't retract his words. "Do I have to go over basic sex education with you?" he seethes as he walks up to Nagai.

"Uh, no, sir," Nagai says, shaking his head rapidly like a wet dog. "It's just, well," he scratches his cheek, "we never saw you with anyone before. Half of us either thought you were celibate and just obsessed with your work, while the rest thought you were, um," Nagai looks like a deer in headlights, "impotent," he finishes in a rush.

Katsuki swats him in the back of his head. "Stop fucking gossiping with the interns."

"Sorry, boss," Nagai says with a grimace. "We're just surprise that you didn’t just have one but several secret children running around and nobody even had a clue."

"I didn't contribute to their genetics," Katsuki grinds out, because he’s tired of going over this, "but those brats are mine in every sense of the word."

"Oh," Nagai says, brows furrowing. He opens his mouth as thought to say more but quickly closes it when Katsuki shoves pass him and heads out of the door. But it's not long before he starts it up again. "I guess that would explain why they don't look like you at all."

"What clued you in, genius?" Katsuki says dryly. "Is it their white hair or grey eyes?"

"Well, one of them, actually have green hair and eyes instead," Nagai points out, which earns him another swat. "Ouch."

Katsuki roll his eyes. "Shut up, you fucking baby. You're made of steel."

"Boss, your fist of fury can blow a hole through steel, so yea, I'm concern," Nagai defends as they make their way from the back of the agency to the more communal area because Katsuki prefer to keep them far apart as possible. Privacy is valuable commodity that he wouldn’t spare for anything less than absolutely. “I’m actually extremely concern when your hand land on any part of my body."

Katsuki snorts. Fuck HR and everyone who thinks fear can't be a good foundation to a build a work relationship on. His subordinates need a healthy dose of fear to get motivated to do their fucking jobs.

Or else they become useless like this—he curses inwardly.

As soon as they step into the main open area of the agency, there's a cluster of front office personals, interns, and off-duty heroes crowding over several small figures.

Their voice drown out all other noises in the area.

"Are you the Boss' children?" someone asks.

"Where did you come from?" another presses.

"Who is your dam?" A curious excited tilt to their voice.

"Awe, you're so cute!" A coo.

"This isn't a daycare," Katsuki snaps, raising his voice above the crowd. "Get the fuck back to work. I don't pay you all to stand around and do nothing." A series of whine escape but they quickly disperse back to their corner, but he can still their heavy gazes on him. Noisy fuckers.

"Um, I'll just go do something over there then," Nagai says, making a run for it before Katsuki can bite his head off also. Katsuki sighs, feeling a throb stirring in the back of his head. He turns his attention the real source of his headache—three menacing little shits.

They make quite a scene. Like pretty dressed up dolls, standing closely together with held hands as they present a united front against the world. Hikaru, protectively bookend by his older sisters, is wearing a baby blue hoodie with rabbit ears and white pants. It's fucking precious. If Hikaru is supposed to soften the world up for the slaughter then his sisters go right in for the kill. Yuko carries herself like a queen in her red laced dress, mary jane shoes, and a black beret on top of her head. Close by Akira doesn't settle for second best either. She has on a Ground Zero team jacket on with a GZ baseball cap on her head, a another GZ piece of merch on her feet adorned in his signature colors, and a plaid skirt around her hips. The brats are out in style.

It's an overkill, but fuck do they look good doing it.

Ironic, though, that Izuku can barely dress himself, but he always makes sure the brats look good enough to kill when they go out. No wonder they always catch attention no matter where and what they do. A sense of pride sweeps over him, because, yea, they're his brats too.

"Numbers," Katsuki greets them with a short wave.

"Kacchan," they say in unison. Yuko in her cold, detached tone. Akira chirps it excitedly. And Hikaru's voice is soft and sweet. They drop hand so Hikaru can wave shyly at him, because his sisters are too cool for that shit.

Hikaru quickly breaks rank and slams right into Katsuki's leg. "Hi," he murmurs, looking up at Katsuki with warmth eyes.

"Yo," he says back, bending down to lift Hikaru up and holds him over his hip. "What you monsters doing here?"

"Delivering Papa's bento to you!" Akira informs him.

A chorus of oohs and aahs echoes throughout the space. Katsuki snaps his neck toward the noise and glares at them to quite frankly shut the fuck up as Hikaru tucks his head against Katsuki's chest. Unlike his older siblings, Hikaru doesn't fair well under the spotlight.

"Papa requested that we bring your lunch to you," Yuko explains, words carefully enunciated and poised as though they can be pluck off of her tongue. Yuko always come off much older than she really is and maybe that's the burden of being the first born. All the responsibility and pressure, but none of the advantage. She got three younger siblings behind her and another on the way; she can't relax at all. There's an air of unapproachability around her that is indifference to the world but doting to her younger siblings and dam.

Katsuki and Yuko aren't close compare to the rest of the numbers, but a mutual respect is share between them. He's the one providing her family with a roof over their head and food on the table, and she holds her tattered family together with nothing but sheer determination.

She's good girl; Izuku had raised her right.

Yuko looks pointedly at a wrapped bento box that had been tucked to her side the whole time. "He made mentaiko for you since he’d said you like it."

"His first time too!" Akira adds with a grin.

Yuko scowls, bumping her sister shoulder. "Don't tell him that!"

Hikaru lifts his head up and leans closely to Katsuki's ear. "I’d tasted it earlier," he makes a face, "and it's not very good," he confesses, hush and guiltily like a prisoner on deathrow. “I didn’t like it at all.”

"Hikaru, you traitor!" Akira snaps as Yuko drops her face into her hand in exasperation. “Don’t go exposing Papa’s secret!”

"You shouldn't be yelling at him when you're just as bad," Yuko accuses.

Akira huffs. "I would never say anything mean about Papa!"

"It’s always you and your big mouth," Yuko seethes as thick black tendrils crawl to the surface of her skin like living tattoos. "This is where Hikaru had picked his bad habits from. "Inky shadows seeps from her feet and spread across the floor, pooling beneath her as several pointed pillars rise from it.

"You're so bossy, nee-chan!" Akira narrow her eyes, spread her stance, and raises her fists, lips curling in a sneer. "Maybe someone should teach you a lesson instead."

"Fucking hell," Katsuki grumbles, stepping forward to get between them. "Hey, hey, cut that shit out, you brats."

He slightly nudges Hikaru in the back to help him out and Hikaru, who is clearly the best child ever, begs urgently, "Yuko-neechan, Akira-neechan, please don't fight."

Yuko draws in a long breath before closing her eyes, finding that zen within her as the inky black tendril recedes back into her body. "I apologize for such an uncouth display," she says coolly, opening her eyes. It's a calm pool of grey once more. "That was rude of us."

Akira relaxes her tense muscle and drops her fighting stance. "Sorry," she says chagrin, but not completely appeased because despite being the only quirkless individual among her overpower siblings, Akira has enough gutso and blind bravery to fight anyone and everything. Sometimes even her own siblings. It's one of her worst and best qualities; she just doesn't know her own limit. "We'll be good now."

"Don't bullshit me, no. 3," Katsuki scolds. "You four exist just to drive me to an early grave."

Akira grins, rocking back on her heels. "But you loooooove us anyway."

"God, knows why," he says, pulling a disgust face at himself because fuck him does he love these little shits and all their complicated neurosis and hang-ups.

"And we all love you too," Hikaru adds, because he’s the best kid .

"Some of us do," Yuko corrects with an up turned nose, because praise from drawing blood from stone. “I may have accepted him, but doesn’t mean he is our father yet.”

Akira's head snaps to her sister as she opens her mouth to give another vicious barb, but just before that Katsuki quickly cuts in: "Okay, just tell me where are Deku and no. 2 first. I'm sure he didn't come alone and I already miss no. 2's death glare drilling a hole in my head."

Kouki’s zero tolerance for anyone’s bullshit, even his siblings, would be fucking awesome right now.

"Oh, Papa is outside waiting for us," Akira says as Yuko frowns beside her. "And Kouki-niichan is with him to make sure no alpha harassed him."

"What the fuck," Katsuki says, annoyed and beyond confused. "Why don't they just come in with you instead of sending just you brats?”

"Papa's shy," Hikaru whispers in his ears. "He doesn't want to bother you or cause you problem at your work place if he were here."

"You guys aren't mate or married so it would improper for him to visit you without causing sordid rumors," Yuko argues.

"And the fact that you three are here, isn’t either?" Katsuki demands dryly, gesturing to the three menace wrecking a havoc in his agency and the ears and eyes that had been training on them since their appearance here.

Yuko grimaces as Akira gives a sheepish smile.

"Mad, Kacchan?" Hikaru asks, mouth drawn tight as his voice quiets out.

"No," Katsuki answers, pinching Hikaru's cheek. "I'm actually fucking stoke." He turns to the other two and orders, "No. 3, go get Deku and no. 2 and tell them to get their ass in here."

Akira’s eyes light up and she grins. "Yes, sir." She salutes him and runs off.

"Here is what’s going to happen when Deku and no. 2 get here: we'll go to the lounge, grab a table, and you're all going to watch me eat your Papa's shitty food and hope I don't fucking get food poison, alright?" Katsuki tells the remaining two as Yuko makes a face and Hikaru giggles in his ear.

[drabbletrashcan]

Dovakhiin

It is said that only a Dragonborn can kill a dragon. After the Dragonborn kills a dragon, he or she will devour and consume its soul. Over the centuries, this has proven to be true. Man can most definitely weaken and injure a dragon but can never put an end to its life. Only the Dragonborn has accomplished this feat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Bishop dove behind a boulder just in time. He could feel the blazing heat all around him, and his heart hammered thinking about how his companions could easily be caught in that inferno. Karnwyr whimpered, huddling closer to his master. He was scared out of his mind.

Casavir thank the gods above for blessing him with such luck. He had managed to find a small cave he could barely fit in but provide shelter from the hell outside. Yet, his eyes scanned his surroundings frantically, searching for the others.

How lucky to be quick on your feet. Cael had taken cover in the dense vegetation, unseen, unheard. All he had to do was wait it out. Where the hell were the others? Oh, gods, what if they were caught in the fire?!

A loud roar shook the earth, fire hailing from above. The dragon swooped low, searching for his prey and leaving destruction in its wake. Cael finally spotter two of his companions. As the dragon rose up into the sky, he dashed towards Bishop, the closest one, and crouched behind the boulder.

“What the fuck are we going to do?!” Bishop yelled. “We’re dead. We’re just a late afternoon barbeque!”

“Please calm down, Dark One, this is not the time and place for more agitation.”

Bishop’s jaw tightened visibly, holding himself back from decking the blonde in the face. Managing to grab the paladin’s attention and beckoning him over to them, the small group hid behind the boulder, praying to whatever god out there that the dragon would not find them.

“Oh, gods.”

Casavir let out a horrified whisper, his eyes widening. He turned to the two men, fury and desperation burning in his eyes.

“Where is Ava?!”

