#i stupidly reserved another book today but i’m not expecting to see it for like 2 months at least at this rate

[fingertipsmp3]

Not to be one of those people who complains but why are the two library books I reserved 3 weeks ago (as the first person in the queue mind you. And both of them are popular books with multiple copies available) still not ready

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Absence of Words (Sawdust of Words 12)

At very long last, we have a new "Sawdust of Words" story!

Absence of Words, 13.5k, rated G.

London Sunday after the Apocalypse

They've survived an attempted Armageddon and near-executions, confessed their feelings, and now Aziraphale and Crowley are ready to spend the rest of eternity together.

But thousands of years of abuse are not so easily shrugged off. If this is going to work, if they're going to last longer than a few hours, Aziraphale and Crowley will need to learn to communicate.

It may be their greatest challenge yet. -- This fic takes place immediately after the "love confession" story "Finding the Words," and is my first real exploration in the series of what 6000 years of abuse and unhealthy communication becomes when you're abruptly free of your abusers AND starting a new relationship on the same day. Spoilers: it goes badly.

(However, I assure you all - it does have a happy ending and they will get better in the future!)

I shared the first scenes a few days ago, so the excerpt below is from slightly later, 1.3k of Aziraphale settling his emotions upon returning to the shop after the extreme thrill of walking hand-in-hand with Crowley for almost an hour. Hope you enjoy!

(CW for references to Heaven's emotional abuse/manipulation/gaslighting, and particularly to the fact that Aziraphale is still thinking in the ways they conditioned him to)

--

Aziraphale pushed the door of his shop closed and breathed a sigh of relief. Home again. His own space, where everything always made a little more sense, felt a little more secure.

Despite the fire, everything was exactly as it should be. Every book, every figurine, every speck of dust perfectly in its place. Even the rug he’d moved aside to contact Heaven lay flat in the center of the floor where it belonged, as if the entire horrid day hadn’t happened.

He paused for a moment, fingers resting on a stack of books, and took another deep breath. He didn’t feel quite settled yet; a cup of tea would really help, though he wasn’t sure if he had the time to make one properly.

Fortunately, as an angel, he had other options.

His favorite tea mug already sat on the desk by his favorite chair. Perfect. A quick miracle filled it with warm black tea, a blend of leaves with a hint of roast chestnut, something a little sweeter but more subtle than sugar, and a few buds of chamomile and safflower petals to help him relax. Then he settled into the chair and took a slow drink, letting the flavors linger on his tongue.

Yes, precisely what he needed. A moment of calm amidst the whirlwind, something Crowley would certainly understand once he’d had a chance to explain properly. Five minutes and he’d be ready for whatever excitement the world threw at him, or that he threw himself into, as that seemed to be something he did now.

He wiggled his shoulders, burrowing more comfortably into his pillows, pleased at his own boldness, wondering what he should try next. He’d played football once, years ago, perhaps they could find some energetic youths and play a match. Or he could learn a musical instrument, spend a day as one of those street-corner musicians. Not that he’d ever really wantedto, but he could if he liked, and the possibility was thrilling.

Or he could do something really audacious, like run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. That possibility made a great deal of heat rise to his face as he eyed the sofa where the demon liked to sprawl.

As he did, Aziraphale noticed a few things out of place. Nothing major. The blanket, usually draped across the sofa, lay neatly folded over the arm. The odds and ends across his desk had been properly stacked. The nearest bookshelf had been re-organized so that the books ran from the smallest on the left to the largest on the right. Even this mug, he realized, hadn’t been used for at least two days and should be sitting spotless in its cupboard.

Several possible explanations came to mind, particularly that in recreating the destroyed shop Adam had put a few items in the wrong spots. But he knew Crowley had spent hours waiting here this morning. Perhaps he’d done a little tidying, then sat and made himself a cup of tea.

That brought another fascinating blend of emotions. A little alarming, to be drinking from the same cup. Not proper at all, in today’s society, though it would have been more acceptable in the past. But in modern society, there was something intimate about it. And he found he didn’t mind that at all.

Not intimate, Aziraphale thought, eyes drifting across the shelf again. Domestic. Now there was an interesting idea. Crowley making himself at home in the shop. Making himself a snack, lounging about and being rude to customers, doing his little cleaning routine when he felt nervous, helping himself to a glass of wine in the evening or padding around in bare feet after waking up in the morning…

Instinctively, Aziraphale clamped down on the whole line of thought, burying it, glancing about to see if someone had somehow noticed.

But…there was no one to notice anything. No one to worry about. Not now, not ever again.

I’m…free.

He set down the mug and pressed his hands together. He’d never really considered himself trapped in the first place. Yes, he’d needed to be careful to avoid notice, judgement, but that was his own fault for not being the right sort of angel, for failing to measure up again and again.

And yet. There was no longer any reason to be careful.

No longer any reason to lie.

That was all Crowley had asked, wasn’t it? That Aziraphale stop lying?

Honesty. Now there was his most audacious idea yet.

“I…” He put his fingers to his lips, not quite sure he dared. But he could. He could. “I…love…”

His voice hitched over the word, his mind filling with caution, with warnings not to go too far.

“I lo-love…” Why was he shaking? He could hardly be reprimanded for it now. “I love…Crowley.”

The name seemed to hang in the air, echo off the walls. This was madness, of course, he had taken no precautions. He had every reason to think Gabriel might come back, for a check-up, for some final business, and Aziraphale would — would disappoint him, and that was worse than any punishment.

Only. Only that didn’t matter, did it? What was Gabriel’s disappointment, compared to a garden, a bright sky, and Crowley leaning down to brush his lips…

“I…I love Crowley!” It came out louder and more defiant than he intended, as warmth and excitement rushed through Aziraphale. “I love him! And he loves me!”

He gasped, just a little, to hear it out loud.

He loves me.

Sinking back into his seat again, Aziraphale rubbed his eyes. The mask of calm that had carried him through the Apocalypse fell away, and now he found himself quite close to actual tears.

He’d wondered for so many years. 78 years, 3 months and 14 days, to be precise. Did Crowley love him? Could Crowley love him? Did he feel even a fraction of that powerful force that Aziraphale often worried would destroy him, destroy them both?

It frightened him, sometimes, the love Aziraphale felt, warm and insistent, brash and bold, at times quite needy. Nothing like the pure love of Heaven, patient and kind, austere and a little distant. Not something to be freely given in exchange for a smile or a box of chocolates, but something to strive for, to inspire one towards improvement, towards one’s best self.

He’d tried, of course, oh how he’d tried. Every assignment, every duty, pouring every last bit of himself into whatever they asked of him with such good intentions, hoping for a sign, a bit of praise, a brush of that loving warmth. He always failed, of course, flawed and imperfect angel that he was.

He couldn’t resent Heaven for holding that love in reserve; that, too, was an expression of love, for how could one grow and develop if everything were simply handed to one?

But it had been lonely. So very lonely for so very long.

Not anymore.

Crowley loved him, right now, with all his faults and flaws. He couldn’t say it — such was the nature of the Fallen — but love wasn’t about words. He could feel it in Crowley’s touch, hear it in his tone of voice, taste it in his kiss. And that was enough.

He treasured it so, that love, that trust that Crowley had shared with so few. It was Aziraphale he found worthy, Aziraphalehe gave them to, and Aziraphale would do anything to show they hadn’t been misplaced.

My best friend, Crowley had said; what could be more precious than that? A greater honor than Aziraphale had ever expected.

He just wished he could hear the words in a different tone of voice, one not laced with all-consuming pain and loss. Wished he could think of them without remembering how he’d sat there stupidly, a corporationless angel floating in a void, unable to offer any reassurance or comfort, unable to even let Crowley see his face. Useless, as he’d always been.

That, at least, ended today. He loved Crowley, he was with Crowley. Nothing would ever come between them again.

He wiped his eyes one last time and went to find Crowley’s surprise. And perhaps some biscuits for the road, one never knew when one’s…companion (even that word made him blush) might get hungry.

Read the rest on AO3!

Or read the whole series here!

As always with Sawdust of Words - mind the tags and CWs.

[loverboytrashmouth]

Of Macchiatos and Nicknames (pt 1)

pairing; Reddie

word count; 1.6k

summary; Eddie doesn’t mind studying at the coffee shop as much as he thought he would.

a/n; part one of two of a little coffee shop meet cute because meet cutes are my fav and also i’m a barista so i think about this kinda au a lot. also read on ao3 if you’d like! enjoy :)

--

Eddie didn’t even like coffee that much. He’d really only drink it when he needed the caffeine to get him through a long night of studying. He hardly ever visited the campus coffee shop, and if he did it was because Bill would drag him out of bed earlier than necessary to make a stop there before their 8AM lectures. 

It wasn’t until one afternoon during midterms that Eddie began spending most of his free afternoons at the coffee shop.

