#Yuletide chills | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

perlelune · 10 months ago

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Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | iii.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

“So what’s your deal?” Festus Creed asks out of the blue.

Your mouth opens in shock, a nervous laugh slipping out. “My deal?”

A mocking sneer twists his features. “Yeah, Coriolanus kept trying to get you to eat with us but you were being weird about it. If you hate us, just say so.”

While some snigger at the table, Coriolanus stares daggers at him. The mirth instantly vanishes from Festus’ face.

Clemensia bumps her elbow into his rib, chiding him, “Festus, come on,”

“I don’t…hate anyone,” you defend, your voice hardly above a whisper.

Clemensia flashes you a reassuring smile.

“Of course, you don’t. Coriolanus said you’re very sweet.”

Livia rolls her eyes.

“Ugh, whatever. Can we get back to discussing the Yuletide Ball?”

Surprise flutters through you. The name bears vague familiarity. It can be found in the archives detailing the history of the Capitol University. But it’d since long become a frivolity amidst concerns such as quelling the uprisings in the Districts. What’s a students’ dance in the face of war and famine?

“The Yuletide Ball? I thought this was an abolished tradition…I mean since the war.”

Excitement illuminates Livia’s face.

“We’re bringing back the tradition this year, thanks to Coriolanus here. He convinced the new dean.”

Coriolanus lowers his head in apparent humbleness.

“I just made a few good points and he couldn’t refuse me,” he shares. He turns to you, blue eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty persuasive when I need to be.” A chill dances through you at his low, suggestive tone.

To your relief, his attention switches to the rest of the table.

“It’s important to not let District scum ruin our way of life. Traditions must return.”

Livia smirks. “Spoken like a student body president.”

Coriolanus waves a dismissive hand but a hint of smugness lingers in his tone as he says, “Please, elections are only in a month.”

“And it’s obvious you’ll win,” Clemensia states.

He gives a light shrug.

“We shall see.”

Clemensia pivots to you.

“Ivy, Liv and I are on the Ball committee,” she preens, her face brightening. “You could join us if you want.”

You lick your lips. “I don’t know if I’d find the time with midterms coming up soon…”

Coriolanus’ fingertips graze your arm as he offers, “You should do it, angel. It’d be a good way to expand your social circle.”

“You mean her nonexistent circle,” Festus gibes.

The blond’s jaw clenches.

“Talk to her like that again and see what happens, Creed.”

Festus cowers, nervousness flickering on his face. He clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says to you.

“It’s fine.”

Coriolanus’ fingers latch around your wrist as his steely gaze cuts into Festus.

“No, it’s not fine,” he articulates.

Undisturbed by the altercation between the boys, Clemensia prattles on about the ball.

“We meet up every Saturday morning. We’re working on winter-themed decorations right now. It’ll be so fun. It takes forever to do though.” She looks at you with emphasis. “An extra set of hands would be really welcome.”

“Clemensia…”

“Call me Clemmie,” she interrupts. “All my friends do.”

Friends? You study her hand clasped around yours. The concept is a little foreign to you. You also ponder why someone like Clemensia, with her perfect silky mane and smooth, blemish-free face would want to befriend you. She is the girl everyone gravitates towards. Charismatic, smart and nice to boot. And you might as well be a fly on a wall, ignored on the best days.

You are so stunned that it takes a shamefully long time for the words to fall back on your tongue.

“Clemmie, I’m usually busy on Saturday.”

“Oh.” She deflates, her hold on your hand loosening. “I get it. Sorry I asked.”

The excitement on her face plummets. Immediately, you feel terrible. You’ve never missed a single Saturday of studying, using that time to break down your more complicated courses of the week. But Clemmie looks crestfallen.

Perhaps, this one time, you can adjust your plans a little. One Saturday won’t make a difference in the entire year.

“But…I can try to free up some time,” you offer.

She perks up with your response.

“Great. We’ll be expecting you then.”