A question that made their blood run ice cold. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. Oh please gods no. Cael grabbed Bishop and Casavir’s arms, his hands resembling iron claws. He pointed towards the open field the dragon was circling.

With wild blonde hair fluttering in the wind, there stood Ava in all her glory, clad in her steel armor. She unsheathed her Warhammer, staring at the dragon ferociously, just daring it to try and attack her.

“Has she gone completely mad?!”

The dragon finally noticed her, and it swooped down. It opened its mouth and let out a mighty roar before a river of fire poured down upon Ava.

“NO!”

Bishop and Cael and Casavir froze, not believing what they had just witnessed, not wanting to believe it.

The fire cleared up, leaving charred vegetation in its wake. In the middle of a blackened, ashy field, there stood Ava. The ward she had cast wore off, and she gripped her weapon tightly. The dragon came circling back, this time intent on tearing its prey into pieces. It got closer and closer, its maw opening again.

“Fus…ro dah!” a large blast on energy launched itself from Ava towards the dragon, knocking it out of the air and crashing ungracefully in the dirt. Wasting no time, she lunged at it, bringing down her weapon and impaling its skull. Blood spurted out, coating her armor in a shiny ruby red. The dragon let out a roar of anguish as it got its bearings back. Ava attacked mercilessly, dodging the dragon’s fire storm and countering it with her own Shout.

By now, she had rendered the beast incapable of flying. She let out streaks of lightning through her fingertips, her eyes blazing with magicka.  

This was her only opening.

Letting out a scream of effort, she launched herself off a cliffside, landing on the dragon’s back. The beast shook, trying to knock her off. Jumping up, she brought her Warhammer down, its blade burying in the dragon’s scull.

For a few seconds she was in the air before crashing against the ground. She wheezed for air, struggling to stand up. The dragon wobbled towards her, not intent at dying at the hand of a mortal. Ava unsheathed her sword. She trust it upwards, the blade going straight through its scaly throat.

She stared the beast in the eye, watching the life drain out of it. It let out a final roar before collapsing.

Ava crawled out from under it, scrambling to her feet as she clutched her side. It hurt like hell. But it wasn’t over yet. She limped towards the corpse and dislodged her weapons from it and placed her hand on the snout of the animal.

A single muffled boom resonated throughout the valley as the wind started to pick up. She was absorbing the dragon’s soul. Multicolored lights surrounded her body, and she felt the familiar energy of the soul entering her body.

Blood oozed from her side, staining her armor and fingers. Yet she continued to ignore the pain, for now came the hardest part.

Explaining to the boys.

Bishop, Casavir and Cael emerged from behind the boulder, walking towards her slowly. She turned towards them, exhaustion visible in her eyes. Without a word, Cael sat her down and tended to her wound. She looked down, avoiding their gaze. Bishop crossed his arms, piercing her with his icy glare.

“Hey, ladyship,” he said, painfully monotone. Ava cringed before looking up. “You mind telling us what this is?”

Ava bit her lip. “Well…I’m Dovakhiin…it means Dragonborn in the dragon tongue…”

“Yeah, I got that. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell us sooner?” he asked in an accusing tone.

“I…I don’t know…”

“Oh, you don’t know? Well what do you know, Ava?!”

“Stop it, Bishop. What is your problem?” Casavir gently pushed Bishop.

Bishop pushed the paladin back, annoyance evident in his golden eyes. “You want to know what my problem is? My problem is that after months of travelling with us, she never thought for a second to tell us who she actually is!”

“Enough, Bishop,” Cael stood up, running a hand through his blond hair. “I understand your anger, and if anything, I agree with you to some extent. But this isn’t what she needs right now.”

“No, what she needs is to stop lying to us and tell us everything she’s been hiding!”

Ava’s eyes shot up towards Bishop. Lying? The bastard. She stood up, radiating anger.

“Lying? How the hell have I been lying?”

“You literally hid your identity? Don’t you think it would have been useful to at some point come up to us and tell us you’re the Dragonborn?”

“At some point I would have told you, you ungrateful ass!”

“Ungrateful?” the ranger scoffed.

“I just saved your sorry ass from a fucking dragon, and this is how you treat me, you bastard?!”

“Oh, yes, please, excuse me for having the audacity to not kneel down in front of you and kiss your boots. See, this is why I have trust issues in the first fucking place.”

“What the fuck do you have against me?!” her accent became more noticeable.

“I don’t trust you! All you do is drag us into abandoned caves and hide behind us, then expect us to follow you like lost puppies. And on top of that, you’re the Dragonborn. The person who’s, you know, supposed to be saving the world, but instead you go and prance around Skyrim, with not a care in the world. You’re pretty useless for someone who’s supposed to defeat the World Eater.”

Ava froze. Hurt, betrayed, insulted. This was what she was feeling. After everything she had done for him. After nearly sacrificing her life to save him. After hoping one day he would notice her feelings for him. Finally, something snapped.

She stepped forward and put her hands against the ranger’s chest. And pushed him. She pushed him so hard he stumbled backwards before falling on his back.

“Useless? Useless?! Is that what you think of me?! Then do yourself a favor and fucking leave, you mean, annoying, greedy, selfish, perverted piece of shit! How dare you?! After everything I’ve done! You have the nerve to call me useless?!”

Her screams echoed throughout the valley. She could feel hot tears streaming down her face. But she didn’t care. Bishop looked up at her, surprised. Heavy sobs started to rack her body, yet she didn’t stop.

“You want to know why I didn’t tell you?! Do you?! Here’s why: I’m fucking scared! I’m terrified out of my mind! Do you think I want this?! My life is literally written in stone. I am the Dragonborn. I’m supposed to sacrifice my life to save the world from Alduin. Do you know how it feels to literally have the weight of the world on your shoulders?! No, you don’t, you run away from responsibility all the time. I don’t want this! I never wanted this! So fuck you, you asshole! Fuck you and everything you stand for!”

The words lingered in the air before disappearing, and with it Ava felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She hung her head, wiping furiously at her eyes. Bishop slowly rose and stepped towards her before stopping.

“I’m going back to Whiterun. If you want to keep travelling with me, I’ll be at Breezehome. You’re free to leave at any time, all of you.”

 *

 The smell of baked potatoes and chorus of yells made Ava wake up, furrowing her brow in confusion. What the hell? She threw on some clothes and grabbed her dagger, just in case. Walking downstairs, she stopped and stared at the scene unfolding before her.

Bishop, clad in his leather armor and a chef’s apron, was stirring at the cookpot, mumbling something about how he does everything in this household. Casavir and Cael were fighting over which set of plates to use. Casavir insisted to use the blue china plates, while Cael stressed about how they should simply eat off of the usual metal plates. Karnwyr, who was lounging by the fire, perked up at the sight of her and gently rubbed his head against her. The house looked brand new. Her weapons, sitting neatly on the weapon rack, were polished with great care. The floor had been swept and polished, her books organized, her potions and alchemy materials neatly stored in the cabinets, and not a stray of dust was visible.

Noticing her, the boys froze. Awkward silence settled between them. Ava raised an eyebrow, her eyes darting around the house, examining every detail. Finally, Cael cleared his throat, walking towards her.

“Morning, sparrow! Uh, why don’t you take a seat?” he led her to the table, pushing down on her shoulders.

“Did you sleep well, milady?” Casavir set a blue china plate before her, earning an irritated glare from the Forsworn.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“How’s that wound? I should change the bandages…”

“Milady, would you like mead or milk? Oh, there’s also some wine…”

“My sparrow, I remember you had to do some tasks for the Jarl, but Casavir, Bishop and I can take care of it. You should rest for today…”

“Ok, wait. What the hell is going on?”

Casavir and Cael exchanged looks before looking at Bishop, where he still stood stirring at the cookpot. Ava raised an eyebrow, shifting to face him fully. Bishop rolled his eyes and scratched the back of his neck, approaching hesitantly.

“Um…look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

Ava stared at him for a few seconds before rising from her seat. She stood in front of Bishop, staring into his golden eyes. He avoided her gaze, studying the tip of his boots. Ava smirked and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. Her action made Casavir’s and Cael’s jaws drop. She could feel Bishop tense in her embrace, his arms suspended awkwardly in the air. She pulled back and embraced the other two men.

“You’re all idiots! But you’re my idiots, and I’m glad you decided to stick with me.”

[spiltscribbles]

Hamilton Friends AU  |  The One With The Engagement

Notes: Okay so this is so late, I beam the craziness f this summer. But a huge Thank you to the ever lovely @aswithasunbeamwho prompted me this perfect Friends episode to write in a Hamilton AU. You’re an amazing soul and I hope you enjoy<3<3

.-

“Your face looks weird.”

“Rude.”

“Just an observation,” Angelica, as appraising and blunt as ever, chides at Alexander with a probing finger to his cheek. In turn alexander just scowls her way and sticks out his tongue for good measure.

“She is correct my friend,” Lafayette, currently trying to balance a fifth book on his head after proclaiming that yes, in fact he is as graceful as any of those fucking Disney princesses, tacks on. “As if your face has gone all goopy permanently.”

“It’s like you’re staring at Eliza even though she’s not here,” Hercules clarifies with a shrug.

“You’re all awful people and I don’t know why I’ve ever agreed to be your friend.” Alexander huffs.

“We’ve gone and made him all sour,” Peggy snorts and Laurens begins to mimic his peeved off expression in-between his own cackles.

“Awful!” Alexander reiterates. “Awful, awful people.”

“Answer the question at hand loser,” Peggy charges on, standing up from the sofa and swinging her weight to her left hip, defiant. “Why do you look so eerily unbothered, so, un-Hamilton like. For Pete’s sake even when you’re happy you look like there’s a hundred different things that are annoying the fuck outta you.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

“Fine,” Alexander twists his lips in annoyance of getting caught out. “If I tell you lot you better swear on everything you own that you won’t breathe a word.”

“Mysterious,” Laurens leers.

“It is Burr, he has died a most awful death! This is the source of your happiness, no?” Lafayette accuses.

“Ah, erm…. Not quite yet?”

“Well get on with it then,” Angelica scolds with no real heat. “Some of us have actual lives to get too.”

“”Drag race is on tonight and me and Ange have got a bet going.” Peggy explains.

“Which I will win,” Angelica sniffs.

“Fine, fine,” Alexander harrumphs, long acquainted with the larger than life personalities of all the Schuyler sisters, his heart contracting and stomach swooping once thinking of one in particular. Of her long, dark hair, and impossibly bright eyes, and the way her smile makes it feel like Alexander’s floating in midair. 

Eliza.