It was a particularly windy October day, so Bill and Eddie decided they’d trade their usual study spot outside on their university’s great lawn area for the cozy coffee shop right on the outskirts of the main campus . Eddie couldn’t stand studying there; it was constantly full of loud students who would call themselves “study groups” when really it was just an excuse for them to drink their lattes and goof off. He had tried to convince Bill that they could just go to the library or back to their room, but Bill insisted he absolutely needed coffee, blaming it on his lack of sleep the night before.

“Just get me anything, I don’t care. I’m gonna get us a table,” Eddie said to Bill once they entered, already beginning to walk towards the mid-sized seating area. Bill gripped his upper arm and pulled him back.

“Definitely n-not. I’ll be h-halfway done my drink before you finish your dis-disinfecting routine,” Bill chuckled, earning a glare from Eddie. “I’ll go s-sit. You know my order. I promise, I’ll wuh-wipe down the table with the utmost c-care.” Eddie sighed in defeat, rolling his eyes at his friend’s teasing and lightly shoving him towards the seats. The shorter boy turned around towards the menu hanging on the wall, trying to figure out what the hell he was going to drink. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice coming from behind the counter.

“What’s your poison, ol’ chap,” it asked in a very obviously fake British accent. Eddie’s gaze trailed down to where the voice came from and his breath involuntarily hitched in his throat at the sight of the guy behind the register. He had disheveled curly black hair that contrasted - very nicely, Eddie noted - against his pale skin. He was tall, Eddie not needing to move his neck much from the position it was in to see the menu to look him in the eyes. The barista’s eyes, Eddie noted, were insanely large behind the thickly rimmed glasses that framed his face, but somehow he made them look good. Eddie’s eyes flicked down to the barista’s sharp jawline covered in messy stubble, his slightly chapped lips in a playful smirk.

“You gonna order something shortie, or are ya gonna just keep undressing me with your eyes,” the barista asked in his normal voice, the smirk never leaving his face. Eddie snapped out of his trance, feeling his face immediately heat up.

“Am I short or are you just freakishly tall,” Eddie shot back, his voice dripping with offense but he knew the color on his cheeks told the barista that he definitely had no ill feelings towards him. The taller boy shrugged.

“Tomayto tomahto, pretty boy,” he said with a wink. “Seriously though, whatcha havin’? It’s my duty to know.”

Eddie huffed out a chuckled at him and shook his head, before it dawned on him that he barely knew anything about coffee. Sure, he knew Bill’s order was called a “caramel macchiato,” but what if he said the fancy names of the sizes wrong and embarrassed himself? He was already anxious enough about ordering in the first place, customer service interactions being one of his least favorite things (he’s so glad his work study is in the library, stacking books with little to no human interaction). It didn’t help that the stupidly tall - and cute - barista was full force hitting on him like his life depended on making Eddie blush.

“Um, two mediu- no, grande, right. Two grande caramel macchiatos please,” Eddie finally decided after a few short beats of silence, mentally kicking himself when he realized what he said, because he hates caramel macchiatos. The barista tapped out his order on the register, taking a couple glances at Eddie as he did so.

“Alrighty, you got it. And what’s your name?” Eddie furrowed his eyebrows at this question, taken slightly aback even though it was no secret the barista had been flirting with him this entire conversation. The latter must have noticed Eddie’s confused reaction, as he clarified with a chuckle, “So we can call it out to let you know your order is ready.”

“Oh, right,” Eddie laughed, his cheeks heating up once more, this time more of embarrassment at his misunderstanding of the question’s intentions. He reached a shaky hand to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously as he answered. “It’s Eddie.”

The barista nodded his head, his grin growing wider as he typed Eddie’s name into the machine. Eddie began pulling cash out of his fanny pack when the barista interrupted his movements with his voice.

“Don’t worry about that, Eds. They’re on the house today.” Eddie tilted his head ever so slightly, his furrowed eyebrows returning once more.

“Did- did you just call me ‘Eds’,” he asked, receiving only a simple nod from the taller boy. “How’s it fair I have a nickname already when I don’t even know your real name?” The barista smirked that shit-eating smirk again, holding a hand out towards the smaller boy.

“Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, at your service.” Eddie placed his own hand into Richie’s, the roughness of his dry skin making Eddie’s skin crawl, but in a good way.

“Nice to meet you, Rich,” Eddie replied with a smirk of his own, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Thanks for the coffees.”

“Anything for you, Eddie baby.” Another wink. God, Eddie’s face was so hot he thought he could probably fry an egg on it.

Eddie couldn’t hide the blush on his cheeks or the dumb smile that refused to leave his mouth as he walked over to the table Bill had chosen to set up study camp at. Bill watched as the smaller boy sat across from him and began placing books on the table, attempting to cover his smile with his arm.

“Wuh-wow, Eddie. I haven’t seen you blush like that since our s-sex ed course in high school,” Bill teased with a slight laugh. Eddie’s face heated up even more at the memory, as well as the fact that he’d been caught basically swooning over Richie.

“Shut it, Bill. You got those notes I missed when I was sick?” Despite Eddie’s attempt to change the subject matter, Bill pressed on.

“It was the barista, wuh-wasn’t it? I could s-see the way he was looking at you from all the way over-”

“Wait, how was he looking at me,” Eddie interrupted without thinking, his eyes full of hope. Bill laughed some more at his eagerness.

“Y-You’re kidding, right? I’m s-surprised he didn’t jump over the counter and attack you into a m-makeout session right then and there.” Eddie’s eyes widened at Bill, before glancing over his shoulder to look at the barista again as he was making their drinks. He must’ve felt eyes on him, because not even five seconds after Eddie turned his head, Richie looked up from the espresso machine he was working with and the two locked eyes. Eddie immediately snapped his head back around, but not before noticing the smirk that returned to Richie’s lips. Bill shot him a knowing look.

“Okay, he flirted with me hardcore and yes he’s absolutely my type but if I don’t study for this midterm I won’t be able to think about him with calc on the brain 24/7. Notes, please,” Eddie spat out at high speed, a habit he had since he was a preteen that occurred whenever he got flustered.

Bill passed the page of math notes over with an eyebrow wiggle, but Eddie didn’t get a chance to even glance at them before hearing an obnoxiously loud voice behind him call out, “ORDER UP FOR A SIR EDDIE SPAGHETTI.” Eddie mentally facepalmed at the nickname usage before getting up and walking back to the counter.

“Really? Eddie Spaghetti?” Eddie couldn’t resist the laugh in his voice or fond smile as he shook his head at Richie. Richie, in return, held the coffees out to him, and shrugged his shoulders with a grin.

“Cute nickname for a cute boy,” he commented casually. Eddie couldn’t believe how smooth this thick-glasses wearing, awkwardly lanky dude could be, especially when he felt as though he could burst with every sentence uttered by said thick-glasses wearing, awkwardly lanky dude.

“So, uh,” Richie started once Eddie had taken the coffee cups from his hands, their fingers brushing lightly and lingering a bit too long. Eddie noticed his ever so slight change in demeanor, leaving bold and flirty and inching more towards reserved and… nervous? “Can I expect to see you around here again any time soon?”

The sincerity Eddie heard Richie speak within that sentence made his heart flutter, as well as whatever anxieties he still felt in his stomach to slowly dissipate. With that statement Eddie realized he wasn’t just aimlessly being flirted with, but that this could actually, maybe, mean something a little more?

“You sure can, Trashmouth,” Eddie replied with a warm look in his eyes. Richie perked up at the nickname, his cheeks going pink as Eddie walked back to his table.

“Dude, I thought you hated caramel m-macchiatos,” Bill commented when he saw the identical coffees his friend was holding, but Eddie barely heard him. He was too busy stealing glances back at the barista.

[unofferable-fic]

UNOFFERABLE: 10 - MAGIC

Summary: The unexpected arrival of an injured Midgardian child clinging to life causes a ruckus on Asgard. The princes, Thor and Loki, are somewhat intrigued by this unusual guest, unsure as to how and why she ended up in such a state. What they did not expect, however, was the turn of events her appearance would inevitably cause.

Originally posted by RealWoman77

————

Set Pre-Thor 1

Pairing: Loki x child OFC (platonic)

Inspired by this imagine

Warnings: Language, violence, assault, harassment.

Word Count: 4,191

Previous Chapter     Next Chapter

Playlist: “(-_-)” — Adebisi Shank, “Beetle” — Run River North, “Magic” — Coldplay

————

A/N: Also available on AO3  and FanFiction.net.

“You can’t be serious?”

The Warriors Three and Lady Sif wore the most befuddled of expressions, while Thor was stupidly grinning in delight.

“Oh, but I am!” he answered, plucked a fourteen year old Ellie from atop his shoulders, and set her down on the ground.

Loki sat nearby in the training yard, sharpening his daggers as Thor rambled on to his friends, Ellie’s little hand enclasped in his massive one.

“You want to teach the mortal how to fight?” Sif queried, totally baffled.

“Self defence,” Thor corrected. “But yes.”

Fandral gave him a look. “And why is that?”

“She is very tiny and mortal too. Loki and I know that some do not like that she is on Asgard, so it is merely a precaution. Thus I came up with the exceptional plan to train her and you, my most loyal friends, will assist me!”

