#Merry Haddock

[the-spirit-of-yore]

The Doors of Durin par Alan Lee

[mahoganyrust]

Merry Christmas! Bc Christmas is on Dec 26 ofc as well all know ahaha.

(If you think you’ve seen a wip of this b4 NO YOU HAVEN’T 🫵 shhhhhhh)

[tenderlyhands]

When your party is in a pinch and you roll a nat 20 on persuasion ft Captain Haddock

+ bonus: when it works a little too well

[centaur-dreaming]

Come get y’all’s juice eggnog

[beefy-arms000]

hiccup and astrid definitely invented “kissing underneath the mistletoe” once astrid realized violence wasn’t quite the ideal way to be romantic with her boyfriend lol:)

[lowercasejuno]

MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU GUUUUYS RRRRRRRAGH !!!!!!!! 🎄🎁🥂 I FINALLY DECIDED TO FINISH THIS PIECE @ THE END OF THE DAY WAH 😭😭😭😭 also ifykyk (the 🌿)

[stevemoons]

☃️❄️ Merry Christmas tô all of you! ;)

[trixterdark]

Happy Holidays Robtd/Mousemoon people

[maglorthecrab]

Experimenting with mildliner pens!

(If you can’t read it, Hunter’s shirt says ‘I ran away from the Emperor’s Coven and all I got was this shirt)

[ladyaster]

Far from my best work but needed to make a quick Christmas PFP.

I call it Carol of the Shells.

^Y'all after I made that joke.

[the-spirit-of-yore]

The Stone Trolls par Alan Lee

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Thistle, Scout and Scottish Bluebells pt 2

Pairing: Grumpy!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 2,036

If troubles are anything, they are hard to lay to rest.

Tags:  httyd 1, aged up, au, time travel, Hiccup’s POV, mixed flashbacks, angst

<Previous - Next>

The sound of uneven footsteps rested like a heavy weight at the bottom of his sternum, worsening already pained aches and furrowing his brows so deep he thought they might pull like a leg in a rainy day, after running measures, a slightly more toned and a completely imaginary contrast to the now near-constant ringing in his ears, mimicking the way a thick hammer sounded clashing against metal.

Cracks lay like gashes in the stone, deep like the strike of lightning… like the way a knife’s blade carved lines in wood.

Formerly bulky shoulders flagged, laying haphazard across rumpled cross. A crooked jaw lay half-open as a previously jolly man was rendered pale and nearly lifeless by sickness and infection. 

He relished in the cool shadow of the Arena’s overpass entrance for the moment it took to walk underneath, wincing slightly as he came to a stop just at where hard light drew a solid line over uneven stone. 

He sat, shoulders hunched and hands clenched, sitting over a rickety chair, chanting desperate apologies as he listened to the rages of battle outside and to the final-screaming battle-calls of the warriors outside, lost to the night.

For a moment, running his hand along the border between open grated frame and the outside world, he reveled in the contrast between his own freckled, scarred knuckles and the cool, mottled surface of the arena’s colorless walls.

He weighed a rolled-up, wrinkled notice in his other hand before letting them both drop to his sides.

The Chief’s hut was far from the safest place on Berk. Tonight, for him most of all. A cold sweat ran down his shoulders, his jaw, his back.

He’d much rather be wasting away, wearing his wrists brittle in the forge. He yearned for that place just as much he hated it, walls plugged and nailed shut with smoke and soot filling the air with a thick film.

After all this time, he very much preferred to be left on his own. Being back here brought back memories he’d much rather leave forgotten.

He stared forwards.

They hadn’t noticed him yet. 

They were all on the opposite side of the basin, where above, mounted along the rim of the arena, a cage that was once strong and well-taken care of was now crumbling in places, slightly bent and moved out of sorts. 

 Some cage doors were obviously offset and heavily dented, the logs used to lock them shut old and almost rotting, the pulley system levers and cogs and great draw-hinges attached to the sides and frame all old and slightly rusty and in need of oiling.

He stood, hand at his sides. 

It would need to be taken apart and scrubbed raw, resealed and a new log mounted or perhaps replaced by more metal and held aloft by chains instead of rope. The already frayed ropes were probably not enough to hold its weight, half-snapped and dangerous. A head and a half thick, he remembered, was the proper measurement for the right… log.

The sun lay heavily across his shoulders, as if he was being burned over a spit, sparks flying from his heart and dropping from his half-open mouth as he looked around with a smile. 

Every individual man made up one part of a whole, ripped sleeves, marching up thin ladders, boasting half-empty mugs and wives and a child running about.

A repair like this used to be a group event- throngs of Vikings gathering together, bumping shoulders and bolstering themselves up high, wielding hammers and hardy conversation like wooden play-swords. It was painstaking work made easy.

It was as if he didn’t exist- as if he was not so much an individual as one part of the merry-making, the festivities, the joy, even if there was no real holiday, even as he stood and watched. It was as if he wasn’t who he was; a runt, trouble… him.

…And it was the best feeling ever.

On his lonesome, with a ladder and a pulley, it might be managed. 

It was all work he wasn’t going to do.

He took his time, lingering for a moment, judging. 

 He had better things to be doing.

“I-I think my invite was lost…” Fishlegs said, palms spasming, balled in front of him as if searching for papers and things that might as well never have been there. 

He was different from the last time he’d seen him, though he was still a man just as large as he was tall, with a timid lilt to his shoulders that seemed quite unbefitting. His voice was just as squeaky as it was deep. The arena did a great deal to make it echo, just as it did the sound of patchy boots shuffling against uneven stone floors. 

“I got it.” He said curtly, waving the notice in one hand, feeling his already rolled-up sleeve scrunch against his elbow. His voice, still slightly nasal for a man of his age, echoed slightly.

It was immediate- as soon as He spoke, it was as if time itself stopped. There were no breezes or motions besides a jerk or two in his direction, the eternal dancing of hearts and bodies and nature coming to a pause.

Something bucked and festered in his chest. He knew what the feeling wasn’t- hope, camaraderie, acceptance. It was more bitter, drenched in shame and long-held resentment. It had been his one constant companion all these years.