She’s quite literally the most beautiful, brilliant, strong willed and even stronger hearted woman he’s ever known. She’s everything Alexander wishes he was and nothing but wonderful. He knows that, is positive, even if he concedes that she in fact is not an angel sent from the heavens above. Eliza’s not perfect just because Alexander swears she is. He knows that she is a bit of a clean freak, that she can get neurotic if plans aren’t followed through exactly as she had laid out. He knows that she was brought up oblivious to her insane level of wealth and that sometimes it takes full blown arguments for her to speak her mind instead of trying to spare him or anyone else of their feelings. Alexander knows all these small quirks and he doesn’t care because they only make him love her all the more. He loves Eliza more than the sun and stars and all the galaxies above combined, he loves her so much that somedays Alexander thinks his chest might crack with it. 

But it never does, and she’s always there, and what they have is everything Alexander has ever wanted, and Eliza is someone who he never thought he could have. All this to say that he has absolutely no doubts in his mind when he pulls out the small velvet box from his trouser’s pocket and opens it to reveal the sparkling engagement ring he’s spent months saving up for.

“wholly fuck,” Peggy balks, scurrying closer to snatch it out of Alexander’s grasp, Angelica right on her coattails.

“No way!” Laurens crowed the same time Lafayette let out a strange, indecipherable squeal that Alexander is almost positive was only partially in French, partially in English and  then a hodgepodge of other languages he’s never even heard before— all the books cascading down to the wooden floors  in a crescendo of thuds.

 For his part, Hercules just begins to tear up with a stiff lip and quivering hands. “Get the hell outta here.”

“You guys don’t like it,” Alexander asks with a shit eating grin.

“Don’t be cheeky dork,” Angelica reproves, never taking her eyes off the ring, swatting at Peggy to give her a chance to hold it.

“Don’t speak that way to your future brother-in-law,” Laurens snickers, claps Alexander on the back with an encouraging hug. “I’m so proud of you Ham, you’ve finally found the one.” 

Alexander gives his oldest friend— the man he once thought would’ve been his forever if they hadn’t had such contradictory views on what that meant— a watery smile. “thank you Laurens, but don’t get too excited, Betsey’s still gotta say yes.”

“She’s crazy about you,” Peggy says airily, waving off his worries with a lazy hand. “Of course she’s gonna say yes.”

Alexander bites down on a smile, casts his gaze to the floor so to hide his reddening cheeks. He’s still in such disbelief that this is his life. He’s got the world’s greatest friends, an amazing job that he actually enjoys, and now he might actually get to keep the dream girl. So far away from the lonesome days and hard nights of St Croix. Far away from dying mothers and flighty fathers and cruel brothers who never bothered to keep in touch. This, right here, these people, Eliza, the Washingtons, hell even Burr on a good day… They’re his family, the people he’d die for and who he’s sure would die for him too. What a strange feeling that is, to love and be loved. How strange it is that he gets to keep this sense of belonging, of balance.

“God, now enough with the sappiness,” Peggy gripes. “I can see it on your face Hamilton, and just because you’re technically my brother now doesn’t mean I won’t beat your ass if I feel like it.”

“Charming,” Alexander deadpans.

“I thought so,” Peggy says with a magnanimous grin.

“So what’s the plan? How are you gonna pop the question?” Hercules interjects from where he’s now examining the rose gold band and round cut diamond accented with sapphires. 

“I was planning to take her to that really posh French restaurant near fifth avenue that Laf showed us. Bets loves hearing me speak French,” he explains with a wink.

“My people’s language does arouse a certain, how do you say, sultry emotion.” Lafayette leers.

“For the love of God stop talking about having sex with my baby sister.”

“Right, ahem.” Alexander concedes. “Well after that I was gonna order us a bottle of her   favorite, ridiculously priced champaign.”

“We use to drink it when we’d summer in our villa in the South of France,” Peggy explains, totally impervious to how fantastical that sounds to Alexander.

“Friends with too many rich people,” Hercules mutters morosely, handing the ring off to Lafayette, face scrunched up in displeasure all the while.

“Do not hate us for our good fortunes mon grand,” Lafayette sniffs. “Especially now that Alexander is considered part of our lot after he and Eliza’s inevitable union. One that is written in the stars mind you.”

“What’s written in the stars?”

Alexander’s heart stutters to a rapid staccato just as soon as he sees the door to the apartment swing open, revealing a disheveled, but radiant Eliza strolling through, one perfectly manicured brow kinked. 

Before Alexander can take a breath, Lafayette impulsively stuck the ring— the symbol of his undying love and eternal devotion to Eliza— into his fucking French, snail eating mouth.

“Gross,” he hisses, to which Lafayette just tossed him the bird.

“Ah, the fact that Thundermist is totally beating Vivian October tonight,” Peggy blurts out in a totally high pitched voice. Jesus fucking Christ half of them work in politics and the other half are lawyers, save for Hercules whom’s perfectly content as the head of Ralph Lauren merchandize. But still, Alexander expected that they’d all be better at lying than this pathetic display!

He’s subsequently shown up the moment Eliza flickers her gaze towards him, a knowing smile blooming across her face that makes Alexander’s heart ache with want. He supposes it’s more the person who they’re all lying to rather than the act itself. 

“You and Ange need to stop making everything a competition love, it’s teetering on ridiculous.” She toots, tosses her and Alexander’s mail to the counter before excepting the peck he can’t help but offer her.

“You know how daddy is with his horses,” Angelica argues. “It’s in our blood.”

That just makes Eliza role her eyes, totally fond, before she excuses herself to change out of her pencil skirt and red bottom heals.

“Hey is there paint on your top?” Laurens asks, brows furrowed.

“Oh yeah,” Eliza blushes. “The kids had arts and crafts today at the orphanage and wanted me to help out so I just set all the paperwork to be done tomorrow instead.”

“THat’s my top!” Angelica squawks, affronted.

“It’ll come out,” Eliza shoos her off with a lofty tip to her head.

Once she’s shut the door on her to change, Alexander cuffs Lafayette on the back, hard. 

“This is the love you show me after I successfully kept your little romantic gesture a secret,” he harrumphs.

“Now I’ve got your French cooties all over it!” Alexander hisses.

“Many a men and women would have died to get my delightful French saliva within a ten mile radius of them.”

“We really need to talk about your ego one of these days,” Peggy snorts.

“I have Adrien as my wife and you lot are blunders in love, I shall not permit any judgment from any of you.”

“Hey, I’ll be joining you in that marital bliss soon enough,” Alexander contends, totally giddy smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Gross,” the remainder chorus in varying degrees of exasperation, dosed  in pride.

.-

Alexander’s really never had the best luck, most especially when it was the romantic sort. Before Eliza he’s never had a relationship that lasted over six consecutive months, or one that he didn’t constantly feel as if he had to garnish a facade of brilliance and magnetism that he’s never truly felt he had any right to own. Before Eliza Alexander never was able to picture himself settling into the domestic sphere quite so willingly. Never thought he would’ve yearned for quiet Sunday mornings in bed where Eliza’s head was propped up on his chest, and the early morning light would cascade atop her cheekbones and lips and glimmer in her hair. Those mornings where all Alexander could focus on was counting the quiet breaths she would let out and plotting out all the ways he could always make her look so at peace and lovely. Alexander never thought he would ever want the house in the suburbs with a large yard and rose gardens and everything his mother had tried to give him when she was still here. Alexander never had wanted it until Eliza came and he realized he could have it with her.

He remembers one particularly pitiful night towards the end of L2 when he had just cut ties with Cornelia Lotts because he had woken up that morning and had just not found her as interesting as the night before, which obviously meant he had drunken himself silly at some sleazy bar and tried picking up someone knew, just for the fun of it. Instead he was met by Angelica’s expectant,  irritated glower once he was three drinks in, telling him on no uncertain terms that the reason his love life sucked so hard is because he always went for the obscenely wealthy and tragically pretty folks that always infested ivy league institutions. The same folks with too large egos and too little self worth to ever consider having an actual relationship with someone outside of their social circle— A circle that the Schuyler family were the crown jewels of is what Angelica didn’t have to say but Alexander heard in screaming clarity all the same.

“Fuck you.”

“You wish loser.”

That was when she tugged him by the ear to get out of the city with her for the long weekend to clear his head. When he slept in her family’s country home upstate. When he had stumbled downstairs in the middle of the night to be face to face—for the first time— with the sister he’s seen millions of pictures of and heard even more stories about  by a beaming Angelica. The one who had just spent the year after graduating Yale in the peace corps. That was when Alexander’s heart had first swelled and he was a goner.

“Eliza.”

“Yes love,” Eliza smiles up at him through her lashes now, so many years detached from their first meeting. Years composed of unrequited crushes and tentative laughs that morphed into a strong friendship and shy words of sincerity. Eventually leading them to first kisses and first nights and all the in-betweens Alexander’s never gone through with any other relationship. Nothing else felt as vital, as permanent, as the one he shares with Eliza. Nothing else felt like it deserved his efforts in quite the same ways that he’s always known Eliza has. Nothing else has made him experience this distinct sort of want.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” she giggles, mouth partially hidden from the lip of the flute of champaign she’s nursing. “Is everything alright deer? You look a little pale.”

Alexander’s throat closes up and he rinses his hands with anticipation.

“Yeah, yes. Everything’s Perfect Bets, it’s been perfect for a while now… Honestly ever since you agreed to actually go out with me. You. You make things perfect.”

Eliza doesn’t answer him in so many words, just cups her hands around hiss face and kisses him nice and thorough. Alexander wonders if how she makes everything inside of him go golden with every press to the lips will ever fade.

He seriously doubts it.

“Now, let me get this out, okay?” Alexander begs, squeezing her hands with his own and kissing the tops of each of her fingers gingerly. 

“Oh, Andre.”

Alexander’s heart stills and the breath from his lungs escapes— It feels like something awful and freezing has just clutched his heart and rinsed it dry.

“No, Alex—- I’m Alex.”

That only makes Eliza role her eyes at him before nudging her head to where a ridiculously handsome, obviously well off man stands.

“Oh, yes…. erm that is Andre.”

“Maybe he won’t see us,” Eliza offers before he’s lead directly to the recently vacated spot besides them by a completely oblivious host.

“Maybe he’s blind now?” Alexander says hopefully.

“Lizzy Schuyler is that you?” 

Alexander curses every ounce of bad luck he’s somehow accumulated before standing up to exchange awkward pleasantries  and spending the remainder of the night refraining himself from knocking Andre/s lights out every time he stares a tad bit too longingly towards Eliza for his liking.

The pampered bastard.

.-

Still inwardly fuming while drinking his morning coffee, Alexander was accosted by someone cuffing him on the back of the head, hard.

He isn’t surprised to turn around and Find a surly looking Angelica glaring at him, hands on her hips and mouth curled in a distinctly predatory fashion.

“What happened last night Hamilton?”

“How do you know something happened?” 

“Well when I gushed to look at Liza’s hand this morning, instead of a rock on her finger she just looked at me like I was insane! I had to pretend I wanted to read her palm.”

“So confirming the insanity suspicion then?” He asks owlishly.

“Hamilton!” She says in a hiss.

“I couldn’t do it, okay.” Alexander snaps back, waspish.

“You chickened out,” Angelica accuses, depositing herself on the sofa besides him in the small cafe and snatching the muffin from his hand.