“We will?” Volstagg deadpanned.

“You will!”

Fandral nearly guffawed. “Why not get the Trickster to do it?”

“He’s helping,” Thor stated bluntly and Loki sent them a particularly menacing grin.

The four of them stared back at him as Volstagg cleared his throat awkwardly. “Oh, no…”

“My friends, if you must know, my brother and I have been on edge since Frey and Freyja’s comments at the banquet. We would rather teach her some of these skills as a safety measure.”

“Do you think they will act on their comments?”

“Perhaps you should refrain from talking about Ellie as though she is not there,” Loki said dryly, glancing up from his weapons.

Fandral clapped his hands and looked down at the girl. “Alright then… Are you, err, ready to learn how to defend yourself?”

Ellie merely nodded. “Sure.”

“Excellent!” Thor cheered and set his plan in motion.

“Just no snakes this time,” Hogun grunted, giving Ellie the stink eye.

“No tricks,” Loki agreed. “I promise.”

Loki stayed as close to Ellie as he could without getting in the way, making sure that the Warriors Three and Sif did the job properly. While Thor seemed eager to have her swinging around massive claymores, Loki advised that she first learn how to evade attacks, with which Sif quickly agreed. To the passing Einherjar, it was a comical sight to behold — great burly warriors chasing around and trying to grab a slight girl who was doing her best to run rings around them. At first, she seemed uncomfortable with the practice, but once Loki reminded her of the familiar Frost Giant and Hero game, she calmed and listened to all of their instructions.

The lessons took place in-between handmaiden and princely duties, but seemed to be quite successful. The princes would make sure that the yard would be privately reserved to them so that no one would interrupt their sessions. Although Thor’s friends remained ever sceptical of the “Little Trickster”, they settled into their roles as mentors relatively easily. Perhaps now they could get a better understanding of why the Odinsons were so fond of her.

“Little one,” Thor announced one day as they were beginning. “It is time you chose a weapon.”

“You think I’m ready for that?” she replied, clearly intimidated as Thor pulled a massive axe from a weapon rack.

“Oh, I do!”

“Not a chance,” Sif said, pointing to the axe in his hands. “She is not going to be wielding that.”

Thor groaned, the very definition of a petulant child. “But Siiiiiiiiiif…”

“She will use something lighter,” she continued on, ignoring his outburst. She quickly grabbed a dagger, a quiver of arrows, and a bow from the rack. “She clearly takes after Loki, so let us work with that.”

Fandral let out a dramatic groan. “Ugh, now there’s two of them…”

“How terrible,” Loki said with a roll of the eyes.

“You will show her how to wield a dagger,” Sif ordered, addressing Loki. “And I will get her started with the bow. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great!” Ellie agreed with a great big smile as Sif helped strap the quiver to her back.

“Let’s get to work!” Thor declared, Mjölnir in hand.

Loki was sure that the Warriors Three and Sif were just delighted to spend their time teaching a Midgardian how to spar. Sif seemed to be the least bothered by it, although she was probably just happy to do it at Thor’s suggestion. The God of Thunder seemed more than happy to have Ellie in the training yard, finally showing her the things that he loved  to do.

Much like seiðr training, progress was slow, but the young girl was more than happy to do as her superiors instructed. Although they seemed less than happy with Loki’s presence, one which he made sure to be as overbearing as possible, he stood on the sidelines for every lesson. He had never taught someone how to fight, but he simply used the same formula as before by using the techniques his mother taught him. While Thor usually acted as the antagonist in their training, he found the whole thing to be ‘great fun indeed’. As long as none of them said anything disrespectful to Ellie, Loki remained calm and collected in their company.

* * *

As was per Asgard’s tradition, workers were paid monthly. Pay day was also considered an off day, so all workers usually went to the local markets to spend their wages as they wished. This month, Loki finished his duties early in the day and decided to go down to the market to browse the stalls. He went alone considering his personal hand servant, Radburn, was off duty.

Once he had collected his horse from the stables, he took his time riding to the markets. Usually his trips were most pleasant because no one disturbed him. It did irritate him ever so slightly that some people found him so unapproachable, but it also meant that he could peruse the stalls in the market place without being bothered by others. Sometimes, in the more expensive section of the market, he managed to find books or trinkets that grabbed his attention, or even fabrics that could be used in garments made by his tailors. Although he was fully aware he could get these items for free within the palace, he never saw the harm in giving someone decent pay when he had the gold to spend. It wasn’t like he was going to use it for anything else… It was also useful when it came to finding gifts for his mother, who was quite fond of the some of the more unusual novelties or foreign jewellery you could find there. He would also be lying if he said he didn’t get a kick out of seeing people stare as he made the rounds.

Having dismounted his horse upon spotting some interesting leather-bound books, he spent a short amount of time speaking with the stall’s owner about what she had available to buy.

“Have you received any new Midgardian fiction?” he asked, eyeing the display. “Preferably fantasy?”

“Midgardian fantasy, Your Highness?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“There is one book,” she answered politely, seemingly delighted to have a prince willing to buy from her. As she spoke, she rummaged under her stall. “Apparently it’s selling quite well down there. It’s an old book, but it’s popularity has resurged again. Where did I—? Ah! Here it is.”

Loki watched as she lifted a large black tome on to the stall. It was massive — he guessed at least a thousand pages — and landed with a severe thump when she put it down. On its cover was one large gold ring surround by three smaller rings. Within the centre was a gleaming red eye. Alas, it did not have a name on it.

“What is it?” he asked, perplexed as he picked it up.

“I can’t recall,” she admitted. “I think it had something to do with rings, Your Highness. You must understand, we do not have many people asking about Midgardian books…”

“It is alright,” he hushed her, noticing her hands twitching nervously. “I understand.” Without another word, he opened the front cover and began to read the description written on the inside:

‘This special 50th anniversary hardback edition of J.R.R. Tolkien's classic masterpiece includes…”’Yes, yes, but what is it about? “… a sequel to Tolkien's 1937 fantasy novel ‘The Hobbit’…’ Oh!”

“I’ll take it,” he said without hesitation, reaching to his leather pouch for gold.

The vender seemed delighted that he was taking it off her hands and when she said the asking price, he doubled it without so much as a second thought, then thanked her, and placed the book carefully into his carrying bag on the horse. He proceeded to lead the animal by the reins as he strolled through more nearby stalls that were bustling with customers.

“Prince Loki?”

He looked up at the sound of his name and turned to see the culprit.

“Hi,” Ellie greeted him with a wave, her own carrying bag tossed over her shoulder as she approached him.

“Hello, little one,” he replied with a small smile.

“What brings you to the markets today?” she asked curiously. “I don’t think I’ve seen you down here before.”

“Sometimes I do show my face among the common people,” he joked. “I came to purchase goods; same as you, I presume?”

“Yeah, I got some new clothes and stuff! And I got some ingredients because Fen and Sevda want’a teach me how to bake.”

Only then did Loki notice the two women standing either side of the girl. Fen and Sevda were two of his mother’s longest serving handmaidens who had taken Ellie under their metaphorical wing. It was due to Frigga’s request, but it was no surprise that they were happy to comply, considering they both had young children of their own. It made sense that they would be willing to help the child adjust to life in Asgard. Loki had known them for centuries.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them with a slight incline of the head.

After greeting him formally in unison, Sevda asked him. “How do you fair today, Prince Loki?”

“Splendid, thank you. It is always nice to take a break from the duties that bore me.”

“Ah yes,” Fen drawled. “Being a prince is so very hard…”

“It is far harder than you could ever comprehend, Fen!”

Sevda let out a chuckle. “Oh, please! Your duties just consist of playing tricks on Prince Thor. Why not spend your day plotting against him?”

“Perhaps he deserves a day off every now and then.”

“I have known you both since you were children and you have never given him a break. You think he deserves one?”

He paused, then shook his head and smirked. “No, he definitely doesn’t.”

Sevda shook her head, but he knew that she enjoyed the talks they had. “Shopping for something in particular today, Your Highness?”

He shook his head. “Not particularly, Sevda. I am mostly here to see if anything catches my eye.”

“Did you find anythin’?” Ellie piped up.

“I did find an interesting looking book or two…”

“No way! What is it? Anythin’ I know?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps you might know—”

“Here, you! Mortal! Get out of our realm!”

Loki whipped his head around at the sound of shouting. He immediately spotted two men on the other side of the market, staring daggers in his direction. Suddenly, he realised that they weren’t looking at him; their eyes were firmly fixed on Ellie.

The burly, bald-headed one resembled a rabid animal as he continued yelling. “You’re not welcome here, mortal!”

Sevda and Fen immediately stood closer to the girl, sending the two bulls looks that could kill.

“Do you know them, Ellie?” Fen asked.

She shook her head and tried to ignore them. “No, I don’t, I swear.”

“What a pair of cretins,” Sevda spat through gritted teeth. “Mouthing off at a child.”

Fen threw all decorum out the window and shouted back. “Shut you mouth, you fat oaf!”