 There were a set of two starved, wiry twins. They used to look nearly identical- now the male brother-half donned a mask of burnt skin and clumped hair on one side. Though his sleeves carried many holes and singes and stains from his time working in the forge, theirs was almost worse, covered in Nightmare-length, sticked claw marks and large, frayed, burnt patches.

There was a thicker, though somewhat short man there, too, standing besides a woman. He was just as scarred as he was stocky. His cousin. 

“Oh, great,” Snotlout snorted, squaring his shoulders even more so as he stepped forwards, studded belt-sash shifting over his chest. 

He glowered at the lot, his shoulders tall, cool air running invisible blades up and down his arms, standing all his hairs and giving way to prickled gooseflesh. He felt the grit of his jaw as he bit down on already gently clenched teeth.

“What are you doing here, Useless?” The woman asked, moving forwards when no one else would. She had a long, jagged scar running from just above her right eye to the curve of her jaw. Her voice wasn’t condescending, wielding Usless’s moniker more as if it was a simple factual statement than an insult, though he knew there lay plenty of bad blood between them.

Of course, it was his official title, now. That was unhelpable- as unavoidable as a blade held to his neck and a heavy, hairy hand lifting him by the scruff of his shirt, nearly choking him breathless.

Astrid Hofferson was her name.

Gobber was there too, thick cheeks now hollow, highlighting high cheekbones and a crooked jaw. A hunch that had always been there was now so severe he looked as if he might keel over at any moment, an ailing arm clutching at the top of a very short talking staff. His clothes hung thinly from his shoulders, moving in a way that, despite their solid color, made them seem so thin that they could have almost been transparent.

He was a shadow of a man- something dead walking. He turned his eyes away from Gobber just as he refused to cower as the Hofferson woman approached.

She stopped before him as he shoved down something a little bit like irritation, betrayal… grief.

He wheezed, crouching prone along the floor, his hands covering his head as thick smoke packed his lungs, making it harder to breathe. His chests ached, stinging and searing in lines, dull pain raging like storming waters just above his heart-

In the lilt of her brow, the intensity of her eye, the line of her mouth, the subtle scarring clawed into the side of her face and long since scabbed over, framed by dragon-skull shoulder pads and a hefty, patchy fur hood he saw what she thought just as clearly as she had said it all those years ago. 

He couldn’t think, the world muffled past the uncontrolled crackling of dragon fire, clanging shields and swords, yelling and roaring, deep claws scraping against solid stone.

In a look he almost returned, he could feel it aimed right back to her. The sentiments, he could have mistaken it for the sun singing against his skin’s hairs, what with all the concentrated heat and the nearly sense-rending prickling of the hairs on his neck. It was anger, mostly. Really, it would be better for them all -him most especially- if he was left alone.

Where there once lay a special portion of his mind for mooning and yearning and other rash teenaged things there now lingered something mean and hollow.

Are you ashamed?

Awnry ringing was made more intense by the sudden, hollow whistling through the spaces between bars and over hollow basin.

“‘Iccup!” A hand reached towards him, cloth strips wrapped heavily around it, thick, through green smog.

He couldn’t move- his limbs clenched and spasmed, still reeling from the force of the dragon’s blow. There was a ringing, sharp and never ending, spearing through his ears and filling all empty spaces between noises, uplifting and entwining with the sound of screeching metal and heavy body rushing through sickly-smelling gasses.

His finger, his elbow, his knees all pulling in- he forced up his head as if working endlessly against the rusted, stuffed hinges of his neck just in time to catch a glimpse of him.

His face, bearded braids trailing slightly behind, rushing towards him, jaw open- It was action, both fast and frozen enough to almost be one of the many great, carved murals in the hall.

He’d remember it forever. He wasn’t fearful. He’d never really been, but in that moment, like the rapidly foaming top of a large, cresting wave, doom rose in his guts, ravaging through his middle and tearing his insides to shreds.

He was no warrior, battle-scarred or otherwise. Despite his stature, his frame was lean and he was worn. Though his chin was heavily scruffed, he was not bearded or thick. He was stubborn, though, and he was angry.

She knew who he was and made sure he knew it too. Even after- standing at stall windows, making mild conversation, forcing words out past hard hearts- to search for some kind of acknowledgement from someone who mattered, even if it was just a greeting, to know that he was real, he was here, he was worth something. All of that had long since been put to rest- killed, slain like a hapless animal. She made sure of that.

“I don’t know what you want.” 

The world was still and bright outside, the shadow of the forge’s window covering him like an old blanket. He leaned back as she jabbed him in the chest. She was angry, her brows furrowed, leaning aggressively forwards-

He looked down on her.

”-Useless is your name, now After what you did in the arena? I don’t want to talk to you, see you or hear you. You sharpen my weapon and that. Is. It.”

He needed a drink. The taste of ale was phantom-strong on his tongue. It was a taste he’d become more familiar with in his late teens during times spent bitter and alone, but ale meant going up to the hall and he wasn’t soft on people.

That was where they gathered, mostly- those who had been left behind. Many abandoned their own homes for the safety and refuge of company and large, frigid hall walls, setting up old blankets and clumsy tents in abandoned, dusty corners.

Without looking away, he tossed the missive behind one crumbling barricade, propped up against the smooth arena walls.

He made sure to hold her gaze for one more long, hard moment before turning and waving an arm absently behind him, “I was just leaving.”

[aagatinha]

A Christmas in Moulinsart ☃️

Notes: Tintin x Reader fem. (But feel free to imagine as you like) | No hot content

◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Snow was falling gently outside while the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth filled the entire room in the heart of Marlinspike Hall.

Captain Haddock sat in an armchair near the fireplace, puffing on his pipe, while Professor Calculus leafed through a newspaper at a table near the large side window, which offered a splendid view of the night illuminated by the soft light of the moon. The ground was covered by a white carpet of snow that continued to fall.

Snowy was sleeping peacefully at the Captain’s feet, matched by a Siamese kitten curled up at the Professor’s feet —finally at peace after a long chase. Only then could Nestor set the dinner table in tranquility.

Tintin, calm and composed in his blue turtleneck sweater and long sleeves, watched the snowflakes fall from the sky, occasionally landing on the glass of the window where he was seated.

“What a perfect evening for a cup of hot chocolate, don’t you think, Captain?” he sighed with a serene smile, pulling Haddock from his reverie.