“No.”

“Then what? You changed your mind? My baby sister not good enough for you?” She needles, prickly as he’s ever seen her.

“Don’t be ridiculous Anne.”

“Then wh—“

“Andre showed up,” he blurts with absolutely no tact.

“No fucking way,” Angelica gapes, dropping the aforementioned muffin.

“I’m cursed aren’t I?”

“Kinda,” Angelica consoles with a pout, cradling his head on her shoulder.

“Ah oh, not a good sign.” Hercules observes once taking a seat with his own latte.

“Hamilton’s cursed,” Angelica informs him, matter-of-fact.

“Why this time?”

“Because Eliza’s fucking perfect ex-fiancé somehow showed up last night with his own date and sat there besides us looking all handsome and waxing all poetic and reminiscing about how he and Eliza were caught fucking in her childhood bedroom her sophomore year of college and making her laugh and I couldn’t get a damn word in edgewise!”

“Oh not the thanksgiving story,” Angelica winces.

“So I reckon you didn’t propose?”

“I was gonna do it tonight instead, but thanks to Mis babble mouth over here,” he elbow checks Angelica. “Eliza most definitely suspects something is up now.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault that you apparently committed some sort of horrendous crime in a past life.”

“Who asks to look at someone’s hands!” Alexander hurls.

“People who think their sister was just proposed to!” Angelica defends.

“It’s fine you guys, we’ve just gotta throw her off the trail a little. Make her think marriage’s the furthest thing from your mind.” Hercules placates. 

“Yeah, yeah Herc, you’re right.” Alexander nods, is thrown to alert the moment the cafe’s bells chime— indicating a new customer— and it’s Eliza’s soft timbre that rings in his ears.

“I swear, I don’t care what Laf says, French people are total weirdos.” She sheds off her jacket and assumes the seat in Alexander’s all too willing lap. “I walk into his place to pick up some papers I left there and the first thing he wants to see is my hand to see if it’s proportionate to his.” With a huff, she grabs the coffee mug from Alexander, face scrunching up adorably at the excessive amount of sugar he always mixes in. Totally oblivious to how his heart is pulsing and his face is infused a bright red.

“Oh— Hah, how weird,” Angelica titters awkwardly. 

“Why do you sound so strange Ange?”

“No she doesn’t,” Alexander quickly pipes in.

“Yes…. She does.” Her brows furrow, the smallest dent between her eyes telling Alexander that she’s suspecting something. “What’s going on?”

“We were just reading this article in the New Yorker is all,” Hercules explains, saving all their asses. “It’s making her worry about her relationship with Mr Big.”

“His name’s Church, stop comparing our lives to Sex In The City characters,” Angelica admonishes with no heat.

“Whatever Miranda.”

“So what’s this article that’s got you all frazzled Angelica?” Eliza asks worriedly.

“It’s about marriage,” Alexander answers instead, seeing his opportunity and plunging for it.

“Marriage?” 

“Yeah, just about how it’s a total scam. I mean think about it Bets, legally timing yourself to another person? Doesn’t that sound Orwellian to you? A ploy by the government just to get our money and to keep us in check if you ask me.”

Eliza’s frown somehow, impossibly, sinks deeper.

“That’s not what you think Alex, is it?”

“I mean, ah yeah—“ His voice most certainly does not screech like he was a character from Saved By The Bell. “I mean you know me Eliza. I mean marriage didn’t keep my dad around for my mom.”

He can’t believe he just used that card on her. He totally deserves to go to hell for that one.

“It doesn’t always have to end up like that hon.” She cards a hand through his hair, kisses his cheek gingerly. And yeah, eternal damnation here Alexander comes.

“Eliza like 60% of all marriages now days ends in divorce,” Angelica contends. “Can you even name a couple that hasn’t been separated at least once.”

“Our parents,” she sniffs.

“But is it worth taking that chance,” Alexander says, reminds himself of how happy she’ll be tonight after he pops the question, when Eliza shakes off the hand that’s trying to lace their fingers together.

“Yeah, Yeah Alex I do think it’s worth that chance! And you know I do!” She starts to get up now, properly mad. “I mean don’t you guys want to promise yourself to the person you love in front of all your nearest and dearest. Be bound to someone so intimately and permanently. To get to show off your love to the world to see!”

“Sounds kinda selfish to me,” Alexander counters and Hercules and Angelica mumble their agreements.

“Okay,I’m running late for work.” In a cloud of carefully concealed fury, found in the pinch of her shoulders and downturn of her lips, Eliza collects her bag and jacket before storming out. A quiet fury in total opposition to her sisters’ brash words and ear shattering shouts.

Alexander yet again reminds himself of her beaming face when she doesn’t dip down to give him the customary kiss goodbye. 

“This’s gonna workout just fine.”

.-

[spectrumscribe]

Okay, I just thought of this since I only actually got around to watching the other rottmnt episodes yesterday but like since they look like they'd love it (well at least Raph and Mikey) maybe have the turts spend a night with April dressing up all cute and like putting on makeup and nail polish (Maybe with them wearing old big clothes April found or owns? Or after acquiring a whole bunch of clothes through whatever means). (Mikey and Raph just really loved dressing up and I loved it too)

this one was too cute a prompt to pass on. and congrats on joining the brand new rottmnt fandom! we’re growing in numbers with every day that the proper release date draws closer. :3c

“It’s making my eyes itchy.”

“Shh, you look great. Now- keep holding still, I have tocurl them.”

“Is it gonna hurt?”

“Not if you hold still.”

“Those look like they’re going to hurt me.”

“They won’t, promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve used them on myself, Leo. They don’t hurt.”

Leo’s lips stay in a bracing grimace though, rigid all overwith tension as April gently curls the fake eyelashes. She giggles at howscared her friend is, considering that Leo walks around with a giant sword mostdays and has faced plenty scarier than makeup tools. He’s a total dork, justlike Mikey, who is watching the process with wide eyes; leaning on his armsover the side of the bed, looking up at the both of them.

“Soooo… does ithurt?” he asks, poking Leo’s leg.

“Nnnnooo…?” Leo says slowly, blinking as April takes awaythe curler. He’s still grimacing. “Still super itchy, though.” He blinks rapidly,testing out the lashes. “God, how do humans livewith hair on their faces like this?”

“Haha, you look so weird, Leo. I wanna go next.”

“I think I might stick with eyeliner, April,” Leo says,touching the tips of the lashes. April smacks his hand away before he canunstick the glue.

“Take a look before you decide,” April says, holding up acircular desk mirror. Leo takes the mirror from her, examining himself in it ashe turns his head side to side. The thick black eyelashes stand out against thestreaks of red markings on his face, accentuated further by the eyeliner they’dalready applied earlier; before April convinced Leo to give eyelashes a go.

“I look… soweird,” Leo says after a moment. “Turtles really aren’t supposed to have hairon their faces. It’s… kinda a nice-weird, though? Itchy, but nice.”

“My turn,” Mikeyproclaims, clambering onto the bed and shoving Leo out of the way. He percheson the comforter with an expectant expression, eager as anything. Leo grumblesand unscrunches himself from between Mikey and the wall, climbing off the endof the bed and getting some space.

“Can I have the reallythick ones? They’re glittery,” Mikey asks, pointing at the costume eyelashesApril saved from Halloween one year. “If I’m gonna have itchy eyes, I wanna getmy money’s worth out of things.”

“Sure thing, hon,” April says, opening the packet. Mikey isless fidgety than Leo had been, probably by virtue of having seen his bigbrother go through the experience first. April’s started to realize that aslong as at least one of the brothers has done something before the rest, theother three will gladly follow lead. Even if whatever they’re doing is a badidea.

They also, sometimes, feel more comfortable doing somethingafter April’s done it first. That factmakes a strange squishy spot of warmth in her chest. Her relationship with thebrothers has really started to feel closer the past months; easy andcomfortable.

April doesn’t have any blood siblings, so in a way, it’s beena novel experience having the brothers in her life. More and more, they… feellike actual little brothers to her. Sitting here in her room, her small makeup bagspread across the bed and having spent the past half hour delicately painting eachother’s faces- it feels familial and warm in a way, like they’ve doneit a hundred times before. And that’s proof enough of how close April’s gottenwith the brothers.

The appreciative noises Mikey makes to himself when he getsthe mirror, after the job is done, makes April smile fondly. “I feel like abird of paradise,” Mikey says, fluttering his new eyelashes.

“You definitely look like one,” Leo says from the floor,having moved into the same spot Mikey had been. He laughs when Mikey winksexaggeratedly, still showing off his new look.

April uncurls her legs, sighing in relief as blood flowsback into. “Aight, I’ve been sitting too long. Up, up. I gotta check if theother two haven’t made the microwave sentient yet anyway.”

Her friends do as she asks, getting out of the way andfollowing April from her room. There’s no smoke coming from the kitchen, orsounds of laser blasts, which April is steadily becoming familiar with viafriendship with Donnie- but there isthe sound of someone lecturing someone else with a frustrated tone.

“Do you see this? It’s a vegetable. You have a mouthful ofcanines. You don’t like vegetables.Carnivores do not eat carrots.”

Mayhem’s crickety voice responds with a rolling chirp.

“You. Are a carnivore. I aman omnivore. I eat carrots. You eat meat. I saw you inhale fivehamburgers in one sitting just last week. Go steal someone’s fastfood and leave my carrots alone.”

“Oh my gosh,” Mikey giggles. Leo is laughing into his palm,and April feels herself grinning. As they come into the kitchen, Donnie isstanding in front of the counter with his hands on his hips, sans his battleshell in a rare instance of vulnerability limited to only specificcircumstances. IE: spending time with his family and April in a safe setting.

Mayhem sitting in front of the scowling turtle, tailflicking back and forth playfully as they give an innocent look. There’s acollection of chewed on and spat back out carrots littering the counter aroundtheir paws.

“Are you berating my pet, Donnie? Seriously?” April laughs.

“They keep stealing the snacks,” Donnie accuses flatly,pointing at Mayhem. “They are. A thief.”

“Ohhh, and such a cutelittle thief,” April coos, coming over and petting Mayhem. They purr like alittle engine, chirping as she squishes their cheeks and scratches their big ears.

“You’re biased,” Donnie scoffs.

“They do keep my feet warm at night,” April admits happily.Leo and Mikey both ignore Donnie’s disgust with the veggie snatcher, joiningApril in giving Mayhem the attention they’ve probably been trying to get.

“Guys?” Raph asks from the next room over. “Hey, there’s afew good movies on Netflix and I dunno which-” Raph’s shell scrapes the wall ashe tries to squeeze through the doorway, and he cringes and cuts off. “Oh,shit, shit- April, I’m really sorry.”

April sees the damage done, a deep gouge into the whiteframe along with a few other smaller scratches. She just sighs, picking upMayhem and cradling the strange little creature. “It’s alright, Raph. It’snothing my cousins haven’t done already- or me, too, actually. I got up to someserious shenanigans as a kid.”