While the other man kept his mouth wisely shut, Bald-head spat on the ground and refused to stop. “Fuck off, and take that mortal bitch with you!”

At this point, a crowd had formed to watch the insults rolling back and forth. They stared and chattered, most likely putting all the signs together to figure out who was being battered with insults and why.

The sight of Ellie trying to make herself a smaller target to the hateful spew made Loki see red. “Both of you, not another word! Or, by Odin, I will cut your tongues from your mouths myself!”

Having been chastised by the younger prince, both men were quick to heed his words and stop with their harassment. They turned red from what was probably a combination of rage and embarrassment.

Glaring at them once more, Loki turned his attention back to the Midgardian. “Ignore their words. They are fools and I will not let them hurt you.”

No one had a chance to react as the tomato struck Ellie’s cheek with a harsh smack.

She screamed in surprise. The crowd gasped.

“Prince’s whore!”

It splattered on contact, covering all of them in its red pulp. Loki’s eyes blew wide as he hastily wiped it off his cheek and looked down at her. Her whole face was covered in red, both from the damned tomato and the impact of the strike. She looked like a cornered animal, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. Sevda and Fen both stood in shock. When Loki set his eyes on Bald-head — the clearly guilty suspect — he never wanted to wring someone’s neck so much in his life.

He swiftly turned on his heals to do just that when a hand reached around his cloak and grabbed his dagger from its sheath. Surprised, he gaped down and saw Ellie up on her feet, dagger in hand, her eyes focused on the men with utter hatred. Before she could sprint off, he grabbed her in his arms and held her back as she fought him.

“Ellie, no!” he implored her. “Stop!”

“Let me go!” she screeched, her knuckles white with the dagger in her grip.

Fen wisely grabbed her arm to help restrain her. “If you hurt them you will be charged with assault, foolish girl! They are not worth it!”

“You will let me handle this!” Loki growled, passing her off to the two women and taking his weapon back. “You will not ruin your life for this filth!”

Ellie’s body deflated as she stopped fighting, the watery tomato sliding off her face in the struggle. Sevda was carefully wiping it off with the edge of her sleeve as Fen removed it from her flaxen hair — neither woman was concerned with what had hit them; only for the poor girl. The two men looked delighted until they realised Loki had started for them. Before they could run, he knocked them backwards with a powerful blast of energy — it sent the nearby tomato cart flying — and stalked after their fallen figures. Before Baldy could get up, he delivered a precise kick directly to his fat head. Blood spattered his robes and the cobbled road below.

“You would dare to assault a handmaiden of the Allmother?” Loki roared and spat on the man’s oozing head. “She is a child. I would kill you and your friend myself, but I would rather see what the Allmother has in store for you both, you scum.”

The other man dared not move as Loki approached; he simply stared at the gaping wound in the tomato-thrower’s forehead. The Trickster did not hesitate to grab him by the neck and haul him to his feet as Einherjar quickly descended on the small market. Upon seeing the Prince strangling a man with his bare hands, they openly stared at him.

“Prince Loki?” the commanding officer addressed him. “What has happened here?”

“They have assaulted and harassed a handmaiden to the Queen,” he growled and tossed the gasping fiend to the ground, hard. “Bring them to my mother before I kill them, as I would take great pleasure in it! Tell her I will be with her shortly to further explain what occurred.”

“Yes, Your Highness!”

Both assailants were quickly grabbed by the guards and they marched back towards the palace from whence they came. The other guards quickly dispersed the spectators after some insistent crowd control. Loki quickly made his way back to the three handmaidens  and his horse when the men were out of sight.

“Sevda, return to the palace with Ellie and remain with her in your quarters until my mother arrives. The Einherjar will keep you safe. Fen, you will come with me back to the palace and we will inform her of what just happened.”

“Yes, My Prince.”

“But, Loki…” Ellie sniffled and grabbed on to his free hand. “Please don’t leave.”

His brow furrowed at the sudden contact, but when he met her red-rimmed eyes, he squeezed her hand reassuringly. “You will be safe with Sevda. I will not be long, but I must speak with my mother.”

“But—”

“I will be gone but for a little while. I will return.”

“You promise?” she asked and held up her other hand with all digits but her smallest finger clenched into a fist. It was an odd Midgardian gesture, one which apparently meant you were making an unbreakable promise with the person whose finger you clutched with your own. He didn’t understand the logic or reasoning behind it, but he looped his finger with hers.

“I promise.”

With that, Ellie released her hold on his finger as Sevda quickly led her away with a thankful nod towards Loki. Two guards went with them and stayed nearby in case anyone else got involved. The prince quickly guided Fen to his horse and mounted the animal once she was up too. Together they rode to the palace to find the Queen.

* * *

“An assault on the a handmaiden to the Allmother is an assault on the Allmother herself.”

That evening, Odin’s voice was the only thing booming through the throne room. The attacker and his accomplice — who Loki found out were called Bjorn and Elof — were on their knees before the seated King, hands cuffed securely with thick chains. The Allmother remained incredibly controlled while Fen and Loki stood to the side, glaring and observing the exchange.

“I have heard enough from the countless witnesses, my son included, to make a decision. Considering your hate speech and violent actions, Bjorn, — which I also consider to be directed towards the Allmother — you will be imprisoned within the dungeons below until I see you fit to leave before you are old and frail. Your imprisonment starts at dusk tomorrow. Elof, you will be fined and placed under house arrest for an amount of time to be chosen at a later date. Guards, remove them from my sight. Looking at them through my one good eye is too much to stomach.”

Loki blanched. Beside him, Fen wore the same expression.

Assaults on personal staff of the royal family usually carried far heavier sentences. It wasn’t uncommon to see heads flying or life imprisonment being settled on when the crimes occurred. He had thought that such a sentence would be chosen — that’s why he kept them both alive, for fuck sake! — but now they would both walk free eventually.

“That is an unusually… kind sentence,” Fen whispered with a hint of malice.

“I agree,” was his mumbled response, still eying his father in bewilderment. Once the guards hauled the prisoners from the room, Loki was daring enough to approach the throne. “Father? Why have they received such a light sentence?”

“Light sentence, my son?” Odin replied.

“They assaulted and harassed a handmaiden to the Allmother.”

“And I chose a punishment that I saw fit.”

With a glance towards his mother, Loki frown. “Father, I have seen many prisoners sent to the chopping block for such a crime.”

“Then I will explain my reasoning to you,” he offered and stood up with Gungnir in hand. “As a future king, you must learn from the current one, yes?”

“Fen?” Frigga called her handmaiden. “Would you escort me to see Ellie?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Left alone with his father in the throne room, Loki waited anxiously for Odin to begin explaining why he had made such a decision.

“I know that you are aware of the opinions of some people within this realm, Loki. You know that these people do not welcome mortals here at all. Bjorn and Elof are two such people, it just so happens that Bjorn is far more vocal about it. Daring to assault any member of our personal staff is a bold, and incredibly stupid, move. But I do not think that sentencing two men to death for throwing fruit at a mortal is a wise decision. They both have families as well, even despite their violent tendencies. It could very well cause backlash among our people — one that could, in turn, cause attacks against her and possibly other staff to grow in severity. Their punishment is one which should silence their hate, but also not incite anymore of it. Do you understand?”

Loki’s brow creased with conflicted thoughts. Part of him — a very prominent part of him — wanted those mens’ heads on a pike. Families or no, he didn’t particularly care. They hurt a child. They called her a whore. She was defenceless. Her only crime was existing, and this is the punishment she received.

But the last thing he wanted was for Ellie to receive more of these punishments. If giving those men a milder sentence would result in her safety, then he would try to put aside the hate he felt for them and replace it with the affection he felt for her.

“Yes, Father,” he answered with the most neutral expression he could muster.

“Good, I am glad. Do not worry any more over this incident.”

“Of course, Father. Am I dismissed?”

Odin eyed his son for a brief moment before he nodded. It took Loki most of self-control to not briskly walk from the throne room and slam the doors behind him.

* * *

Unable to sleep, Loki found himself sitting in his usual chair in the library with an open book in his lap. The words remained unread as he played the events of the day through his mind over and over. He had gone to see Ellie and his mother as he so promised — after all, he did do that unusual Midgardian finger-loop thing… He had not attempted to go near the handmaiden quarters since, having just briefly stuck his head in to check on her. Afterwards, he locked himself in his rooms until the sun had gone down. He only left to collect his dinner from the kitchens — leftover stew and bread from the night before — considering the cooks also had the day off. In the middle of the night when most people had gone to sleep, he wandered the halls and wound up here. He had expected to be alone.

The doors opening and Ellie rushing inside was certainly not expected.

“Ellie?”

Her big eyes met his immediately. “Loki! I did it!”

“You did what?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat. For a brief moment, he considered the possibility that she had somehow murdered Bjorn and Elof without anyone noticing.

“The flower!” she cheered, her voice echoing through the library. “I did it!”

She held her open palms out to him and, sure enough, Loki saw a very small clematis flower within them, small tendrils of a ruby red energy surrounding it and gliding through the air. His jaw dropped. He had not expected this tonight. She gently placed it on the nearby table and both of them stared in disbelief and delight as it remained solid and alive.