“Indeed, my dear Tintin. Indeed.”

“Do you think they’ll take much longer?” Tintin pulled back his sleeve to check his watch.

“I hope not. I’m starving!”

“Werewolves?” the Professor chimed in, mishearing the Captain, who rolled his eyes and sighed. “We’re not at Halloween, Captain! It’s Christmas, don’t you remember?”

“I said I’m starving!” Haddock raised his voice slightly, causing Snowy to open one eye, clearly annoyed by the disturbance.

“My goodness! There’s no need to shout, Captain. Dinner should be served shortly!” the Professor replied, completely oblivious to the situation, before returning to his newspaper.

Tintin couldn’t help but chuckle softly at the scene, and just then, the doorbell rang.

“Ah, finally!” Haddock raised his arms, thanking the heavens for the arrival of the last guests.

Nestor opened the door, revealing the detectives, with a bit of snow on their hats, accompanied by another person. The latter wasted no time announcing her presence with a melodic high note, causing Haddock’s eyes to widen as he immediately recognized the source.

“Blistering barnacles! Is that Castafiore?!” He dropped his pipe and clamped his hands over his ears as the falsetto grew closer.

Madame was dressed in a stunning red gown adorned with white feathered details on the off-shoulder neckline.

“Merry Christmaaaasss…” she sang as she entered, leaving Haddock shrinking into his armchair.

“Madame!” Tintin greeted her with a customary kiss on the hand.

“Tintin, caro mio! Ah! What a delight to reunite with you, my dear friends!”

“Merry Christmas, everyone!” the Thompsons said in unison. Each carried a gift box in the characteristic colors of green and red, along with their inseparable canes.

“What lovely sweaters you’re wearing!” Tintin remarked, making the two puff up with pride.

Indeed, their white sweaters, adorned with red reindeer patterns, were something to admire.

“Captain ‘Capop’!” Castafiore approached, extending her hand for him to kiss.

Haddock glanced disdainfully at the gloved hand before reluctantly planting a quick kiss, eager for her to step back. For a moment, he had forgotten that Bianca had mentioned spending Christmas at Marlinspike, but now he remembered —unfortunately, in the most unexpected way.

There was no need for Bianca to offer her hand to the Professor. As soon as Calculus saw her, he willingly stood to greet her. Unlike the Captain, he kissed her hand voluntarily and even praised her falsetto, leaving the singer utterly delighted. Haddock, of course, watched the whole scene with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He just wanted to eat and get through the evening as quickly as possible, all while avoiding any more of Castafiore’s singing.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚☃️˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

While everyone was chatting and laughing, Tintin, in the adjacent piano room, anxiously awaited someone. He wondered what might have happened for there to be no sign of her. He reproached himself for not staying despite Y/n's insistence that he go ahead, especially now that all he could see was the empty, snow-covered grounds of Marlinspike Hall, the snowfall having stopped a few minutes ago.

Noticing his friend staring intently out the window, Captain Haddock gave a couple of knocks on the door to get his attention. Within seconds, Tintin turned and slightly raised his eyebrows, as if asking what it was.

“Don’t worry, lad. She’ll be here soon!” Haddock tried to calm his friend’s nerves with a sly smile. “Castafiore mentioned she and Irma would be arriving together. Remember?”

“I know, Captain, but…” Tintin commented, glancing back at the window, where he saw two figures stepping out of a black car. “It’s her!” he exclaimed, recognizing Y/n as she walked toward the mansion alongside Irma.

The girl was wearing a wine-red, flared dress adorned with white gemstones across the bodice. A short cape of the same color covered her shoulders. She walked, chatting with Irma, Castafiore’s maid.

Tintin ran to greet them, and as he opened the door, his eyes lit up upon seeing just how beautiful Y/n looked up close.

“Sorry for the delay. Irma and I had a little setback. The roads are as slippery as ice!” she smiled, explaining the situation.

“You look magnificent, my love!” Tintin remarked, planting a kiss on her hand. The girl smiled at the gesture.

“We’re just glad you arrived safely! Now come on, Nestor has already set the table!” Haddock chimed in from behind, and everyone headed to the dining room.

Once everyone was seated around the long table filled with a variety of dishes, the Captain stood up and tapped a spoon against a glass to grab everyone’s attention.

He cleared his throat for a moment, and after noticing all eyes on him, he began.

“I’m not one for speeches, and I won’t start now. But I just want to say how grateful I am for each of you. Having the house this full fills me with joy. And though I sometimes miss the sea, I know it couldn’t offer me moments like these.” Haddock then grabbed a bottle of champagne, raised it, and declared, “To you, my dear friends!”

In the following moment, the cork popped off, sending foam cascading down the glass bottle.

“And nothing would be more fitting than a brief rendition of La Traviata before we eat!” Castafiore announced, rising from her seat.

Haddock, however, rebelled and didn’t hide his horror at the idea. He objected, insisting they should enjoy the meal first, eliciting laughter from everyone present. Snowy barked in agreement with the Captain’s protests. It would be absurd to waste time singing while the abundant feast sat untouched!

Despite his protests, Castafiore persisted, stepping aside to begin her performance, much to everyone else’s delight.

“Poor Captain…” Y/n chuckled softly after taking a sip of water. Tintin glanced at you with the same amused expression after seeing his friend sulking at the table.

“Madame Castafiore would never let an opportunity like this slip by.”

Y/n chuckled quietly.

“He could give her a chance!” the young woman teased, making Tintin laugh lightly.

After a few minutes, Bianca finished her “mini-opera,” though to the Captain, it felt like a millennium had passed. He was on the verge of falling asleep when the applause woke him.

“What did you think, Captain?” Castafiore asked as she returned to her seat.

“A masterpiece!” he replied sarcastically and began serving himself. “What are you all waiting for? Go on, dig in!” he practically ordered, seeing everyone still seated.

To the Captain’s relief, Castafiore refrained from singing again, sticking instead to lively conversation, allowing the feast to proceed peacefully.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚☃️˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

After dinner, everyone gathered once again in the living room to chat and wrap up the family gathering with a “Secret Santa” game. The Captain could swear the name box had been rigged after Bianca drew his name.