Lunch then proceeds, the table resuming the lively debate they were having before you showed up. Festus maintains facts about his family’s role in the reconstruction after the war while Clemensia rolls her eyes. They go back and forth and you observe them, slightly fascinated by the exchange. It’s such a rare occurrence for you to be around others that you soak every bit of their interaction. You get the inkling this happens a lot between them, them ruffling each other’s feathers. Ivy and Livia get wrapped in their own secret conversation you don’t catch a single word of. Meanwhile, Coriolanus watches all of them, taking a bite of the food on his plate every once in a while. The way he eats is slow, nonchalant, almost like he couldn’t care less what’s on his plate. Even if he doesn’t interject at any point, he looks right at home at this table. Unlike you. You recline into silence, letting every minute fly by as you wait for lunch to be over. When it finally is, relief surges inside you.

You mumble a quick goodbye and gather your things. Clemensia beams and waves at you while the others barely acknowledge your departure.

You head for the hallways, trying not to allow your mind to linger on the strange, uncomfortable lunch. Still, your mind swirls. You curse yourself for every blunder and awkward moment. You told him you don’t belong, that you’re an outsider, and always will be. It’s painfully obvious. From the way you dress, talk, carry yourself, you have nothing in common with girls like Clemensia or Livia. There’s a vast chasm between you and them. He should have listened. It astounds you that you even let yourself get roped into joining Clemensia’s committee thing. Though perhaps that won’t be too much of a hassle. You’ll show up to keep your word, then sink back into your rigid study routine.

Coriolanus’ deep voice, a sound you’re now oddly familiar with, erupts behind you.

“Let me carry those for you,” he says, swiping the books in your arms before you can protest. He falls in pace with you, a gentle expression decorating his handsome face.

You frown, the uncanny emptiness of your arms swelling your discomfort.

“You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” he interrupts, chuckling lightly when you try to reach for your books and he dodges you with ease. Your shoulders sag. Your strides hasten, an urgency limning your steps now.

Coriolanus meets no issue with your escalating cadence. He easily keeps up with you, a subtle hint of mirth lurking in his cobalt gaze.

“It wasn’t too much, was it?” he inquires. “I know they can be a lot but they’re all good people. I promise.”

A myriad of words weigh heavy on your tongue but you diplomatically swallow each, settling for a safe, innocuous remark.

“Clemmie was nice.”

The corners of the blond’s lips quirk skyward.

“I told you she was.”

The statement hovers between the two of you for a while. Clemensia seems nice indeed. The rest of his friend group…perhaps a little less so. Possibly a bit more cutthroat and self-absorbed. Though you surmise it is a requirement to be a member of Panem’s elite.

No other word is traded between you and him as you make your way to the lecture hall.

“This is me,” you announce.

You turn to Coriolanus, hands stretching towards your books. He makes no move to give them back. Your forehead creases.

He gives you a sluggish once-over before offering, “What if I drove you back home after your classes?”

You nibble your bottom lip, dismayed by his proposition. You’ve caught glimpses of his fancy new car, as you’re sure most have at the University. As heir apparent to the Plinth fortune, he gets to spend money as he likes.

“I usually walk. It’s okay.”

He gets a little closer. “Come on, angel. Just let me do something nice for you.”

You shrink until your back hits the wall, stunned when Coriolanus follows each of your steps.

“My last lecture is…Professor Bellweather tends to ramble,” you mumble, his proximity unnerving you. “I don’t…I don’t know when he’ll be done.”

He licks his lips.

“I’ll just wait for you, angel.”

He utters the words like it’s obvious. You gawk at him. It takes you a few minutes to retrieve your speech.

You scratch your arm, your frown accentuating.

“You really don’t have to. Like I said, walking home is fine.”

The gaze trained on your form sharpens.

“And I’m offering to take you home so you don’t have to exert yourself.” He bends over you, invading the already insufficient space between the two of you. “Has a friend never done something like that for you?”

“N-No,” you admit.

His tone’s heavy with suggestion as he rasps, “So let me be your first then, angel.”

Your heart stumbles inside your chest.

“I’m gonna be late for class,” you blurt out, attempting to brush past him.

Coriolanus’ hand darts out, swiftly cinching around your wrist to stop you from leaving.

“I still don’t have an answer,” Coriolanus says.

You glance from his hand, tight around your wrist, to his determined gaze. Your throat goes dry.

“Okay, you can d-drive me back home.”

He releases your wrist and returns your books, a smile ghosting over his lips.