Pride swelled within him as he looked at the little thing. He had never been so delighted to feel magical energy from an object before. He felt the grin pulling at his lips as he turned his attention from the flower to her. “You did it, little one, as I knew you would.”

Just as he was not prepared for her to burst into the library at all hours, he was not prepared for her to leap into his chair and fling her arms around him. She nearly knocked the wind out of him — she did literally knock the book from his lap — but her lithe arms circled around his neck and hugged him with all the might her frame possessed.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he flailed his arms for the briefest of moments before he recalled how her whole body shook when those threats were hurled at her; threats for simply existing and living on Asgard…

Loki slowly released the breath he had been holding and wound his arms tightly around her. He promised that he would never let anyone hurt Ellie so long as he lived.

“Well done, little one. You did it.”

[kittenwritesstuff]

Wham Bam

Gif’s not mine!

Fandom: Marvel Pairing: Logan Howlett x (teacher)reader Genres: possible secondhand embarrassment, a bit of jealousy, fluff Words: 1.615 Summary: Drunk, you confess your feelings for Logan, despite being sure he wants only Jean. However, Logan has a surprising admission to make - requested by Anonymous

With a grunt, you force your eyelids to lift as the obnoxious sound of an alarm invades your ears. Your head feels incredibly heavy, and a dull ache pounds as soon as you decide to get up.

Yesterday evening you’ve made quite an amount of bad decisions. First one was agreeing when Logan invited you for a drink. Then, one bottle of scotch later, you have made another bad decision, but you blame only alcohol for that.

You told Logan you were in love with him.

And then you ran away. Well, you tried to run but it was more like a slalom, given your drunken state.

When you reached your room, you found a bottle of beer and decided to drink it while you wallowed in self-pity and shame.

Needless to say, the evening wasn’t good.

And, what was even worse, you are sure that Logan remembers everything. Every damn word you said.  

As if it even matters. It’s not like your confession will miraculously make him love you. He has eyes only for Jean, you are nothing more than a fellow teacher. Probably not even a friend.

You heave out a sight, as you rub your eyes. Luckily, it’s Sunday which means no classes, which means you will have a whole day to recover from your poor choices last night.

“Shiiiiiit,” you mutter under your breath as you course your fingers through your hair. How could you be so dumb? How could you let yourself be fooled by a hefty dose of whisky and a bit more relaxed Logan? Why did you think that his smiles from previous night meant something more?

Climbing out of the bed, you waddle to your bathroom, deciding that for now, the best choice will be to take a shower. A very cold one. You need to be sober in case of meeting Logan, although you are pretty sure you will run away just as you did yesterday.

It seemed like a great idea then, most likely your brain will prompt you to do the same today.  After all, Logan equals lethal danger right now.

You are literally dying from embarrassment. For some reason your mind keeps presenting you images of angry Logan, disappointed Charles and very sad Ororo. And Jean with mocking smile, even though she was always nice to you.

“I am so bloody stupid,” you scold yourself as you rub a soap against your skin. Of course, your usual a little reserved manner disappeared when Logan said a few nice words. Pathetic. A guy you have a crush on says a compliment and you immediately throw caution to the wind and take a risk.

You have never regretted anything more.

Wrapping a towel around your torso, you reach for a smaller one to dry your hair. At least you’ve learnt a lesson. You are now even more assured that there is no point in revealing your true emotions. You gained nothing more than shame and regret, and you obviously would do just fine without them.

You put on your favorite jeans and a plaid shirt and stop before your door, your hand on a handle, your brows furrowed.

You are hungry but what if Logan is there? What if you step into him? What if you have to talk to him?

Of course, you can’t stay in your room forever, even though the prospect seems very appealing and tempting. Charles would eventually come to you, asking if you’re alright, and there was no way you could hide your thoughts from him, not when your mind is literally screaming.

You sigh and push the door open, peeking at the corridor. It’s empty and so you walk out of your room and quietly sneak into the kitchen, hoping that Logan is still asleep. Surely, he needs his rest, too, he probably drunk more after you left. You don’t want to think about how your spectacular admission made him feel.

You little journey ends up with a success as you enter a vacant kitchen. Quickly, you make yourself a coffee and scrambled eggs with bacon. Your head doesn’t ache that much already – it’s a con of having enhanced healing abilities.

Being a mutant is very useful sometimes.

Finishing your breakfast in no time, you clean after yourself and after making yourself a cup of tea for later, you head to your room. You need to find a way to occupy your mind, so that you won’t spend the entire day on thinking about last evening. Preparing for tomorrow classes is your top idea now, later probably a nap and a book.

You don’t allow yourself a moment of musing. No way you will think about Logan today. You’re done with him. Nothing you can do about it now, no way you can make it right.  

How can you compete with Jean, anyway?

You pout. It’s an absolutely hopeless situation, isn’t it? Logan most likely hates you now and by tomorrow, Jean will know about your crush, too, which means Scott will find out. And he will definitely tease you forever.

Gosh, you wish you could turn back time and never agree on drinking with Logan.

You are almost at your door when someone calls your name and you freeze, your eyes going wide.

It’s him.

“Y/N! C’mon, we gotta talk.”

“No,” you shake the initial frozen state off and say sternly. “No, no, no, no, no, no.”

You keep repeating it even when you close the door behind yourself, successfully separating you and Logan.

He knocks roughly at the door.

“Can we just talk?”

“No, I’m busy!” you shout, walking away from the door and placing your tea on your desk. Logan won’t walk in uninvited so you opt to ignoring him for as long as it takes. He will eventually give up, right?

“Bullshit, you told you had everything ready.”

“I lied!”

“Oh, so that’s your strategy, eh?”

You curse under your breath at the cockiness in his voice. It seems that nothing you can say will make him go away, and you don’t look forward to feeling trapped in your own room.

“Logan, just go!” you call as you sit on the edge of your bed, your eyes fixed on the door.

“Not until we talk!”

“Go on then!”

“Let me in first!” he barks and you purse your lips. You don’t want to see him but at the same time you’re aware that it’s inevitable. At some point, the two of you have to have a conversation about what happened the previous night but can’t it be delayed? Forever, perhaps?

“Al right, I’m coming in!” he announces after a moment of silence and as the door begin to open, you cover your face with your hands in irrational want to create a kind of shield from him. You can’t see him so he’s not able to see you, right?

He lets out an airy chuckle as he closes the door.

“You know I can still see you.”

“No, you can’t,” you mumble and you hear Logan stepping closer. As you peek down you see his feet directly in front of you.

“Y/N, look at me.”

“No, I don’t wanna.”

“Y/N…” he calls softly as he lowers himself to, most likely, be on your eye level. You’re not bold enough to check.

“You weren’t that shy yesterday,” he teases and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.

“I mean, the way you told me about… you know… I didn’t expect such a show, to be honest.”

“What, Jean would do it better?” you say, your voice turning low and almost venomous. You realize that you are being stupidly jealous but you can’t help it. Every time you’ve seen Logan and Jean together, smiling at each other, you wished it was you, not her.

Logan sighs.

“Y/N, listen. I know that it looks like Jean and I have a thing… but she’s with Scott, and I… Damn, you drive me crazy, babygirl.”

“What?!” you exclaim, your hands falling on your thighs as you stare at Logan with wide open eyes.

“Hey, pretty face,” he smirks and you snort through your nose.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Logan quirks up his brow.

“As I said, I’m crazy about you, not Jean.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

“You flaked off, Y/N,” he chuckles and you nod your head.

“Okay, you have a point,” you admit and Logan shakes his head slightly, a small fond smile spreading on his lips.

“You better now? Or still don’t wanna see me?” he teases again and you playfully punch his arm.

“Shut up, Logan. I was embarrassed, okay?”

“Oh, I can imagine! I thought you wouldn’t leave your room at all today.”

“Well, it crossed my mind,” you crack a smile and gasp when, without warning, Logan wraps his arms around your middle.

“So now’s the fun part,” his voice is lower now, quieter. “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you, Logan?” it’s your turn to tease him. Logan simply doesn’t seem like a man who’d ask such a thing.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman here and that’s wha-“

He doesn’t get to finish the banter because you pull at the collar of his shirt and crash your lips onto his, successfully cutting him off.

Although, you’re sure Logan doesn’t mind. And even more so, when he tilts your head to deepen the kiss. It’s turning into passionate and rough within seconds, just as you imagined it would be, and you are pushed onto your back only a moment later, his lips starting their sweet assault on your neck.

Yeah, that’s more like Logan.

[thiswomanshouldbewriting]

Rumbelle: #16 “If you want, we could go together?” :)

Sorry it took me so long to answer. I asked for prompts in hope to get over my writer’s block, but it didn’t quite work. Anyway, I had a lot of fun with this!

As always, thanks to @still-searching47, my amazing beta.

Ao3 link.