“What an honor for you, Captain 'Bardock', to be chosen by me!” Castafiore exclaimed as she handed him the gift.

The Captain thanked her as he took the package and opened it, revealing Bianca’s photograph proudly displayed on the cover of a record. He forced a smile and, not wanting to embarrass her, thanked her once again.

“I couldn’t have received a better gift!”

Continuing the game, the Captain drew Dupond’s name. He handed him a rectangular box, not too large, wrapped in white and red paper. Haddock felt relieved to have drawn a man’s name, as he hadn’t paid much attention to the gift he’d bought and only realized it once the game began.

When Dupond opened it, he found a fine pair of Oxford shoes. He expressed his gratitude and kept the game going by drawing Professor Calculus’ name.

“Oh! How curious!” the Professor remarked as he examined the box, carefully opening it. The Captain eagerly watched, anxious to discover what it was. In seconds, Calculus pulled out a black bowler hat.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, Professor?” Dupond beamed, proud of his gift selection.

“Thank you, Detective. I was just in need of a new hat!” Calculus replied, his eyes fixed on the gift. Dupond raised his chin, clearly proud of himself.

“Excellent, Tryphon. Now draw another name.” the Captain urged, his curiosity about the remaining gifts getting the better of him.

Obliging, Calculus drew another name and read it aloud.

“Oh! Mrs. Irma!”

The woman seemed as surprised as he was and stood to receive a small box. Opening it carefully, she raised her eyebrows at the sight of a perfume. She held up the small transparent bottle, revealing a light brown liquid, and thanked him.

“I hope you like it, Mrs. Irma. It’s a blend of roses, lemongrass, and cinnamon. I made sure the scent wouldn’t be overpowering, but if it feels that way, I can adjust it!” the Professor explained as Irma sprayed a little onto her hand. The fragrance was soft and pleasant, surprising both Captain Haddock and the others.

“Well, I’ll be! Calculus, I didn’t know you had a knack for these things!” the Captain commented, genuinely impressed.

Irma then drew a name, calling out Dupont. She handed him a long, slightly thin box.

Dupont carefully unwrapped it, revealing an umbrella. His eyes lit up, as did Dupond’s when he saw the item.

“What a splendid umbrella, Mrs. Irma!”

“And I must say, it’s a very fine umbrella!” Dupond added, making the shy woman smile in relief.

“I was already planning to buy a new one. Thank you, Mrs. Irma.”

Dupond handed his gift to his partner and rummaged through the box of names. Pulling out a paper, he announced Y/n’s name. The girl looked surprised and eagerly got up to receive her gift. She thanked him and carefully unwrapped it, removing the lid of the box to reveal a scarf. It was black and white, with the colors alternating in stripes.

“It’s beautiful!” she said brightly. “Thank you, Dupont!”

Dupont tipped his hat in a brief bow and returned to his seat, brimming with pride.

“I thought you were going to buy a hat!” Dupond whispered quietly as his partner sat down.

“I didn’t buy one because I figured you already had.”

Y/n handed her box to the Captain so he could draw a name.

“Madame Castafiore!”

“Oh! Finally!” the woman smiled as she stood up.

She picked up a flat red box and carefully untied the white ribbon, revealing a black fountain pen with gold details. Though simple, it was a very luxurious item.

“How beautiful!” Madame exclaimed, and in her excitement, let out a slight high-pitched note. “Thank you, Miss Y/n! I can’t wait to christen it by signing lots of autographs!”

Her words made the girl smile with pride.

“Who’s up to draw the next name?” Haddock joked, eliciting brief laughter from his friends. Only Tintin and Nestor were left.

The redhead stood and grabbed the box with the names, but since it was no surprise to anyone that he and Nestor had drawn each other, Tintin took a different approach.

“Well, I think everyone already knows who I got,” he quipped. “Nestor.” He then picked up a slightly large, wide box and handed it to the butler, who stepped forward to take it.

“By a million thundering typhoons! What’s this?!” the Captain exclaimed as Nestor raised his eyebrows, surprised by the somewhat heavy item.

Nestor carefully placed the box on the floor and began unwrapping it. Everyone leaned in, curious about what lay inside, as the man revealed a beautiful decorative vase.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Tintin.” he said, astonished by the porcelain piece before him. The vase featured intricate red bird details encircling its rounded shape.

Tintin smiled, relieved and proud that Nestor was pleased.

“I’m not sure mine will measure up, but I chose it with care.” Nestor remarked before handing over a gold box with a red ribbon.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Nestor. Your thoughtfulness is worth more than the gift itself.” Tintin reassured him with a gentle smile while untying the ribbon.

He opened the box and pulled out a beautiful snow globe. Inside was a snowman surrounded by Christmas trees in the background. Tintin smiled as he shook it, making the artificial snow fall inside the globe.

“It’s beautiful, Nestor. Thank you!” Tintin said, embracing him warmly.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚☃️˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

After the lively gift exchange, Tintin and his friends chatted a bit more and enjoyed a delicious pudding. As the gathering came to an end, the Dupondts said their goodbyes. Despite Captain and Tintin’s insistence that they stay the night, the detectives politely declined, explaining that they needed to be at work early the next morning because, as they put it, “duty calls!” Soon, most of Moulinsart’s lights were turned off, and everyone retired for the night. Everyone except Nestor and Y/n.

Before heading upstairs, Y/n stayed behind to help Nestor clear the table. He insisted she didn’t need to worry about it, but she was determined to lend a hand. It was the least she could do, especially after all the work he had put into preparing the dinner.

She was drinking a glass of water when Tintin appeared in the kitchen. He was surprised to see her still up while everyone else had already gone to bed. At least now he knew where she’d been all this time.

“Still awake?” Tintin asked as he calmly approached, wrapping his arms around her waist and placing a kiss on the top of her head.

She chuckled after swallowing her water and turned to face him.

“Looks like I’m not the only one.” she replied, playfully tracing the tip of her finger along the redhead’s nose. He smiled at her gesture before stepping back to lean against the table.

“Tonight was amazing.” he remarked.

Y/n crossed her arms and leaned against the sink.

“It really was. The Captain is lucky to have you all.” she said with a genuine smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Tintin looked at her, studying her with a tender expression.