“I either bump my head or I hit the wall; your home is so tiny,April,” Raph complains, though he still looks deeply apologetic. April noticedfrom the get-go how careful her large friend has been in her home. Despite the excitementabout April’s parents being away for the weekend and the five of them gettingto hang out here, April suspects Raph is actually fairly uncomfortable movingaround in such a small, breakable space. Thus, his expression of regret and howhe’s holding all his limbs close to himself.

“It’s cool, no worries. They probably won’t even noticeanother scratch,” April promises, handing Raph Mayhem for a cuddle. Now thatthe two of them have gotten warmed up to one another, they get along just fine.After the third time Mayhem attacked Raph- back when the little creature firstcame to them- they’d come up with the hypothesis that Mayhem was mistaking Raphfor the big muscly monster guys that’d been chasing them. Some treats, a calmspace, and Raph sitting down instead of standing over them fixed that easily.

Mayhem purrs contently in Raph’s arms, easing the slightdiscomfort that’d been in his expression. Donnie, through the conversation, hasdrafted his two younger siblings for busboy services, and is sending all theirmovie snacks into the living room.

“Nice lashes,” Raph says to Mikey and Leo as they pass.

“Nice hat,” they chorus back, and Raph grins, still pleasedwith his wide sunhat. When the brothers had first arrived, they’d stumbledacross the bags of clothing donations April’s parents have been collecting fora community event. Raph, for obvious reasons, hadn’t fit a single piece ofclothing.

While the other three had been playing dress up, and while Aprilhurriedly bullshitted an essay so they could really start the fun, Raph had saton the couch and tried not to act too disappointed about being left out. Donnie,who’d been sporting a nice work jumpsuit and ill-fitting rain boots at thetime, was the one who fixed that.

“It suits you,” he’d said with purposeful kindness, placingthe sunhat on his brother’s head. It hadn’t been a beat later and Mikey and Leooffered the wealth of chunky necklaces in addition; finding a way to includetheir oldest brother in the dress up game.

Raph put the necklaces back in the end, but hasn’t takenthat hat off since it was put on his head. April has a feeling she’ll just giveit to him permanently, because Raph keeps touching its brim with a happy littlegrin.

“Can we watch this one?” Mikey asks, selecting an animatedmovie from the trending section. “It dropped like, yesterday, and I didn’t geta chance to watch it yet.”

“I saw the trailer, it looks decent,” Leo says, floppingonto the couch next to Mikey. April takes the third cushion of couch, while Donnietakes the loveseat. Raph sits on the floor, leaning carefully against the armof Donnie’s chair, so he doesn’t rip the fabric of it.

“What’s it about?” Raph asks.

“The future and robots and a generic rebel girl,” Donnie replies.“From the looks of things, at least. It’s pretty obvious from the title card.”

“What? I sent you a link, Don,” Leo says, vaguelydisgruntled. “You didn’t watch it?”

Donnie shrugs. “You send me a lot of links, Leon. I can’tclick on them all and keep up with myprojects.”

Mikey pats Leo’s shoulder as his brother sulks momentarily. “I’lljust play the trailer right now for everyone, ‘n’ then we can decide if wewanna watch.”

“No!” Donnie abruptlyshouts, lunging at Mayhem on the coffee table. He unsuccessfully picks them upand drops them on the floor in order to save the carrots, as Mayhem canteleport and tends to ignore people trying to put them where they don’t want tobe.

The trailer starts playing as Donnie tries again to shooMayhem off his carrots, only for the creature to teleport out of reach and landin April’s lap. Purring and holding a baby carrot in their mouth. Donniemutters, “I give up,” and slumps into his loveseat as his brother laugh at him.

“You are a very bad baby,” April tells them seriously, thoughshe’s smiling indulgently. They just chirrup in a distinctly unrepentant wayand spits their chewed carrot on the carpet. She’ll have to clean that uplater.

April scritches their ears with a roll of her eyes, settlinginto the squish of being on the couch with Leo and Mikey; ready for the nexthalf of their hangout night.

Commission info & Kofi link.

[travisstollmyheart-blog]

the great annoyance of [first name] [last name], or how to annoy a girl into dating you

Chapter One

     “Well, well, if it is my favorite daughter of Hebe,” purrs a familiar voice in your ear. Hairs on the back of your neck stand up in response to the haunting message. Your mind begins racing at a million thoughts a nanosecond, and your palms grow sweaty. You could feel your very bones aching at you to flee, to scream and race away.

    You were positive something worse than any monster you could imagine was behind you. No, behind you was the form of a tall figure, with a sickening smirk and a voice that made you fearful for what was to come. Behind you was Ultimate Public Enemy #1:

    Travis Stoll himself.

    You grit your teeth, and prepare yourself to deal with the boy who would surely not leave you alone until he got a reaction that satisfied him. Your grip on your dinner tray grew tighter, your knuckles turning white under the stress forced on them. You don’t turn around and pray that he’ll leave you alone while you finish getting your dinner with your cabin.

    “Hey, shortstack, I’m talking to you,” taunts Travis, his deep voice vibrating and causing your hair to blow with it, as he was too close for comfort.

    You breathe deeply, close your eyes and pray. Dear gods above, if you are watching me, please give me the strength to not slap this hoe. Only after you feel an insistent tapping on your shoulder, digging deeper and deeper until it could not be ignored, you turn around.

    Your eyes start down at his feet, travel up his long legs, and his swim trunks, along with his camp t-shirt, and finally reach his face. Travis towers over you rather easily, as you were only 5’2” and he was, annoyingly, 6’5”. You honest to the fucking gods didn’t know how it didn’t make it easier to catch the little bitch when he was stealing, but that could just be you.

    “Travis Stoll,” you say in the same tone someone saying the f-word. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

    “Aww, look. The teen mom finally answers Camp Half Blood’s knight in shining armor,” coos Travis. He bends down so that you’re the same height and gazes into your eyes. You didn’t like the gleam in his eyes -- you never did.

    “I’m not a fucking teen mom, asshole,” you snap.

    “Woah, woah! Watch your language, shortstack. There are kids around. But ‘salright. Mary didn’t know she was a teen mom either and then boom! Next thing you know, there was baby Jesus in the manger.”

    Your fists were physically aching to not attack his face.

    You always thought it was such a shame that Travis Stoll acted the way he did -- you had an appreciation for beautiful men as much as the next girl, and you will admit he fit the category of heart-breaking, flustered-when-you-speak-to-them men. He looked almost like Michelangelo’s David, like a grown up Peter Pan. He was absolutely beautiful, from his supermodel physique (you grudgingly admit he’s the perfect toned mixture -- not too muscular, but definitely not lacking) to his curly brown hair and big eyes. His masculine jawline and cheekbones so sharp they were carved by Adonis himself.

    And then he opened his mouth, or breathed.

    And every girl’s pussy within a 10 mile radius went strangely dry without knowing why, unless they could hear the shit that comes out of his mouth personally.

    “Is there a reason to this torment, or are you just talking out of your ass to annoy me and everyone around you?”

    “M’yep,” he says, grinning at you but not indicating which part he was responding to. You snort and turn around, grabbing your tray which you sat down on the railing and made your way to catch up with your siblings.

    Strangely enough, you heard a pair of feet follow you, and a unusually large shadow blanketing yours in the sunset’s light. You do your best to ignore it and scrape the best parts of your food into the fire. “For the gods,” you say absently, out of routine.

    Even the first day back at camp always felt as if you had never left. The muscle memory that came from doing the actions for 3 ½ months a year was astounding to you still, despite being a camper for 7 years. You were now 17, and were about to enter your last year of high school. Travis was one year older than you, and had just finished his last year of high school -- meaning it might be his last summer at Camp Half Blood (at least you desperately hope).

    It’d be better if it was his last year of breathing --

    “Hey, [First Name]!” You snap out of your thoughts and turn around to see Travis looming over you. “Jeez, Mary, I’ve called your name like 10 times. What, did you get carried away in thoughts about me?”

    “Shut up,” you exclaim, but you couldn’t hide the way your face got red. You begin walking away as quickly as your little legs could carry you.

    Unfortunately, Travis easily matches your stride.

    “Oh! So you were thinking about me! What was it, huh? Me rescuing you? Or was it dirty thoughts? My, my, I never knew you were so shameless! Mary, I might need to rethink your nickname.”

    “Shut up, Travis,” you emphasize your point by slamming your tray down on your cabin’s table. Your drink sloshes over the side and Coca Cola drips onto your pointer finger that was holding the cup on one side. “Go annoy someone else.”

    “But,” he purrs. You look up at him and he grabs your hand. You could feel his warm skin against your sticky fingers. He cups your hand in his much, much bigger one and brings it up close to his mouth. You could feel his breath against your fingers, and goosebumps pop up all along your arm. You gasp and look up at his face.

    There was something so sultry about the son of Hermes’ face. His plump lips lined in a haunting smile that you despise, his eyes hooded, his unfairly long eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks as he blinks down at you. And slowly, you’re captive as you watch his bring one of your fingers -- the pointer finger, the one doused in Coke -- to his lips and slowly sucks it inside his mouth. It was so erotic, watching the tip of his tongue trace the underside of your finger, not leaving a single centimeter untouched.

    When it pops out of his mouth, glistening with his saliva, only then do you make a choked noise. “But,” he repeats, “I like annoying you best, Mary.”

Yeah, Travis definitely wins this round.

    Since when the hell did he get so good at this kind of approach? Where the fuck are the jokes about putting landmines on the wrong hill? You desperately search for an answer, a witty response to give him, but couldn’t find anything. It was then you realized how quiet the dining hall had gotten. You look around and see everyone staring at Travis and you in shock.

    They all just watched that happen! You scream internally, and think up of 20 ways to kill yourself on the spot. Oh, mother, if you just watched that I promise I am so, so innocent and I will douse myself in holy water tonight.

    “Hey, move along people!” comes Travis’s indignant voice, sounding like someone who just got accused of a crime they didn’t commit. Or someone who was good at acting like they didn’t commit a crime they did. “Since when can’t a man flirt without everyone watching?”

    “Flirt?” you gasp. Your face was surely the color of Silena Beauregard’s infamous red swimsuit she once wore. Bright, bright scarlet. You weren’t sure if you were embarrassed, turned on, embarrassed about being turned on, or if you wanted to kill him. Or a mixture of all the options.

    “Gotta blast,” says Travis and calmly walks away. You gape after him before your sibling, Paula, laughs and causes you to regain composure. (Or what you had left of it).

--

    Later on that night, in the Hermes cabin, two boys, both alike in curly hair and sparkling eyes and quick fingers, lay in top bunks on different beds close to each other.

    Connor, on the left, is staring at Travis as he absently throws a hacky sack up and down in the air.

    “Dude,” Connor says. “You aren’t gonna say anything?”

    “About what?” asks Travis, furrowing his brow in confusion.

    “About what happened with [First Name] in the dining hall, dude.”