Belle hesitated in front of the pawnshop’s door, trying to gather up her courage and enter. She hadn’t seen or talked to Rumplestiltskin since the day when he’d trapped her on the Jolly Roger, and she still wasn’t sure she could forgive him for that. He knew how much she loathed being trapped, how important it was for her that he respected her boundaries, yet he’d trapped her anyway. He’d never used his magic like that on her, and she had felt utterly betrayed. As the days passed, however, she’d had to admit that, in a twisted way, he’d only been trying to protect her. She wasn’t justifying his actions by any means, but deep down she knew that Rumplestiltskin was just desperate to protect his son and be a part of his life; the tape he’d sent her was a constant reminder of that.

That’s why she’d decided to give him another chance. Not as a husband, but as a parent; she didn’t want her son to grow up without a father, not if she could help it. If Rumplestiltskin showed her that he could put his son first, and actually listen to her instead of taking all the decisions himself, maybe they could make it work.

The little bell over the door jingled when she finally stepped inside. Rumplestiltskin looked up from the counter, and his face immediately lit up when he saw her.

“Belle,” he whispered, his tone soft and warm, as it had always been when they were together. There was no trace of the bitter man who’d argued with her at the docks, and for a moment it was like he didn’t even remember that they weren’t a couple anymore; he was just so genuinely happy to see her. Then his expression turned sadder, even guilty, as reality came crashing down on him.

“Why are you here? Is everything alright?” he asked immediately, eyeing her belly anxiously.

“Yes, I’m fine. We’re fine,” Belle replied, feeling painfully awkward. She bit her lip, not sure how to go on. “I… I actually have my first sonogram today. I was thinking… if you want, we could go together?”

God, she wanted to cry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They should be celebrating her pregnancy, preparing together for the arrival of their son, maybe even arguing on how to decorate the nursery. A part of her wished they still lived together, that she could wake up in his arms and smile as he kissed her stomach and whispered that he loved them both. She was so angry at him, yet at the same time she was so desperate for his love and support. It was like she was going mad.

As Belle was torn apart by her inner battle, Rumplestiltskin gaped at her, completely taken aback by her suggestion. It took him a while to snap out of his stupor.

“Yes, yes of course. Do you want me to come pick you up at the docks?”

Rumplestiltskin wanted nothing more than to hug her, to hold her close and thank her for the new chance she was giving him. He hadn’t even thought about the sonograms, and even if he had he wouldn’t have expected her to invite him along. He had thought she hated him, and she probably had many reasons to do so, yet here she was, offering him a chance to witness an important moment of her pregnancy. Still, he didn’t believe she would welcome his touch, so instead of hugging her as he wished, he just stood behind the counter, and agreed to come pick her up at the docks.

He was so anxious about being late, that they arrived at the hospital unbelievably early, and Rumplestiltskin realized in horror that this would mean sitting awkwardly in the waiting room for who knows how long. The car ride had been embarrassing enough, with a tense silence hanging between them, and the cheerful atmosphere of the gynecology ward didn’t help. The walls were covered with ads picturing happy families, with smiling parents holding their perfect babies, and Rumplestiltskin felt all the weight and the shame of the damage he’d done to his own family. He and Belle could have been so happy if only he hadn’t ruined everything. He wished he knew what to say. Belle was breathtakingly beautiful in her blue and grey dress, but her expression was tense and nervous, and it wasn’t fair; she should have been glowing with joy. He missed her smile, and he missed being the one who made her happy.

“Belle,” he said eventually, not even knowing what he would say.

Belle turned towards him so quickly that for a moment he feared she had hurt her neck.

“Yes?” she said tentatively, as if she’d been waiting for him to speak.

“I… I’m sorry. For everything, for making this all so difficult. More than anything, I’m sorry for trapping you on that boat. It was stupid and insensitive; I’ll never do anything like that again,” he murmured, hoping that she’d sense the regret and the honesty in his words.

“You hurt me so much,” she replied shortly, her eyes welling up with tears.

Rumplestiltskin wanted to slap himself; now he was making her cry!

“I know, believe me, I know. I was just so scared for you and our child, and I felt so guilty for putting you in danger, and you wouldn’t even listen to me… I really don’t know what came over me. I overreacted,” he explained.

“We almost lost our baby because of that,” she said, but there was more fear than anger in her eyes. “But you were right on the fact that I was in danger. Even if I hadn’t been trapped, how far could I have run before Jekyll caught up with me? I was stupidly stubborn, and I endangered our child just because I didn’t want to prove you right. I’m sorry as well.”

“Oh Belle,” he whispered, tears filling his eyes and blurring his vision.

He took her hand in his, unable to find the words to express his feelings. When Hyde had forced him to watch as his wife and son’s lives were in danger, he’d thought he’d die of heartbreak. The thought of losing either of them stole the breath away from him, and in Belle’s eyes he could see the same fear. For the first time in too long, their thoughts and feelings were once again aligned, and he missed that feeling, missed the sensation of prefect understanding that they’d once shared. He was about to speak again when the nurse called Belle’s name.

Rumplestiltskin followed Belle into the doctor’s room, trying and failing to ignore the fact that Belle had booked the sonogram as “Belle French”. Of course, they were no longer a married couple in any aspect, yet it still pained him to hear it. He couldn’t help but think of how happy she used to be whenever he called her Mrs Gold, an endearment he only reserved for their most private and meaningful moments, like their first dance.

He was so caught up in his wistful memories that it was hard to focus on what the doctor was saying. His attention was brought fully back to the present when Belle realized that, to apply the gel for the sonogram, she’d have to pull her dress almost all the way up.

“I should have worn pants, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize…” she stammered apologetically to the doctor, feeling extremely stupid.

Rumplestiltskin immediately realized what the problem was; Belle was obviously feeling awkward at the idea of being almost completely naked in front of him. Once again, Rumplestiltskin cursed himself for complicating everything, and he was about to suggest that he leave when the doctor found her a blanket that Belle could use to cover her legs. Belle smiled thankfully, and even if the doctor looked a bit confused about why Belle would be so self conscious in front of her child’s father, she didn’t say anything about it.

Rumplestiltskin held his breath as the first image appeared on the screen, and he squinted as he tried to discern his son amidst what looked like a bunch of nonsensical black and white spots.

“Here’s your child,” the doctor said, pointing her finger at the screen.

Rumplestiltskin felt his heart skip a beat, and in that moment his entire world shrunk down to that little dot on the screen telling him that his son was real, that he was fine, and that maybe this time around Rumplestiltskin could do things right. He wanted so badly to be a good father. He was so focused on his son that it took him a moment to realize that Belle had taken hold of his hand, and that she was squeezing it enough to hurt. He turned around to look at her, and saw happy tears in her eyes.

“Rumple, can you believe it? That’s our baby,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

“And you haven’t heard the best part yet,” the doctor said. Then she pressed a button, and a rhythmic thumping sound filled the room. “That’s your child’s heartbeat. Don’t worry, it’s normal for it to beat so fast,” she explained.

Tears started rolling down Rumplestiltskin’s cheeks, and he felt his knees go weak with the emotion. He had to lean on the examination table for support, but Belle didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, she dragged him even closer, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. She wanted to say something, to tell him just how much this moment meant to her, to explain that she was and would always be extremely happy that he was her child’s father, and that somehow, despite their relationship being so broken, together they’d managed to create something so beautiful.

Rumplestiltskin held Belle as she sobbed quietly on his shoulder, listening to her choked attempts at expressing the same, overwhelming emotion he felt. A tentative smile formed on his lips as he realized that Belle was trusting him to comfort her, that she’d sought refuge in his arms in a moment of vulnerability. It was like part of the wall that she’d built between them in the past few weeks was finally coming down. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he loved her, that he was so thankful for the chance she’d given him, and that he’d do anything to be worthy of her and their child. He knew, however, that his promises no longer meant anything to her, and that he would probably just upset her further; so he held back, and stayed silent.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccuped eventually, pulling back from his embrace once the moment had passed and the tears had stopped.

“Hey, there’s nothing to apologize for. We were both really emotional,” he whispered, gently cupping her cheek in his hand. He knew there was a chance that she would pull back, and that he should have probably avoided doing that, but he just couldn’t stop himself. She was so beautiful and so sad, and he felt the need to protect and comfort her.

It was only then that they realized that they were alone in the room. At some point, the doctor must have left, probably to give them that moment alone. Rumplestiltskin was extremely grateful for that.

“So, uhm, shall we go home?” Belle murmured somewhat awkwardly, wiping the ultrasound gel off of her belly.

“Yes, of course,” Rumplestiltskin agreed hastily.

“Speaking of home, I was thinking… maybe I should leave the Jolly Roger after all. It’s not safe, and it’s not really comfortable either. It was fun for a few days, but now I’m starting to miss things like indoor plumbing,” Belle said tentatively. There was a flash of hope in Rumple’s eyes, and her heart ached at the thought of having to quell it.

“I’m not coming back home, Rumple, but I’m looking for an alternative, and I was hoping you could give me a few suggestions. Granny’s would be nice, but, well, with all the new arrivals from the Land of Untold Stories it has become really too chaotic. My old apartment over the library is a bit too small and a bit too noisy, since it’s right under the clock tower. I was thinking that maybe, since you own most of the town, you could help me find somewhere nice? Maybe we could discuss it over a cup of tea,” she suggested nervously.