“And I’m lucky to have you.” he said, stepping closer and swiftly scooping her up in his arms.

The girl barely had time to process his confession or think of a response before letting out a surprised gasp at his sudden action.

“Time for bed, Miss S/n.” he teased in a playful, mock-scolding tone as he carried her away.

She couldn’t help but laugh along with him as they ascended the stairs. Tintin and his ever-protective nature…

And so, Christmas at Moulinsart came to a close — with plenty of joy, camaraderie, and, of course, good food! Truly, it had been an unforgettable night.

���� THE END 🎄

[shads-shipposts]

Finally. Five years after the story actually takes place, I can share with y'all the book that was meant to start Adventures!AU. This book has gone through an insane amount of iterations, and is actually unrecognizable from  the original script. But the delay is a benefit, because now I have a better idea of where I want the series to go as a whole and am also better at writing. 

This story should be finished by the end of the year 2025, with chapters 0-20 completed. How long it will be, I haven't a clue. "Act I" was originally 10 chapters and now it's 20, so who knows lol. 

This story occasionally features the main characters of the movie (Tintin, Haddock, Sakharine) but is mainly focused on the sailors. This story won't be as gut-wrenching as my other fics (especially OtRaTtW), but there will be pain. It's not a Shadow story without it. 

This story does deal with sensitive topics from time to time, but each chapter will have a warning before anything intense. However, this is the only warning posted for the minor stuff typical of my fics: adult language/humor, graphic descriptions, and canon typical/atypical violence.

I realize the fandom for this lot is small, but I really do appreciate any comments or votes on this fic. I plan to remaster this after I finish this "first draft", so if there's any constructive criticism you have please let me know!

Enough talk, enjoy the ride! It's gonna be a wild one.

Also, Merry Christmas!

Next Chapter: Here Ao3 Version: Here Masterlist: Here

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

"Scared, Allan?"

It wasn't the first time he'd found himself here after he closed his eyes. It'd been months since the incident that gave rise to the scene playing over and over again in his dreams, but time hadn't dulled any of his emotions concerning it.

"I must say, your fear scent is... unique. Fishy and tart."

Confusion, horror, shock, disbelief.

"Don't worry your little head there. I respect you and, strange as it may seem, I do find the need to fear you."

Yes, fear there too.

"Funny ain't it?"

And who wouldn't be scared?

"An Alphian fearin' a human."

When they were faced with an alien of unknown magical abilities?

"Don't see that every day."

The scene wobbled and fizzled at the edges, like staring at a reflection on the surface of a stormy sea. The secrets surrounding the scene trapped deep in its depths, unreachable even if one tried their hardest to grasp the answers.

Allan Thompson walked through the scene, removed from his own actions as if he were just on autopilot. He couldn't change the scene, no more than someone watching a reel on a screen.

He sat at the table, across from the half-human, half animal woman that watched him like a hawk. Dark stripes cut through her light skin like thick shadows across a moonlit patch on deck, a black and white tail flicked behind her, and piercing eyes the color of glaciers scanned him inside and out. She was a head shorter than him, yet power radiated off her like heat from an open flame.

His voice reached his ears, muted and distant.

His own and yet... not, in a way.

"Kid... I'm sorry about Turtle."

The alien looked up at him, the furry ears on the sides of her head flattened against ginger hair.

"Thanks, man."

Those cat-like eyes shifted to the side, as if searching for any other threats.

He knew it was a dream. Knew what was about to happen.

It did not ease the churning of his stomach.

"Actually," she continued, mouth moving but voice coming from the very walls surrounding them. "I kinda wanted to ask you about something related to that."

Allan knew what was coming. Knew what she was going to ask.

Knew how badly it would go, how swiftly the scene would turn dangerous.

But he was helpless to do anything but follow the script. Follow the events as they unfolded.

Eyes on her hands, waiting to see those thorn sharp claws, Allan again heard his voice from far away.

"Aye?"

He wished he could change course. Wished he could prevent what came next. Perhaps, if he could, then things would be different.

But no.

"Let me go after that short slaver with the dark brown hair. I want his head for orderin' me to kill Turtle."

There it was. The request that shattered everything. The request that would leave Allan with gaps in his memory that no amount of pondering or searching could ever fix.

He felt the shock course through his body, felt his spine stiffen and his heart skip a beat.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. "But I can't allow that."

Ears shot up, a tail bristled, sharp teeth bared, and anger blazed in those icy eyes.

"What?"

If only he could alter his words. Explain more, explain better.

Save himself.

If only.

His voice came again. "I can't allow you to kill him."

He had dreams. He had nightmares.

This hell was something else entirely.

Pupils narrowed to slits across from him, jagged scars streaking down the table as wicked claws dug into the old wood.

"Is that your final answer?"

There was red now, deep in those eyes.

He could only watch, silently scream in his head as he fought with all his might to change the memory.

"Aye, I refuse to let you go after him."

Futile. The scene would play out as it had many nights before this one.

The woman stood, ears low and tail lashing.

"Whose side are you on, Allan? Huh? The slavers?" A snarl curled her lip, the temperature around them plummeting as ice snaked out from her hands across the table. "How disappointin'."

The edges of the scene corrupted, bleeding red and black.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to run. Wanted to hide.

Hide from the devastation bearing down on him like a hurricane at sea.

But there was no refuge. No escape.

"There will be another time to kill him."

He had to witness the event that would alter his fate.

Words came faster now, a distorted echo to them that sent chills down his spine.

"But I heard the other slavers talkin'! He's goin' on patrol tonight! I can't pass up this opportunity to claim revenge for what he did."

"Look, kid. I said no, and that's final."

"Nobody's gonna stand in my way. Not even you. Stand down now, Allan. I don't want to hurt you."

He got up.

Walked over.

"I told you no, kid! That's an order!"

"Give it up, Allan. I'm doin' this my way. I'm killin' him tonight and you can't stop me. Don't even try to."

He got close.

Too close.

It was over fast. She winded him with a headbutt, driving him back into the wall hard enough to stun him. He didn't even have a chance to rise to his feet, weight pinning him to the floor. A rag clamped over his mouth and nose, drowning the world in a sickly-sweet haze.