    “Oh.”

    “Oh?”

    “Yeah. What about it?”

    “What do you mean ‘what about it?’ You completely lost it.”

    “I did not. I made quite a smooth transition from everybody’s staring.”

    “I’m not talking about that, Travis. I’m talking about how you’re in love with [First Name]. Like, you might as well fucking scream it to the whole world at this point.”

    “Really?” Travis said excitedly, sitting up. “Should I?”

    A chorus of “Please, no,” and “Fuck no,” come around the two brothers from the entire cabin. Connor winces.

    “Does that mean we’re pranking the Hebe cabin for sure this year?”

    “Oh, definitely.”

    Something about Travis’s grin, if you asked Connor, was lovestruck.

    (Travis would totally deny this, later.)

[clan-fuildarach]

danza verz

luke and rúth have some violent fun at a wind market together. this is what true love is made of

~

The Cú na Mara had made land for the first time in months, a diversion that was sorely needed thanks to the dwindling supplies on the ship. The Ashfall Waste had been too dangerous to approach in a wooden boat, so the ship had docked at the southern-most port in the Whirlwind Plateau.

Night had fallen by the time the clan begun to disembark from the ship. But the port was far from dark – the mistral jamboree celebrations had been going on all day, and if the lanterns and fireworks were any indication, the celebrations would go on all night too.

The night was hot and humid. Brightly coloured crowds milled around the port market, under a constellation of orange and green lanterns. Every so often a round of fireworks would go off overhead, showering the market with harmless multicoloured sparks. A pair of bands were playing too close to one another, producing a jangling clash of string instruments and flute music.

“Right, listen.” At the edge of the pier, Leo waved for attention. The clan was gathered around him, awaiting instructions. “We don't have a lot of money so I'm going to have to insist that you guys stick to your shopping lists. Got it?”

There was a grumbling chorus of assent.

Lehine's loud voice carried over the crowd. “Okay, but when we're done with the boring stuff we can have fun, right?”

“Yeah, sure. As long as it's free. Try not to wander around alone – use a buddy system or something. And I want you all back here at midnight.” Leo made shooing gestures at the clan.

Luke checked their own shopping list. They'd been given control of the healing supplies for the night, and it was their job to pick up ink and paper. Not a huge fan of crowds and loud celebrations, Luke had done their best to get Zeta to take their place, but Leo had insisted Luke take charge. Which would have been a nice gesture of trust, only Luke would now have to do business with complete strangers with the word CHEATER written across their face.

Admittedly, this was a pretty brilliant act of vindictiveness on Leo's part. Luke would have to think of some way to get him back for it later.

Lost in thought, they trailed after the rest of the clan and stepped under the net of lanterns. It was hot, sweaty, and noisy in the market. Large moths flickered past overhead, occasionally tangling with the lantern netting or stall awnings. Luke wished they still had a hood to raise to hide themself, but, this close to the Ashfall Waste, the night was sweltering.

People stared. Of course they did. Verzan face-paint was not a rare sight in the Windswept Plateau, but most of the dragons around seemed to stick to more conventional styles of ornamentation.

Head low, Luke quickly found a healing magic stall and made a beeline for it. Huge stacks of green and lavender paper stood on the counter, along with bundles of herbs and pre-made poultices. Luke checked the price tag, their heart sinking.

The shopkeeper stifled a snort of amusement behind one hand.

“Okay, okay,” she said, “I have to ask, what's the story behind the...” And she indicated her face with a wave and pointed to Luke.

“You can probably guess. How much paper can I get for ten gems?”

She grinned. “Changing the subject, huh? Well, that depends on the grade you want – I've got some high-grade stuff that's actually very nice, it's been treated to offset the heat of spell activation, so you don't burn your patients.” She held up a roll of nice but very expensive paper.

“No thanks,” Luke said. “Give me your cheapest paper.”

“My friend, cheap paper is a false economy. You'd be much better off with a quality product like this, you know. It's safer, lasts longer, and-”

Raised voices sounded over the crowd. Luke turned. Over by the bandstand, a shopkeeper was arguing very loudly with Rúth. The crowds had begun to edge away from the pair of them, half-wary and half-excited at the prospect of a real fight.

The paper seller tutted under her breath. “Why is it always those fucking verzans who get in fights around here? They shouldn't be allowed at all.”

By the other stall, the situation was growing more heated. Mostly, it seemed, due to the language barrier between Rúth and the shopkeeper. There had been some misunderstanding, and then it had all just escalated – Luke bit their lip, unsure. Rúth never performed well in crowds, surrounded by noise.

The shopkeeper leant forwards aggressively, pointing at the price tag on the roll of cloth on the counter. Rúth punched him in the face.

A cheer rose from the crowd.

“Oh, gods...” Luke shoved their gems back into their pocket and ran over, shoving through the tightly-packed dragons to stand beside Rúth.

The shopkeeper was still regaining his balance. Pale green blood spouted from his nose, which was clearly broken. Shying away from Rúth, he rounded on Luke instead.

“Do you know this person?” he said. “Control them! This is unacceptable!”

Rúth raised their metal fist threateningly and issued a stream of angry verzan, some of which Luke understood. Rúth was accusing the shopkeeper of robbery. Rúth had paid for sailcloth, but the shopkeeper, claiming not to have understood Rúth's request, had taken the money and given nothing in return.

“Once again,” the shopkeeper said in a slow, exaggerated voice, “I. Don't. Understand. You.” He gestured at Luke. “They're lying! I didn't take anything!”

Luke didn't even consider it. “They don't lie. Give them back their gems.”

“I don't have their gems,” the shopkeeper insisted, holding a wad of cloth against his bleeding nose. “Prove that I took them.”

There was probably a way to solve this situation peacefully. Luke could have called on the market guards and explained the situation. Once Rúth calmed down enough to be able to speak the right language, they could tell their side of the story. It could have been easy and pain free.

Then again, though, it was just so much more satisfying to simply help Rúth attack the shopkeeper. The world descended into multicoloured chaos as the stall supports cracked and the awning came down. While Rúth was busy putting their size and strength to excellent use, Luke rummaged in the till box under the fallen counter.

The guards at the edge of the market were yelling, someone was still clapping and cheering, and the lanterns were coming down all around like falling stars. Luke waved for Rúth's attention, showing them a triumphant handful of gems. Rúth released their choke-hold on the shopkeeper, sprang to their feet, and bolted out of the back of the stall. Luke followed, almost tripping over a fallen stall support, but Rúth reached back and grabbed their free hand.

Somehow, they made it back to the pier without being caught. It was much darker out by the moored ships, a cool breeze moving in from the sea. Rúth drew to a halt at the very end of the pier, by the huge, hulking shape of the Cú na Mara, and sat down with a gasp. Luke joined them, pausing to count through the gems they'd blindly snatched from the stall.

“That's... uh... fifteen? How many did you have?”

Rúth pulled up their heavy skirts and dangled both feet in the black water. Back in the market, the bands had begun playing again. “I had twelve.”

“Close enough.” Luke pocketed the gems.

The distant moonlight skimmed over the waves, washing all the colour from Rúth's outfit. It was so much more peaceful out here, away from the heat and the noise. It was the first time the two of them had been alone together since a couple of days before, when Rúth had written on Luke's face.

“He deserved it,” Rúth said decisively, folding their arms. Although their voice was hard, still angry, they were grinning. “Next time he will not try that again.”

“He'd better not,” Luke said, after a pause. They'd never been more conscious of the awkward gap between the two of them. Was this Rúth's way of showing they were ready to talk? Unsure, Luke moved to the side a little, putting another couple of inches between themself and Rúth.

Rúth glanced across at Luke and snorted, their grin widening. “You look so funny with that on your face. I am sorry, but you do.”

“Thanks,” Luke said, chancing a smile in response. “I think it suits me.”

“No,” Rúth said critically. “No, red is not a good colour for you. It makes your skin look grey, and that is so ugly.”

“So what would you recommend?”

Rúth stared at Luke for a long moment, frowning. The distant light from the market washed one side of Rúth's face orange and gold, setting off the vivid red markings on their cheeks.

“Brown,” they said, after a pause. “Or green? Blue would get lost, I think, and it's boring.”

“Good to know.” Luke's gaze fell on Rúth's hair, which was loose around their shoulders, glowing in the dim light like a coil of copper. It was so maddeningly pretty that Luke had to force themself not to reach out and touch it. It was almost as if Luke had been transported back to those very first weeks when Rúth had just joined the clan, and the two of them had been so awkward around one another. But this time it was no one's fault but Luke's.

“Rúth,” they said quietly, “I'm really sorry. For what I did, but also for avoiding you afterwards. That wasn't fair.”

“Okay, yes,” Rúth said, “you should be sorry for that.”

“I know.”

With a deep sigh, Rúth shuffled closer to Luke and slung an arm around their shoulders. Suddenly finding themself pressed up against Rúth's side, Luke froze up, then just as quickly relaxed into the embrace.

“And I am sorry, too,” Rúth said, a touch of amusement in their voice. “That paint is not going to come off. But... well, it was funny...”

“I think I can live with it,” Luke said, turning in to inhale Rúth's beloved scent. It had been so long since anyone had hugged Luke that it was starting to make them a little giddy. The fight and subsequent escape from the market had already made it the best evening in recent memory, but this was something else. The other aspects of their reunion could wait; for now, Luke was simply content to just sit in silence and hold Rúth again.

It didn't last, of course, because within ten minutes Leo had arrived to tell them both off about their behaviour at the market.

“We have to set sail again,” he said, setting out the gangway to return the ship, “thanks to your shit we're fucking banned from this market. I've half a mind to leave you both here.”

In small groups, the rest of the clan returned to the pier, some still complaining about having been forced to leave so early thanks to the brawl at the market.

Luke was sorry about a lot of things, but they really were not sorry about that.

[fairytalegf]

middlemist day - cssv

Hello @survivorjace! I’m your CS secret valentine! It was a lot of fun getting to talk to you over the past few weeks. I sincerely hope you like the Enchanted Forest AU fic I’ve prepared for you <3

Note: I realized I stupidly set them in spring/summer when it should’ve been winter so enjoy the Enchanted Forest ~love~ holiday I just made up.

*

Mornings with her cousins are grand, especially when her parents are out of the kingdom and it’s just the four of them at the breakfast table.

Not so much when it’s Leo’s favourite holiday.

“Happy Middlemist Day!”

Everyone at the table groans, save Anna, share the same groan as Leo walks in and announces his greeting, carrying a bowl of food.

“Nobody cares, Leo,” Emma says flatly, spooning food into Henry’s mouth. Her brother flicks a bit of oatmeal at her, bringing a laugh out of her son.

“See? My nephew is the only one with sense in this household.”

“Ahem,” Anna interjects. “I happen to be very fond of this particular holiday.”

“Nobody cares, Anna,” Elsa replies from beside Emma, now bringing a laugh out of Leo.