Rumplestiltskin knew that he had been foolish to believe, even for a moment, that she would come return to living with him, but hearing the truth hurt him nonetheless. Still, if she needed a home, that’s exactly what he would help her find. At least she was letting him help, and she wasn’t opposed to spending time in his presence; he could work with that. He would be patient, he would be there for her in any way she needed him, and maybe, in time, they’d be able to rebuild what they’d once shared.

Rumplestiltskin helped Belle get down from the examination table, and as his hand clutched hers, he vowed to himself that, this time, he wouldn’t waste his chance.

[ordered---chaos]

Knitting in the Bunker

“Are you knitting?” Dean asks when he finally realizes what Cas is doing.

He’s just walked into the war room, where Cas sits with Dean’s computer open and a frown on his face. His hands are full of blue knitting needles, three different skeins of yarn, and something small Dean can’t fully see.

“Yes,” Cas answers absently. He squints at the screen, then back at the thing in his hand.

“You knit?”

“Yes.”

He sounds preoccupied, so Dean goes to make himself a burger. When he comes back, there’s a huge smile on Cas’ face that’s even more surprising than finding the angel knitting at the table.

“What is it?” Dean asks, trying to see what Cas has in his hands.

The page up on the screen is full of gibberish knitting instructions that look more like some sort of CIA code than a grandmother’s hobby.

Cas opens his hand, his eyes alight. And Dean sees…

The cutest damn thing.

It’s a tiny knitted bee. Its soft body is striped black and yellow, with floppy white wings sticking out on each side. It’s even got a miniscule stinger made of black fuzz.

“You made that?” Dean asks. He can’t imagine a warrior’s hands creating something so small and intricate. He knows his couldn’t.

“I was having trouble with the wings,” Cas says. “They were harder to attach than I expected.”

Dean reaches out to it, but pulls his hand back. He’s suddenly afraid of breaking it. Cas smiles lovingly at the bee.

“I didn’t know you could knit,” Dean says, because Cas’ happy silence is making him feel lost.

Cas nods. “Since I Fell. I learned then. To pass the time.”

Dean swallows. “I’m impressed, dude. That shit’s complicated.”

“This was,” Cas says, placing the tiny bee gently on the table. “But in general no.”

“No?”

“I could teach you a simple stitch,” Cas offers. “It can be very relaxing.”

Dean isn’t so sure his hands will be up to it. “What if I break it?”

“The needles are metal. And yarn is surprisingly durable.” Cas squints up at him, waiting for an answer. Dean clears his throat.

“Fine, okay. Yeah. But it probably won’t work.”

“I’ve seen your hands, Dean,” Cas says, picking up the lurid yellow yarn and his two needles. “You are more than capable.”

“Geez, are you flirting with me?” Dean jokes.

Cas stares at him for a long moment, then ties a slipknot with the end of the yarn. “This is to cast-on,” he says. He puts the needle through the eye of the knot and pulls it tight. “We’ll start with just fifteen stitches.”

He loops the yarn around his hand, then puts the needle through again. When he pulls his hand out, there’s another stitch waiting on the needle.

“Wait, how’d you do that?” Dean asks.

Cas shows him again. Dean watches the stitches on the needle multiply. It’s clever linework. Cas does five of them, then holds out the needle to Dean.

It’s simpler than he’d expected. It’s all about manipulating the string, and that’s something he’s known since he was old enough to tie his shoes. He casts ten more stitches onto the needle, and is surprised by how quickly his hands pick up the motion. Cas is right; this is relaxing.

“Now I’ll show you the actual stitch.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“No that was just casting-on.” Cas takes the other needle off the table. “Here.”

Dean hands the fledgling piece back over. Cas demonstrates how to do the stitch, and Dean watches closely.

“There are ways to remember this,” Cas says, doing a second stitch. “Mnemonics and such. But none of them work for me.”

“That’s okay,” Dean says, completely intrigued by the motion of Cas’ fingers tangling expertly through the yarn. “I probably wouldn’t remember it anyway.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Cas says quietly enough that Dean doesn’t have to respond. He’s grateful.

“Alright, let me try,” he says, trying to hide his excitement. Cas hands over the needles again.

Carefully, Dean puts the free needle through. That was the first step. But he quickly gets tangled.

“Hang on. What’d I do? Oh, shit.”

“Let me see.”

“I’m sorry, Cas.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re learning.”

Cas gently takes Dean’s hand. “It has to go between those two strands. See?” Dean does. He nods, his face flushed with shame.

“I’m no good at these things.”

“Put the needle through there, Dean.” There’s a sternness in Cas’ voice that makes Dean sigh. He doesn’t want to disappoint Cas more, so he just threads the needle through. Cas guides his other hand around, pointing out where he needs to loop the yarn.

“Now pull.”

Dean does…and produces one clean stitch.

“Whoa.” He holds it up, looking closer. “I did it! Look at that!”

Cas smiles back at him. “Do another.”

Dean does, carefully repeating the steps Cas had just walked him through. His hands find it easier this time. There’s a pattern they can follow, muscle memory like reloading a gun.

Growing more confident, he ties another stitch, then a third and fourth. He glances up at Cas, who’s watching his face with a small smile. His eyes drop back to the knitting when Dean looks up.

“You’re doing very well,” Cas says.

“Thanks,” Dean replies.

He finishes the row and automatically switches hands.

“You’re a natural,” Cas says as Dean finishes his second row.

Dean’s smiling stupidly now. He’s got two lines of damn-fine knitting in his hands, and each stitch comes easier than the last.

Then he realizes that he’s stolen Cas’ needles, and he’s just sitting there, turning the tiny bee over and over in his hands.

“Sorry,” Dean says.

He hands his knitting over to Cas.

“For what?”

Dean laughs, stands and cracks his back. “I stole your knitting. You can go back to bees.”

He picks up his long-cold burger.

“I enjoyed this, Dean,” Cas says.

“Hey, me too,” Dean tells him honestly. “Gotta get myself a pair of knitting needles.

Cas beams at him.

He does just that the next time he drives into Lebanon on a beer run. There’s a modest craft store in the town’s little strip mall. Dean browses the shelves, glad there aren’t any grannies here today to glare at him for invading their territory—or worse, act like he’s something special for wanting to knit or something. He’s not, really. He’s just a guy who likes doing stuff with his hands. And hey, knitting needles are pretty badass. You could totally put someone’s eye out with one. He’s pretty sure he’s seen a movie where that happened….

He ends up with two slender black needles and a skein of blue yarn. It’s the softest fucking thing he’s ever touched. There must be yarn scientists out there researching how to make softer yarn, because no way this shit’s natural.

He makes small talk with the cashier while she rings him out. She tries to get him to take a pamphlet about a knitting class that meets on Tuesdays, but he brushes it off. He gets back in the Impala and continues to the grocery store.

Between the next two hunts, Dean practices. The stitch is coming effortlessly now. He’s honestly surprised that he’s managed to pick up this skill. His hands were usually reserved for destruction…or driving.

He shows Cas the first scarf he makes. Cas runs his hands over it and tells Dean it’s flawless, even though there were several times Dean fucked up in the first few rows, and that part of the scarf is blemished and kinked.

“I’m impressed, Dean. And I have something for you.”

That makes Dean wary, because he’s really not used to receiving gifts. But Cas just holds out his hand and puts something soft and small into Dean’s palm.

It’s that tiny knitted bee. Dean swallows. Cas has sewn a loop of black thread onto the bee’s back, between its wings.

“I thought you could hang it from the mirror in the Impala,” Cas says nervously. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“I will, Cas,” Dean says. “I’ll go put it there right now.”

He does just that, working the thread around the mirror and then tying it so it can’t ever fall off. When he backs out of the car, Cas is standing there with a smile on his face. Dean’s own smile grows, and they laugh.

Not to be one-upped, Dean begins his own project. He buys more yarn than he ever thought he’d touch, as well as other supplies he’ll need. He bookmarks the instructions on his computer, and then hides it in his porn folder so that no one will find it.

He works tirelessly for weeks. In all honesty, the project is definitely beyond his skill. But he’s determined and he gets it done.

The day he finishes, he picks up his creation and punches it into a less lumpy shape. He should probably redo it better, or at least fix it up a little, but the excitement of success makes him leave his room with it clutched against his chest.

“Cas?” he calls.

“Hmm?” Cas replies. It sounds like he’s in the library. Dean finds him sitting immersed in a stack of books.

Dean holds out his gift. Cas stares at him.

“Is that— Dean.”

It’s a knitted bee, just like the one that’s now been hanging in the Impala for a month. But it’s massive. The whole thing is a little bigger than a pillow. The stinger is as big as Dean’s hand, and its wings are the size of hand towels.

Cas reaches out for it, takes it in his arms.

“You made this?” he asks.