Darkness followed swiftly after, a growl echoing in his ears.

"You brought this on yourself. Sweet dreams."

And those were the last words he ever heard from Scarlett Hyde.

Allan sat up in his bed with a gasp, cold sweat pouring down his face as he fought for breath.

Was that her now, hiding in the dark corner?

He flicked on the light, fingers struggling to grasp the knob.

Nothing, just his trenchcoat.

It was too hot. Too stifling.

Air.

He needed air!

Staggering to the porthole, he yanked it open. Cold, salty air and the distant chime of harbor buoys greeted him and he leaned against the wall, eyes closed as he fought to catch his breath and soothe his racing heart.

Lifting his eyes and scanning the docks, Allan found them still bathed in the warm glow of the harbor lights with the inky black sky above devoid of stars thanks to the light pollution from the nearby city of Antwerp. The Karaboudjan sat desolate in her berth, undisturbed and peaceful with her own lights turned off and the crew inside her still sleeping.

Utterly lifeless.

A relief to Allan, for no one had seen him fling open the porthole and gasp like a half-drowned man starving for air.

No, Allan realized with a flash of irritation. There was a person standing near the bow of the ship, Allan could see them from the corner of his eye.

Must have been that damn FBI agent that had been sniffing around the past few days.

Allan told that aristocratic fool Sakharine to be more subtle rather than just strolling about like he owned the place. His insistence on dressing fancy all day and probably night instantly set him apart from the dockworkers, drawing unneeded attention, but he just had to let his pride and ego get in the way of keeping a low profile.

Great, he thought. Not even dawn and I already need to deal with...

He nearly fainted when he finally turned his full attention to the figure.

That was not the FBI agent.

In fact...

It wasn't even a human.

Is... Is that an Alphian?!

Certainly looked like one, there on the street staring up at him from under the amber cone of the street light. For a tense moment, Allan thought Scarlett had come back; a long black tail covered in silver stripes, tall pointed black and white ears sticking out from holes in a dark hood, and bare lower legs covered in the same markings from the knee down.

But... no, Scarlett's ears were rounder, fluffier. Her tail was thick and furry, not sleek with a large black spade at the tip. She also had thinner, longer stripes cutting through the black base. Not thick, broken spots.

And the glowing green eyes gleaming from beneath the hood most certainly weren't Scarlett's.

An ally, maybe?

Allan hesitated, gathering breath to call out but uncertain if he should or if the Alphian was even there.

A work truck trundled by, sputtering as it struggled with a load of crates.

After it passed, the Alphian was gone.

Mad.

Allan Thompson was actually going mad.

He could hardly be blamed.

First his old boss starts trying to get him to return to his fleet with his temptations slowly mutating into threats that grew more vicious every time.

Then a new man in a fancy suit and tie presents his own offer of money in exchange for Allan's aid in a treasure hunt of all things while also being far too interested in Allan's drunken captain who couldn't even piss straight let alone remember his ancestors.

Then he started having flashbacks of a hijacking that brought him into contact with not only slavers, but fucking aliens, one of which joined forces with him only to knock him out to go slaughter some of the slavers...

What was even worse...

After that fight with Scarlett, any and all memories of the Alphian ceased. He couldn't even recall what happened once he woke up, which alarmed him greatly because there was a significant event he just could not remember. Because they sure as hell didn't go from being overrun by slavers to being back at their home port without any sign there was even a hostile force occupying the ship.

Only one man had memories of Scarlett that went past Allan's; Tom Anders.

His friend and trusty right-hand man. The closest person to Scarlett on the ship prior to her mysterious disappearance.

Allan hoped he could have shed some light on Scarlett. Maybe Scarlett somehow drove off all the slavers after knocking Allan out, accessing some type of beast mode or something. She was an alien, and could shapeshift, so it wasn't entirely implausible.

But no.

Tom's last memory of her was Scarlett heading off the ship into the woods. Tom went after her, only to find himself face to face with the same slaver Scarlett was after. The slaver attacked him, but Scarlett showed up in some animal form and attacked the slaver. She won the fight but was stabbed in the process. Tom tried dragging her back to the ship after she shifted back to that half-human form, but then his memory too went dark.

That was it. The trail ended. Went cold. With no hope of recovering the fractal memories.

Maybe Scarlett was around longer, and had some alien way of wiping their memories. Why, then, did he have any memory of her at all? If she truly aimed to wipe all memory of her existence, he should have forgotten her in totality.

Instead he was left with only partial memories and no explanation that could even remotely make sense of the event.

Every port they stopped at, every contact he knew, he asked. When Scarlett Hyde rang no bells, he tried the false name she gave at first; Shadow. Still nothing.

He tried her description, her species, her family name, everything.

Nothing.

As if neither she nor her species even existed in the first place.

But now, after months of searching and dealing with intermittent nightmares, an Alphian just shows up outside his window only to vanish into thin air.

If it was even there to begin with.

"Get a hold of yourself, old boy," Allan laughed nervously, running his hand halfway through his hair before gripping it tightly in a feeble attempt to ground himself in reality.

He was seeing things.

Yeah, he...

He was just seeing things.

A knock sounded on his door, and Allan turned away from the window to stare at the clock by his bed.

05:00 am.

His port watch wasn't due for another few hours, so it couldn't have been someone calling him for that.

"Al?"

Tom. What was he doing up this early?

Passing through his dayroom, Allan opened the door and found Tom looking almost as disheveled as himself. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Allan asked, taking in Tom's bare feet and backwards shorts.

Tom rubbed his arm. "It... happened again."

Allan's eyes widened. "Scarlett."

Tom nodded.

Allan stood to the side to let him in. "You too, huh?"

Tom straightened, looking slightly more alert as he sat on the couch in Allan's dayroom. "Same dream?"

"What other dream would it be?" Allan growled.

Tom wasn't put off by his tone, but then again he never was. "What are the odds, huh?" he said in an attempt to lighten the mood, a weak smile accompanying the joke.

Allan wasn't amused. "Real funny." He leaned on the table, pushing his hair back. "This is the fifth time in two weeks," he growled. "I do not need this. We got that proud peacock prancin' 'round like he owns the damn ship, orderin' us to and fro like damn dogs. I don't need this headache on top of it."