“Wonderful. I’ll come get you later, angel.”

Clutching your books against your chest, you watch him glide away.

As promised, Coriolanus is waiting for you when you exit from your last class. You don’t even think to hide your shock as you find the blond leaning against the wall. A smirk unfans on his lips, your reaction seeming to amuse him.

He doesn’t say much to you as you walk side by side and head to his car. When you’re outside, he surprises you by opening the passenger door for you before you can even lift a hand.

“T-Thanks,” you stammer. You plop down on the plush seat. The leather smells new and expensive.

Your nerves thrum as he takes the driver’s seat and starts the car. You’ve never been alone in a car with a boy before. Uneasy, you let your eyes roam outside the window. The Capitol’s high buildings blur past you rapidly.

You’re lost in your thoughts when you notice the prickling sensation over your flesh, The burning, unwavering weight of Coriolanus Snow’s scrutiny.

Your head whirls.

Bashful words quake through your lips.

“Do I have something on my face?” Your hands reach to touch it, just in case.

He chuckles.

“No,” he replies, shrugging. “It’s a nice face that’s all.”

The casual compliment sends a wave of heat through your body.

“Can you drive?” he asks, curiosity lighting his features.

You shake your head. Getting your license has never been a priority. Besides, it’s only a thirty minute walk to get to the University. You don’t mind it, often using that time to sneak in some reading.

“No.”

“I could drive you if you like,” he offers, his gaze holding yours. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Your cheeks warm. “I’m okay.”

Coriolanus nods, his focus shifting back to the road.

“You always say that…” He hums low in his throat. “I’m just not sure I believe it, angel.”

You’re so nervous the entire drive that you don’t even notice when he arrives at your house. You stare at him, mouth agape. You haven’t given him a single instruction on how to get there.

“You know where I live?”

As he opens the door for you, Coriolanus simply replies, “You told me earlier.”

Your brows furrow. You don’t remember telling him but his tone harbors no doubt. You rummage through your brain, seeking the moment. Nothing comes up and you grow confused.

You blink up at him.

“I-I did?”

“Yes, you did, angel.” He snorts as if your line of questioning is beyond ludicrous. “How else would I know?” He slams the door of the car as you rise. “Besides…Dr. Gaul is my mentor. Of course, I know where she lives.”

You nod. That makes sense and it didn’t even occur to you.

“I…”

He cocks his head. “What?”

You fidget beneath his stare, discomfort flaring in the pit of your stomach.

“Nothing. Thanks for driving me home.”

He flashes you a wide smile.

“My pleasure. See you soon, angel.”

He starts the car and drives away. You don’t feel quite at ease until his car’s gone from view, heading towards the Corso.

Walter zooms across the room as soon as you enter the large apartment. Your eyes wander about. As usual, the place is empty besides you and Walter. Mother rarely spends any time here nowadays, her work occupying all of her time.

Walter rubs his furry head against your ankle, twirling around you as he meows. He then stands on his hind legs and starts gently raking his claws across your leg. A way for him to demand that you pet him. A small smile tugging your lips, you pick him up. The orange ball of fur purrs, curling against your chest as you carry him in your arms. You make your way to the kitchen and pour a mix of leftover meat and fish in his bowl.

You set him down on the floor. His tail wiggles as he hops to his food.

You crouch next to him.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened today, Walter,” you say while giving gentle pets to his back. “I was invited to their table.” The orange cat pauses his eating to stare up at you blankly. “Yes. Theirs,” you repeat as if he could understand you. He gives a long meow before focusing on his bowl again. You sigh. “I know. I thought the same thing.”

Once Walter’s emptied his bowl, you pick him up again and make your way to the living room.

You collapse on the couch.

“And then…Coriolanus Snow drove me home. Yes, the Coriolanus Snow. I didn’t even think he knew I existed.”

For a while, you remain on the couch, stroking Walter’s fur as he sits on your lap. His tail whips the air, his eyes closing as you pet him. His soft rumble of content reverberates against your belly, amplifying when your fingers drag behind his pointed white ears. You lean back, a blanket of peace settling over you.