Their red-headed cousin sticks her tongue out at her and picks at her sausage. “You don’t have to be so cynical. It’s a nice day to find someone or something to love.”

“I love being single,” Elsa declares.

“Okay, not you, but most of us have some sort of appreciation for romantic love.”

“Love is fake,” Emma asserts.

This time, Leo gasps. “My own flesh and blood. I cannot believe.”

Emma flicks her own oatmeal back at him before turning back to feeding Henry, who is very much amused by the situation in front of him. 

“Smug little baby,” Leo observes. “What does he know? He’s two.”

“Babies are awfully smart,” Emma says, bristling. “He just - doesn’t have the skills to communicate the way we’re designated to.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, I have a date tonight.” He waits for Elsa and Anna’s teasing chorus of ooh’s to finish, waving his hand nonchalantly before continuing. “He’s very cute. So I can’t come to the meeting with the pirate you hired, Emma. Sorry.”

The sudden reminder jolts her, but she forces herself to stay neutral and instead sigh, not entirely disappointed. “It’s fine. It won’t take long, anyway.”

“Who hires a pirate to hide something?” Anna wonders. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll just steal it?”

Emma has to keep reminding herself that they assume Killian and her have only met once. “I offered him a quite a bit of money. Trust me.”

“My apologies but,” Elsa says, “you’re nuts. And my sister nearly married a man thirteen minutes after she met him.”

Needless to say, a total of three people ended up getting flicked with oatmeal that morning.

*

She doesn’t like waiting.

But it’s been one month and four days exactly since she’d last seen him, and she tells herself if she can push herself through that, she can wait half an hour more for his ship to dock.

It’s nearing sunset as she waits, watching Henry chase after butterflies and shake the rattle Belle had brought him as a birthday gift. He ran through the meadow as fast as his two year old legs could carry him, the rocks at the edge of the hill acting as a boundary for when he went too far. She’d told Belle to go back to the castle, preferring to spend the little time she’d been able to procure over the last few hectic weeks with her son.

Also, she needed to meet him alone.

Her hands twist the seashell pendant on her necklace as the soft breeze pushes her hair in front of her face. It’s hard to tell what she’s feeling at the moment. Nervousness, for sure. Excitement? She’d be embarrassed to feel more than what was necessary.

This is stupid, she thinks, for the thirtieth time that day. Her default answer for when it was difficult to articulate something.

“Mom!” She looks down at her son, jumping on the balls of his feet and holding up a middlemist flower, looking proud of himself and anxious to get more. She laughs at the irony and accepts, kissing his face and letting him run off after a hummingbird.

People often asked if she hoped he would be like his father. It’s been a year since his death, but the constant questions and queries of their private life was enough to fill seven more.  

Being mindful of her reputation,, Emma would smile, nod, and say she hoped so. He already has his colouring and his eyes. Emma would also want him to be brave, strong and wise, just like his father had been, because of course someone with only those noble qualities was worthy enough to marry the Crown princess.

(It’s not like Rumplestiltskin had threatened her parents and her land.)

(It’s not like Emma had been forced by duty to take Baelfire as her husband in the first place.)

(It’s not like Emma ever loved him.)

He had died in a carriage accident, of all things, after a run-in with bandits. The kingdom had mourned, and expected her to do the same. To most, her neutrality (the demeanour she’d mastered in her short time as the monarch) seemed like suppressed despair. Surely she was devastated after the loss of someone so dear to her.

But a part of Emma, now unbound from a promise she had been forced into keeping, feels nothing but relief.

In a way, she’s unhappy that Henry will not only have to grow up without a father, but grow up hearing nothing but praise about him. She couldn’t tell her son her true feelings. God knows how much his heart would break.

She would have to live a lie for the rest of her life.

A ray of orange light hits her face and she decides she needs to get Henry home soon for dinner, and is about to pack up and resign that he wasn’t able to make it when a black-clad form appears from behind the rocks.

Emma collects herself and surveys him. He’d exchanged his black vest for a red one (not that she’d noticed) and his hair was fairly longer (not that she’d noticed) than from when she’d last seen him in April. Eyes lined black and a fair amount of jewelry than most people would wear. The hook in replacement of his left hand gleaming. Devastating eyebrows.

This is stupid.

The flower slips out of Emma’s hand and she struggles to compose herself, He gives her a grin and climbs over the rocks, eyes flitting to Henry sitting on the grass attentively studying the hummingbird.

“Well, I really wasn’t expecting company, your highness,” Killian says by way of greeting, strolling up to her, one hand on the strap of the bag he was carrying.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you can make room for my toddler, captain.”

“Depends. Two year olds do tend to be talkative.”

“Bird!” Henry shouted at that moment, leading a huff out of Emma and a chuckle out of Killian.

She licks her dry lips. Memories of a dark alley and smoke and lips fill her mind, not quite suppressed despite her immense attempts to do so over the past few months. “How was your journey?”

Why did you take so long? she wanted to ask.

“I spent a few weeks in jail.”

“What?”

He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not the first time, don’t worry.”

She’s stunned at his nonchalant demeanour. “Well - did - how did you get out?” She manages to sputter. “What were you in for?”

Which she really could’ve answered herself, given his long list of crimes, but she accepted his shrug and “wrongly accused, for once. A jewelry store was looted, and we were the only questionably-dressed sailors in the area.”

She shakes her head. The last thing she had in mind was a run in with the law enforcement.

(Which was ridiculous, really. She was dealing with a criminal here.)

“How did you get out?”

“Smee broke me out three weeks later,” he answered, rolling his eyes. “You would’ve thought it’d take a pirate less than that to pick a damn lock.”

“Are you talking about Smee or yourself?”

“That wounds me, your majesty.”

She allows herself to laugh. “Did you find - Henry don’t go there!”

Henry’s finally decided there’s a better world beyond the rocks and has his hands gripped on the stone, jumping as far as his legs would let him. Emma’s not too worried - the rocks are taller than him - but she runs anyway. Hook manages to get there first, picking him up and carrying him away from the boundary as Henry gives a yell and struggles to escape.

“Henry!” She says to her son, exasperated. “What did I say? Rock-,” she points to the rocks. “Bad.”

That brings a snort out of Killian as Henry gives her a sheepish look.

“Oh, for god’s sake, he’s two,” she snaps.   

“Rock bad,” the pirate nods earnestly.

She shoots him a flat look, noting Henry’s look of curiosity at the stranger holding him, hands reaching for his necklace. Killian shoots him a smile. “You’ve got a rebellious little lad over here, Emma.”

Emma. He’d last whispered her name that one night in the alleyway. She nearly blushes at the memory. 

Henry picks at KIllian’s seashell necklace, much like the one he’d given her as a gift three months ago. “Shell,” her son says, looking pleased with himself.

Hook laughs, the red of the setting sun making his eyes sparkle. “That it is.”

Emma can’t keep a soft smile off her face, even as a thread of panic ran down her chest. He’d spent all of this morning talking about the gardener and her tulips. Now he wouldn’t be able to talk about anything other than the seashell-wearing tall man down by the meadow.

A queen seen with a thief? They’d assume the worst.

(And “worst” was for them to decide. Her brother would never let her live it down.)

“Okay,” she says suddenly, jarring even herself. “May I have my son back?”

Hook’s smile melts at her tone, and neutrality takes over his expression as he hands Henry back, amid soft protests from the younger child. “I talked to the tailor that you wanted,” he says, his voice lacking the joking manner it had before. She regrets it suddenly, but her feelings were the hardest to run away from.

(And thus, the hardest measures had to be taken.)

“He gave me the pouch but I had to give him all your gold.”

“Right.”

“I did! I gave some of mine, too.” He rolls his eyes. “Greedy little git. Anyway, he gave me the pouch, in which I put your pendant. It’s safe now, so you can rest.”

Emma gives a sigh of relief. “Thank you, so much.”

“All in a day’s work for a man indebted to the Crown.”

Right. He was only doing this because she’d saved his life.

And like that, something in Emma’s chest melts as well and they fall silent, the only sound the breeze that made the grass flutter and the distant calls of villagers.

She swallows. “Well, I should get-”

“Princess Emma!”

She turns her head and sees Belle running towards them, basket and skirt in her hand. The panic suddenly stabs her in the chest, and her breath catches in her throat.

Oh, god. This is the end.

“It’s nearly dinn-oh, hello.” She stops suddenly when she sees Killian, eyebrows scrunching and eyes darting between Emma and him, taking note of the situation. She makes up her mind and focuses back on Emma, who was trying not to pick up her skirts and run away. “It’s nearly dinnertime, and your parents are wondering where you are, and Henry must be hungry-”

“You’re right,” she realizes. The panic crashes back down and guilt fills her heart instead. “Would you take him? I’ll be there shortly.”

Belle nods, taking Henry, and gives one last curious look at Hook before smiling at Henry and striding off. Emma gives him a small wave, smiling softly, before Killian’s voice brings her back to the shore. “I should leave.”

She turns to him as he looks away and picks up the flower she’d dropped from the ground. It’s hard to read him at the moment. Sheepish? Yes. Embarrassed? She hoped not (but wouldn’t blame him if he was).

“Thank you,” she says again, trying to cover for their lost sense of direction with gratitude. “Truly, it-” He gives her an expectant look, thumb running down the leaf of the flower. She exhales, finishing her sentence. “It means a lot to me.”

He reaches out instead of replying, taking her hand and placing the flower on her palm. His fingertips brush hers as he closes it over the stem, leaving tiny, phantom sparks that travel up her wrist and arm. She really should’ve worn a long-sleeved dress today.

“It was nothing,” he answers quietly.

She smiles ironically. “You went to jail. Doesn’t that account for anything?”

“Told you, it wasn’t my first.” The grin is back, albeit a little subdued. “You should go eat. You family is waiting.”

They were.

And so Emma kisses him.

The panic and guilt and excitement that had pursued her the past few months suddenly resurrects and drives her forward, all thoughts of reputation and other nonsense flying out the window as she finally, does one thing for herself and only herself.

(Oh, and for Killian too, she guesses.)

She releases his lapels once a good amount of heavy breathing has passed, knowing she’s mirroring his stunned expression at what had just occurred. And Emma, being Emma, gives only a sheepish grin.

“Happy Middlemist Day?”

*

After, when it’s nighttime and a few hours after answering two dozen questions about the horrendously-handsome-and-possibly-dangerous (he looked very dangerous Emma) leather-clad man who Henry couldn’t stop babbling about (you couldn’t have everything), he sneaks in through the balcony with no more than three middlemist flowers.

“Seriously?” Emma’s only half exasperated, a laugh escaping her. “I have an entire garden.”

He gives her an impish grin, leaning over to peck her cheek as he sets the flowers down. “I needed an excuse to be walking down the castle path.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“They think they’re for Elsa.”

She laughs, pulling him in and shutting the balcony door.

[dfroza]

they formed a lying accusation against a man

which has been commonplace in the treachery and betrayal of many in the sad History of this world and its sinful condition. for it is only the grace of our Creator who offers us a cure that is pure and a new True nature.