"At least the cap ain't givin' us any issues."

"Don't think that old man would notice if I scuttled the damn ship," Allan grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Probably not." Tom tilted his head. "Don't think the dreams mean anythin', do ya?" he asked, somewhat desperately.

"Concurrent dreams about an alien that we both know had the power to alter dreams?" Allan said. "It's fishy."

"Think she's comin' back?"

Allan shrugged tiredly. "Hell, Tom, I don't know." He glared in the direction of the door. "At least Sakharine finally tracked down the second ship. Then we can be back at sea, and I'll have other things to keep my mind on."

"Yeah, can't wait to have that guy off." Tom shuddered. "Gives me the creeps."

"Feelin's mutual."

Allan wondered if he should tell Tom about the... apparition on the docks. He quickly decided against it, not wanting to wrangle Tom when the man tried to hunt the ghost down.

It would be his secret.

Just get through the day and you'll be back at sea. No more FBI agents snooping around, no more headaches from watching Sakharine waltz through the docks like a blind idiot, no more...

Whatever the hell that just was on the docks.

Allan stretched. "Guess I may as well get coffee, not like I'm gettin' any more shuteye today," he said gruffly. "Want some?"

Tom nodded, stretching too. "Won't say no." He shuddered. "Anythin' to keep awake after that nightmare."

Allan understood his hesitation with going back to sleep. Tom's dream was far worse than his, with the man being hunted down in dark woods by a slaver bent on murder. Scarlett's animal form wasn't exactly comforting either, Tom describing it as a large feline with saber teeth that was a third again the size of a normal tiger.

"Alright, I'll be there in a minute. Maybe Vinny or Yanny have somethin' already."

Tom nodded. "I'll wait outside."

As Tom left, and Allan headed back to his room, the first mate mumbled under his breath.

"I really hope it was just coincidence." He punched the door open. "Because I cannot deal with anything else." 

[thetarttfuldickhead]

A Jamie-centric pre-OT3 Christmas story told in 25 short chapters.

Masterpost / AO3

24.

Due to lucky timing or – more likely – a long-honed sense for when Jamie and Georgie were ready to be interrupted, Simon stepped into the sitting room to announced that dinner was ready about half a minute after the hour-long, and occasionally weepy, talk was winding down to general cuddles.

Jamie got up to greet him with genuine enthusiasm. He’d already moved out by the time Simon moved in, but he liked the man well enough. He’d been dead good for Mummy, and Simon had always been decent about giving her and Jamie space, never seeming to mind that Georgie tended to focus all of her attention on Jamie whenever he was around. Which was only natural, given that Jamie was her only son and a fucking great one at that, but some men might have been pissy about it, so Jamie was still glad Simon wasn’t one of those.

“Tried to make a few extra sides that won’t mess with your meal plan, I know you’ve got a game tomorrow,” Simon said as he ushered them towards the carefully set table.

They’d gotten a new cloth since the last time Jamie was here for Christmas, a rustic looking light grey number, but the pink plates with a pattern of golden Christmas trees around the edge were the same ones Jamie had given her when he was 17. Simon had matched them with green napkins, intricately folded around small golden sprigs of plastic mistletoe, and pink and gold ornaments scattered across the table.

“That’s nice, that,” Jamie said, because it was, and Simon beamed at him.

The dinner was nice, too, the traditional turkey and trimmings complemented, for Jamie’s benefit, with a French omelette with smoked haddock, a large salad, and a small bowl of liberally spiced brown rice. It took Mummy most of the meal to fill Jamie in on all the latest neighbourhood gossip, but there was a fair bit of chatter about football as well, and a couple of minutes devoted to Simon’s new knife set. It was fun, and easy, and by the time Simon got up to put the kettle on and Jamie went out into the hall to collect the bag of gifts he’d brought, Jamie was feeling more relaxed (and fuller) than he could remember doing in… well. A fucking long time.

As they settled on the couch with their tea cups, small glasses of mulled cherry wine and a frankly shocking array of sweets (of which Jamie allowed himself exactly one small slice of candied orange dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt), Mummy fretted slightly over not having any proper gifts for him there. “We had them sent over your place, since we didn’t think you were coming. I’m sorry, love.”

“No, yeah, I know, got them last night. Haven’t opened them yet, though, ‘cause, uh, I wanted to see you first.”

She smiled, and pulled him close to smack her lips against the top of his hair. “Do it first thing when you get home, and every last one of them will be a kiss from me.”

“I will, Mummy.” He’d be getting home after midnight, and by rights should head straight for bed to make sure he was in good shape for tomorrow’s game, but knew he would take the time to unpack the carefully wrapped parcels. Knew his mum would likely be up and ready to respond to any excited reaction texts he might send.

Jamie apologised for the randomness of the gifts, sheepishly admitting that he’d spent too much time getting Roy stuff to think much about anyone else; they waved away his regrets and oooh:ed and aaah:ed enthusiastically at the blanket (Georgie), the cookbook (Simon), the weekend getaway in Cornwall (both of them), and the other things Jamie had picked up rather hurriedly yesterday.

Merry Christmas (I don’t want to fight tonight) came on. Grinning cheekily, Mummy got to her feet, pulling Jamie up with her as she went, and then they were dancing all across the sitting room, laughing and loudly singing along, the way they’d always done when Jamie was a kid.

“Oh, baby, you’ve gotten dead good at this,” Mummy said a little breathlessly after Jamie had spun her round in a complicated twirl, and he nodded, pleased that she’d noticed his mad moves. “I’m a footballer, ain’t I. Gotta be quick on me feet.”

The song ended and the far slower Have yourself a merry little Christmas began to play. Jamie released his mum to Simon, and as the two of them swayed slowly to Judy Garland’s soft crooning, Jamie took the opportunity to sneak away for a bit, going up the stairs to his old room. It looked pretty much exactly the way he’d left it when he moved into the Academy residence. Mummy (or Simon, probably) kept it clean, but hadn’t moved any of his stuff or done anything about the general messiness of the room. Only the Keeley poster had been a later addition, and only because having semi-nudes up at his academy room had been frowned upon and he’d still been minding the rules back then.