Dean feels a rush of vulnerability that makes him want to grab the bee back and disappear into his room forever. But he stands his ground because he’s a grown man, dammit.

“I had a little bit of trouble,” he says. “You’re right. The wings are a bitch.”

Cas’ hand brushes over them as he speaks. “It’s beautiful.” His voice is rough.

Dean looks away because he can feel his face turning embarrassing colors. “You can have it. If you want it.”

“Dean, I couldn’t,” Cas says. “This must have been so difficult.”

“It was nothin’. I want you to have it.”

Cas looks up at him. Then he nods. “Alright.”

Dean grins. “You want pancakes? I’m gonna make pancakes.”

“Yeah,” Cas says. “I’ll just go put this….” He trails off, leaving the library.

Dean thinks about the bee in the Impala, and hopes Cas puts his gift somewhere special.

A little bit later, as he’s passing Cas’ room, he sees the bee standing guard on Cas’ pillow. The blankets are neatly made up, but rumpled, as though Cas was lying on them. Dean’s not really a tracker, but he’s pretty sure, from the imprint of Cas’ body, that he was lying on his bed with at least one arm wrapped around the bee.

Dean smiles and wonders what he should try to knit next.

A/N: In case you want to knit your own tiny (or huge) bees: http://www.chemknits.com/2009/11/bzzzzzzz-knit-bumble-bee.html

[mildswearingat4am]

In honor of 4/13, here’s the first and only Homestuck fanfic I’ve ever written. (Ah, memories.) Basically a humanstuck “that one type of school anime where clubs are super important” AU. Feat. Dave, Jade, and a dash of Karkat. 

Clubs ’n’ Shit

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are beginning to think starting a paleontology club was a fucking stupid idea.

Well, to be accurate, trying and failing to start a paleontology club. For some reason the rest of the student body did not appreciate the coolness that was scientifically studying dead shit. Kind of like how they weren’t appreciating your coolness, even though at this point they’d had like two weeks to bask in it like the cold-blooded lizards they were.  

Actually, you were probably too cool for them to handle. Cold as the frozen fucking tundra. Like, with permafrost and all that shit. Yeah.

Well, whatever. Paleontology hadn’t even been your first choice, club-wise, but two assholes from Ms. Alternia’s class had already formed a rap club and listening to them once was enough to tell you that wasn’t an option. There was no way in hell you could survive an hour of that steaming shit every day after school, much less participate in it. Not even ironically. Besides, as long as it kept you out of the house and away from the strifes with Bro, which had been getting pretty fucking painful lately, it didn’t matter what kind of club you joined.

As long as it wasn’t totally uncool.

Or, you know, full of people who’d annoy the hell out of you—or even worse, actually expect you to put some kind of effort into this. Forming your own club meant you could make the club activities doing whatever the fuck I want until the school makes me go home. And if you were the only member, well, that was just another plus. You like people in theory—like, you like your internet friends just fine—but in practice, the people you’ve met tend to be unredeemable assholes. Alone is not the worst thing to be.

What you hadn’t counted on was the fact that clubs actually needed to have members to be official. Granted, you only needed two, which was pretty ridiculous, but that was still one more than you had on your lonesome. The school’s solution? Mash two totally different one-person clubs together and pat themselves on the back for a job well done. Fucking genius.

So here you are, lounging in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the room they’d assigned to the newly created Science Club, waiting for the other member to actually show up. They’d lumped you in with some poor idiot who’d tried to start a nuclear physics club. Nuclear fucking physics. Paleontology may have been a longshot, but anyone who thought that would interest anyone else needed their head examined, stat.

The door flies open suddenly with a loud crash, nearly making you jump out of your chair. A girl stands in the doorway. “Is this the right room?” she pants, clutching a crumpled scrap of paper in one hand. “Sorry, just transferred in last week. I got lost.”

You squint at her: there are like two windows in this shitty little classroom and the light is low, but taking off your shades is not an option. You can still see her pretty well, anyway.

She’s wearing a t-shirt with a picture of an atom or something on it and a skirt that goes all the way to the floor, which seems like it would be kind of hard to run in, but whatever. Her long, frizzy black hair goes almost all the way down her back and it’s sticking up at weird angles, twisted in the straps of her ginormous backpack and falling in her face as she bends over to catch her breath. She looks up at you expectantly; her eyes are the kind of green usually reserved for living, growing gardens, and kinda twinkly, like she’s laughing at something and inviting you to do the same.

Wait, what?

While you were thinking weirdly poetic shit all of a sudden, she was still waiting for your response. “I could tell you if you’ve got the right spot,” you say, “if I actually knew what room you were looking for.”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “Whoops, sorry. I’m supposed to be meeting the other member of Science Club.” She holds up the paper; the handwriting is totally illegible, but you can make out a word that sort of looks like “science” and the room number, 413 B.

You smirk and offer an ironic wave around the classroom. “Look no further.”

Her face lights up. “That’s great!” She straightens and walks over to stick out a hand. “Hi! Jade Harley. Sorry I’m late.”

You glance over at clock. All club activities are supposed to start at 3:30.

It’s 3:32.

You suppress a snort but shake the hand she’s offering anyway, rolling your eyes behind your shades. So far, she’s exactly the kind of dork you’d expect to be interested in nuclear physics. “Dave,” you say.

“Hi, Dave! Nice to meet you!”

“Likewise, Jade Harley.”

“You can call me Jade,” she says, pulling up a chair next to you with a clatter and falling into it, her backpack falling to the floor with a loud thud.

“I could,” you agree, slouching back in your own seat.

“But you didn’t.”

“Nope.”

She giggles for no particular reason—must be one of those little-ray-of-sunshine people—and tilts her head to study you. “Ohhh,” she goes. “You like being contrary.”

“Ironic,” you correct her.

“Right, ironic. Because just using names like regular isn’t cool enough.”

“That would be the opposite of cool,” you deadpan. “Not even that. It’d be, like, lukewarm. Fucking tepid. Totally uncool.”

What the hell are you even saying? You usually do your best not to spout this kind of shit out loud or in front of people. It weirds them out.

But she just laughs again. “I like your shades.”

“Of course you do. These shades are the shit.”

“Sooooo cool,” she agrees.

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear she’s making fun of you. But she’s a goody two-shoes nerd who apologizes to people for being two fucking minutes late—there’s no way. No way. So you take the words at face value and nod solemnly.

“But anyway,” she says, “today’s the first official meeting of the club! What do you want to do?”

“Uhhh,” you reply eloquently. You’d been planning to just screw around until the meeting was over, but saying that in the face of her expectant grin and obvious enthusiasm is impossible. “I dunno. I guess we’re supposed to be doing… science. Or some shit.”

“Science,” she repeats, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. It’s so silly, isn’t it? Science Club.” She makes air quotes as she says it. “I mean, nuclear physics and paleontology are two totally different areas of study, and they just put them together and call it science.”

“It’s messed up,” you agree.

“So messed up.”

You nod.

She huffs, crumpling up the paper in her hand in defiance.

There’s an awkward silence. Shit, you hate silence. Even more when there’s some girl just sitting there in the silence, watching you. You feel the need to start rambling pressing in on you from every direction, like invisible shrink-wrap

Jade seems to decide something. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh, sure,” you say, feeling the pressure ease. “I mean, if you want. Like I’m not begging you to tell me, but if you did I would be here. Listening.” Now would be an excellent time to shut up, you think.

Jade leans in, glancing around like she’s imparting top-secret national security information and she’s got a check the perimeter before she spills it. “About my nuclear physics club…”

She’s actually kind of close to you right now. “Yeah?”

“I actually wanted to start a gun club,” she tells you. “But I figured the school would freak over that, so I wound up going with my second choice.”

You stare at her, blinking stupidly, as she leans back with a little smile. “What?”

“Gun Club. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Guns, as in…?” You flex your arms—then immediately a) realize they’re noodles and b) vow to never, ever do that again.

Jade shook her head, her eyes doing the sparkly thing again. “Right now my rifle is probably my favorite, but Grampa’s dueling pistols are pretty awesome too. And we’ve got some huge machine guns that we had to leave on the island.” She pauses, visibly deflating, and sighs. “Can’t legally own or operate them in this country yet.”

You only stare at her.

And then the door crashes open, nearly flying off its hinges, and a third person enters. He runs a hand through his messy hair—like, actually messy, not on-purpose, styled-to-be-messy, although it looks kind of good on him anyway and why are you even thinking about this—and drops his backpack on the ground, where it immediately pops open and sends a wave of papers and textbooks and stubby pencils cascading across the floor.

The new kid looks down at the books. Looks at you and Jade. Then he takes a deep breath.

“I CANNOT BELIEVE THOSE FUCKASSES KICKED ME OUT OF FILM CLUB!”

Good thing your shades hide your expression—bug-eyed surprise does not go with your image.

And your eyes only bug more when Miss Gun-Toting Nuclear Physicist, totally unaffected by the sonic grenade this douche just lobbed into your ear-holes, smiles and sticks out a hand once more. “Hi!” she says. “I’m Jade, and this is Dave. Are you here for Science Club?”