(inside, Anew)

this is the True illumination of the Son.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 6th chapter of the book of Acts:

Things were going well, and the number of disciples was growing. But a problem arose. The Greek-speaking believers became frustrated with the Hebrew-speaking believers. The Greeks complained that the Greek-speaking widows were being discriminated against in the daily distribution of food. The twelve convened the entire community of disciples.

The Twelve: We could solve this problem ourselves, but that wouldn’t be right. We need to focus on proclaiming God’s message, not on distributing food. So, friends, find seven respected men from the community of faith. These men should be full of the Holy Spirit and full of wisdom. Whomever you select we will commission to resolve this matter so we can maintain our focus on praying and serving—not meals—but the message.

The whole community—Greek-speaking and Hebrew-speaking—was very pleased with this plan, so they chose seven men: Stephen (a man full of faith and full of the Holy Spirit), Philip, Prochorus, Nicanor, Timon, Parmenas, and Nicolas (a Greek-speaking convert from Antioch). These men were presented to the apostles, who then prayed for them and commissioned them by laying their hands on them. The message of God continued to spread, and the number of disciples continued to increase significantly there in Jerusalem. Even priests in large numbers became obedient to the faith.

Stephen continually overflowed with extraordinary grace and power, and he was able to perform a number of miraculous signs and wonders in public view. But eventually a group arose to oppose Stephen and the message to which his signs and wonders pointed. (These men were from a group called the Free Synagogue and included Cyrenians, Alexandrians, Cilicians, and Asians.) The Holy Spirit gave Stephen such wisdom in responding to their arguments that they were humiliated; in retaliation, they spread a vicious rumor: “We heard Stephen speak blasphemies against Moses and God.”

Their rumor prompted an uprising that included common people, religious officials, and scholars. They surprised Stephen, grabbed him, and hauled him before the council. They convinced some witnesses to give false testimony.

False Witnesses: This fellow constantly degrades the holy temple and mocks our holy law. With our own ears, we’ve heard him say this Jesus fellow, this Nazarene he’s always talking about, will actually destroy the holy temple and will try to change the sacred customs we received from Moses.

The entire council turned its gaze on Stephen to see how he would respond. They were shocked to see his face radiant with peace—as if he were a heavenly messenger.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 6 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 5th chapter of Song of Solomon (Song of Songs) that continues the poetic book about sharing Love in a relationship:

[The Man]

I went to my garden, dear friend, best lover!

breathed the sweet fragrance.

I ate the fruit and honey,

I drank the nectar and wine.

Celebrate with me, friends!

Raise your glasses—“To life! To love!”

[The Woman]

I was sound asleep, but in my dreams I was wide awake.

Oh, listen! It’s the sound of my lover knocking, calling!

[The Man]

“Let me in, dear companion, dearest friend,

my dove, consummate lover!

I’m soaked with the dampness of the night,

drenched with dew, shivering and cold.”

[The Woman]

“But I’m in my nightgown—do you expect me to get dressed?

I’m bathed and in bed—do you want me to get dirty?”

But my lover wouldn’t take no for an answer,

and the longer he knocked, the more excited I became.

I got up to open the door to my lover,

sweetly ready to receive him,

Desiring and expectant

as I turned the door handle.

But when I opened the door he was gone.

My loved one had tired of waiting and left.

And I died inside—oh, I felt so bad!

I ran out looking for him

But he was nowhere to be found.

I called into the darkness—but no answer.

The night watchmen found me

as they patrolled the streets of the city.

They slapped and beat and bruised me,

ripping off my clothes,

These watchmen,

who were supposed to be guarding the city.

I beg you, sisters in Jerusalem—

if you find my lover,

Please tell him I want him,

that I’m heartsick with love for him.

[The Chorus]

What’s so great about your lover, fair lady?

What’s so special about him that you beg for our help?

[The Woman]

My dear lover glows with health—

red-blooded, radiant!

He’s one in a million.

There’s no one quite like him!

My golden one, pure and untarnished,

with raven black curls tumbling across his shoulders.

His eyes are like doves, soft and bright,

but deep-set, brimming with meaning, like wells of water.

His face is rugged, his beard smells like sage,

His voice, his words, warm and reassuring.

Fine muscles ripple beneath his skin,

quiet and beautiful.

His torso is the work of a sculptor,

hard and smooth as ivory.

He stands tall, like a cedar,

strong and deep-rooted,

A rugged mountain of a man,

aromatic with wood and stone.

His words are kisses, his kisses words.

Everything about him delights me, thrills me

through and through!

That’s my lover, that’s my man,

dear Jerusalem sisters.

The Song of Solomon, Chapter 5 (The Message)

our Creator’s view of sex is pure. but many in the world don’t view it in Love’s truth. and the bottom line for sex is that we are not supposed to be sexual with anyone of the same birth gender, nor to have sex outside the marital bond. for sex joins two bodies into “One” body and is not permitted to be shared outside this sacred Union. and people may feel like they love someone to open sexually in a relationship, or maybe they are just seeking to have sex with another, even to pay for it, but a sacred bond of bodies is still created regardless, and thus it is only meant for a marital and lifelong commitment. which is why virginity and patience is so sacred, no matter what individual hormones tell the body otherwise.

True Love is patient and kind.

“Don’t you understand that when your body is joined with a prostitute, the two of you have become one body? For as it says, “The two come together as one flesh.” But when you are joined with the Lord, you become one spirit with Him. Run from immoral behavior. All other sins are disconnected from the body, but sexual immorality is a sin against your own body. Don’t you know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who comes from God and dwells inside of you? You do not own yourself. You have been purchased at a great price, so use your body to bring glory to God!”

The Letter of 1st Corinthians, Chapter 6:16-20 (The Voice)

Today’s reading from the ancient book of Proverbs:

[Proverbs 5]

[Avoid Promiscuity]

Listen to me, my son,

for I know what I’m talking about.

Listen carefully to my advice

so that wisdom and discernment will enter your heart,

and then the words you speak will express what you’ve learned.

Remember this:

The lips of a seductress seem sweet like honey,

and her smooth words are like music in your ears.

But I promise you this:

In the end all you’ll be left with is a bitter conscience.

For the sting of your sin will pierce your soul like a sword.

She will ruin your life, drag you down to death,

and lead you straight to hell.

She has prevented many from considering the paths of life.

Yes, she will take you with her where you don’t want to go,

sliding down a slippery road

and not even realizing where the two of you will end up!

Listen to me, young men,

and don’t forget this one thing I’m telling you—

run away from her as fast as you can!

Don’t even go near the door of her house

unless you want to fall into her seduction.

In disgrace you will relinquish your honor to another,

and all your remaining years will be squandered—

given over to the cruel one.

Why would you let strangers take away your strength

while the labors of your house go to someone else?

For when you grow old you will groan in anguish and shame

as sexually transmitted diseases consume your body.

And then finally you’ll admit that you were wrong and say,

“If only I had listened to wisdom’s voice

and not stubbornly demanded my own way,

because my heart hated to be told what to do!

Why didn’t I take seriously the warning of my wise counselors?

Why was I so stupid to think that I could get away with it?

Now I’m totally disgraced and my life is ruined!

I’m paying the price—

for the people of the congregation are now my judges.”

[Sex Reserved for Marriage]

My son, share your love with your wife alone.

Drink from her well of pleasure and from no other.

Why would you have sex with a stranger

or with anyone other than her?

Reserve this pleasure for you and her alone and do not share it with another.

Your sex life will be blessed

as you take joy and pleasure in the wife of your youth.

Let her breasts be your satisfaction,

and let her embrace intoxicate you at all times.

Be continually delighted and ravished with her love!

My son, why would you be exhilarated by an adulteress—

by embracing a woman who is not yours?

For God sees everything you do and his eyes are wide open

as he observes every single habit you have.

Beware that your sins don’t overtake you

and that the scars of your own conscience don’t

become the ropes that tie you up.

Those who choose wickedness die for lack of self-control,

for their foolish ways lead them astray,

carrying them away as hostages—

kidnapped captives robbed of destiny.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter (The Passion Translation)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, june 5 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that reflects upon life in this world, a temporal amount of time:

“No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell” (C.J. Jung). The Book of Job tells the story of every person... We are all immersed into this world in ways beyond our control; we are all tested by troubles and afflictions of various kinds; we all argue with God in our ignorance and in the depths of our ignorance. We protest; we object; we bargain; and we lament until we are left in unknowing silence. We do not know why we suffer or the meaning of our suffering, but if, through our struggle, God lets us know that he is truly present, we are blessed and the miracle of acceptance occurs: we receive a “new name” and affirm from the heart “blessed are the poor in spirit...” “blessed are they that mourn...” “blessed are they that hunger and thirst...” Such godly sorrow produces "repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly sorrow produces death" (2 Cor. 7:10). God cannot speak to the proud of heart, since they feel no need for deliverance from themselves. "Those who believe they believe in God but without passion in the heart, without uncertainty, without struggle, and even at times without despair, believe only in the idea of God, and not in God himself" (Unamuno). The Spirit of the Lord proclaims good news to the poor, to the lowly, to the humble; the Lord binds up the broken heart, proclaims liberty to the captives, and he sets free those who are bound... [Hebrew for Christians]

6.4.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

June 5, 2021

The Holy One of Israel

“So will I make my holy name known in the midst of my people Israel; and I will not let them pollute my holy name any more: and the heathen shall know that I am the LORD, the Holy One in Israel.” (Ezekiel 39:7)

This wonderful name of God, “the Holy One of Israel,” was often used during the days of the later kings of Judah. It occurs three times in the book of Psalms (Psalm 71:22; 78:41; 89:18) and then no less than 27 times in Isaiah. The name then occurs three more times (Jeremiah 50:29; 51:5; Ezekiel 39:7), with the final one being our text above (where the preposition is translated “in”). This unusual pattern can be written sequentially as 3 + 33 + 3 = 33, perhaps reflecting a divinely ordained design to suggest the Holy Trinity.

The strong emphasis on this particular name during the later period of Judah’s kingdom probably was because of the prevalent unholiness of the nation during those years, finally culminating in the captivity of Judah itself. God stressed again and again that He was the Holy One and that “ye shall be holy; for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:44).

This theme is prominent in most of the 33 passages where this majestic name is used, but it is especially emphasized in its final occurrence, as recorded in our text. The context of this latter passage is the prophesied invasion of Israel by “Gog, the land of Magog” who will “come up against my people of Israel...in the latter days” (Ezekiel 38:2, 16). At that time, says the Lord, “there shall be a great shaking in the land of Israel;...and I will be known in the eyes of many nations, and they shall know that I am the LORD” (Ezekiel 38:19, 23). Then at last, His people will never pollute His holy name any more and “the house of Israel shall know that I am the LORD their God from that day and forward....for I have poured out my spirit upon the house of Israel, saith the Lord GOD” (Ezekiel 39:22, 29). HMM