Mad, to think that he’d ended up dating her. Mad, that he’d played with Roy Kent, the one player whose poster he’d never taken down (although he’d come close, the first time he was back home after joining Richmond and Roy had proved to be a massive cunt, but it had felt like letting Roy win somehow, so it had stayed up).

Madder still, that only two nights ago he’d been curled up with both of them on a couch in Roy Kent’s house.

Grinning, he pulled out his phone and called Keeley. Yes, it was late and it was Christmas and it might be a prick thing to do, interrupting whatever celebration they had going, but as much as he was trying to be better, Jamie hadn’t gotten to where he was by not going after what he wanted. Besides, they’d want to know how things had gone, wouldn’t they? Keeley would, at any rate.

His assumption turned out to be correct because Keeley not only picked up, but smiled like she couldn’t be happier to hear from him. “Jamie, hi! You doing all right? Are you up in Manchester?”

“Hi, Keeley. Yeah, I am, yeah.” He paused, taking a moment to just look at her, taking in the loveliness of her face, before adding, “Talked to me mum. It went great. I mean, I was a bit nervous, but it went great, yeah, so it’s all good now.”

“Yeah?” Her smile softened. “That’s amazing, Jamie. Really glad to hear that.”

“Yeah. So, uh, I just wanted to call to tell you and, and, say thanks, I guess. For, you know, telling me I needed to go here. And, uh, merry Christmas.”

“You’re welcome, Jamie. Merry Christmas.”

“Oi!” Roy’s voice, off-camera and sounding unusually high over the speakers. “Keeley, do— Oh, sorry, didn’t realise you were on the phone.” A pause. “That Jamie?”

“Yeah. He’s up in Manchester, come say hi.” Keeley shifted a bit, angling her phone to include Roy in the picture.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. Roy must really be into Christmas, because he was actually wearing a patterned tie with his black shirt and black suit jacket. A dark patterned tie, admittedly, but it had got little golden dots on it, which was far more festive than Jamie would have thought Roy could ever manage.

Then again, he’d had to rethink a lot of his thoughts on Roy in the past two days.

“Hi,” Roy said, sounding… not unsure, exactly, but… not not unsure either. A little reserved, but in a way Jamie, canny reader of people that he was, suspected had more to do with uncertainty over their new relationship status, rather than any real desire to be an arse.

Jamie didn’t blame him. He was feeling a little uncertain himself (which was still a new and not particularly fun experience). Things had changed between them since Roy rushed in to find him crumpled on the floor—but how exactly, and into what?

He guessed they’d find out, and fuck, wasn’t that an interesting thought?

“Hi,” he said. “Merry Christmas. You enjoying the holiday, yeah?” He nodded towards the tie, smirking just a little. (It was a decent tie. Roy looked well fit in it. But if the man didn’t want people taking the piss when he donned a bit of colour he shouldn’t make such a point of always wearing black then, should he?)

Roy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m loving it. Spent the afternoon knocking on random doors looking for a dentist for my niece, that was a fucking riot. And,” he continued before Jamie had the chance to ask what the hell he was on about, “some nitwit had this John Case box set delivered to my door this morning, because apparently some people have no idea when to fucking quit.”

“Yeah?” Jamie asked, unable to hold back a grin, because while Roy’s word had been gruff, there was a small smile in his eyes that said that they weren’t really. “Think that sounds like great gift, mate. Real thoughtful, like.”

Roy just snorted, but Keeley was clearly holding back a laugh, her eyes shining as they wandered between Jamie on her screen and Roy.

“It’s the last of them,” Jamie promised, just in case Roy actually thought he’d be keeping this up forever from now on. “But I’d already gotten it, so… “ He shrugged.

“It’s fine,” Roy said, then added off Keeley’s not at all discreet elbow to his side, “I mean, thank you.”

Jamie was about to tell him not to overdo it or he’d burst vessel or something, but was interrupted by his mum calling his name from downstairs. “Sorry,” he said. “Gotta go. Be heading back in thirty minutes, so I wanna make the most of it, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Keeley immediately said (almost covering Roy’s muttered we’re really not stopping you). “Go. And good luck with the game tomorrow, yeah? I’ll be in the box with Rebecca, cheering you on.”

“Decent, yeah. Um, thanks again. Merry Christmas.”

As he moved to end the call, Roy suddenly said, “Jamie, wait.”

Jamie waited. And waited, because whatever it was that Roy had on his mind, he apparently had a hard fucking time getting it out of his mouth.

Eventually, Jamie’s patience wore thin. “Mate, I’m not being funny, yeah. I really gotta go. You maybe wanna send me a fax instead?”

“Oh, that’s very funny,” Roy growled. “The fuck happened to you not being a prick, huh?” Then he made a face, looking pained. “Actually, and I can’t fucking believe I’m about to say this, but maybe sometimes you need to be a prick. Not to people,” he added with narrowed eyes, having apparently caught the way Jamie lit up at that, “but on the fucking pitch. I mean, sometimes. Not all the time. But sometimes, being selfish and going for the shot and getting in the other players heads by being an utter cunt like only you fucking can is better than passing the ball.”

Jamie gaped at him, but before he had time to say anything or ask how the hell he was supposed to know when it was the right time to be a prick, Roy muttered a curt, “That’s it. Bye,” and ended the call.

“Um, rude,” Jamie told the black screen. He was half tempted to call Keeley again, just to tell her bye properly (and maybe tell Roy… something, Jamie wasn’t totally clear on what, because Roy had been rude, but he’d also told Jamie to be a prick sometimes, and had almost smiled at him several times, and that was all just a bit confusing), but he hadn’t lied when he said he wanted to make the most of his time with Mummy before he needed to leave for London again.

“We’re not done, mate,” he told poster-Roy sternly, before adding a far softer, “Good night, Keeley,” to poster-Keeley

And then he headed downstairs, back to Mummy and the rest of his Christmas, and then – when he’d hugged her ten times or a hundred – he headed to London, back to his team and the rest of his life, and it came to him as he sat on the train with the midwinter night speeding past him, that he was travelling both from home and to home and that it was well fucking mint.

[meganwasbored]

Here’s some GOTNF edits to brighten your day! Merry Christmas, everyone! Also Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or whatever you celebrate! Have a great day!

Credit: @tinixnoir on Instagram