Walter’s not just a strange-looking cat, he’s also a rescue…from your mother’s experiments. A kitten mutt with mismatched eyes, one blue and one yellow, his mushed, wrinkled face gives him a passing resemblance to a rodent. Pets like him are a rarity in today’s world as most creatures such as him were eaten during the First Rebellion.

Your mother finds him appalling. In her eyes, he is a failed experiment. Like you. Perhaps it’s why you have such kinship with the creature. You still recall her unsettling glance in your direction the day she asked the entire class of nine-year-olds at the Academy if they had pets they were sick of. She then proceeded to burn the flesh off a lab rat to demonstrate her pulsed energy laser.

This moment is burned into your mind forever, your mother’s clinical tone chilling your blood.

You stole Walter from the Citadel and took him home that same day.

You were careful to hide him, though you suspect your mother figured out what you did. She likely added it to her long list of disappointments when it comes to you.

Sometimes, you envy Walter. The simplicity his days hinge upon. His obliviousness to the woes of the world. His uncanny ability to sleep through the chaos of it, ignore the disarray. Walter’s world consists of food, play and cuddles.

What a blissful existence. You bet Walter never had a vexing thought in his short life.

The train of your thoughts is interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone.

You carefully remove Walter from your lap. He meows in protest and jumps off the couch. You pick up the phone, chest clenching as a familiar face fills the flickering screen.

“Mother,” you greet. “How are you?”

She ignores your question, curtly stating, “You’re falling behind in Molecular Cell Biology.”

You know that tone all too well, the warning laced within it so achingly familiar.

Your fingers twist around the phone cord, your voice becoming small.

“I’ll get my grades up, I promise.”

Silence hovers between you and your mother for a while. Faint hope sparks within you. Perking up, you decide to tell her about your day.

“Oh, mother, today-”

“I must go,” she interrupts. “It’s time for my milk and cookies.”

Your spirits plummet. You nudge a hollow smile onto your face.

“Right. I didn’t realize,” you say, checking the clock hanging on the wall. “I’m sorry.”

She heaves out a deep sigh, her lone blue eye narrowing.

“Focus on your studies. And try not to be even more of an embarrassment to me than you already are.”

“Y-Yes, mother,” you reply, your heart shriveling inside your chest.

As she hangs up, you feel silly and horrible. Silly for trying to strike up a normal conversation with your mother. And horrible for letting her down once more.

“You came!” Clemensia exclaims as she rushes to you. You try not to tense as she gives you a tight hug. Ivy and Livia linger in the background, their eyes lifting from the crafts’ table.

You wave at them and are surprised when Ivy wiggles her fingers at you. Livia is more withdrawn, nodding to acknowledge your presence but quickly returning to her task.

You step out of Clemensia’s embrace and flash a quick smile.

“Well I promised you that I would,” you reply nonchalantly. You take a look around the room. Various decorations and posters are propped against the walls, while snowflakes cut-outs and what looks like moon dust are scattered on the table. It seems the girls have been busy.

You turn to Clemensia. “What’s the theme again?”

Ivy surprises you by answering cheerfully, “Well, it’ll be like a Winter daydream and we were thinking of making it a masquerade.”

Excitement sways in Clemensia’s bright eyes. “What do you think?”

“Sounds nice.” Your trite answer draws every gaze in the room to you. Awkwardly bouncing on your feet, you correct yourself, beaming at Clemensia. “I meant amazing.”

“I think so too,” she chimes.

She shows you the empty chair next to hers. The both of you sit down and she starts rambling about the theme and all the ideas she has to decorate the ballroom. You grow dizzy with all the information, trying to follow along her instructions at the same time.

“We’ll need to find you a date,” Clemensia says.

You shake the can of blue paint before spraying over the tree cut-out.

“It’s okay. I probably won’t be going anyway,” you respond absently.

The pencil in Livia’s hand snaps. Your head rises. The blonde’s gaping at you. You then realize…the same look of disbelief is etched on all the girls’ features. A frown mars your brow. Did you say something wrong? You didn’t realize this was such an important event.

A nervous laugh peals off Clemensia’s red-painted lips.

“No, but you have to,” she says, “It’s the first Yuletide Ball in over a decade. Everyone will be there.”

You shrug. “It’s four months away, Clemmie.”

Her onyx gaze shimmers.

“Well, a lot can happen in four months,” she sings, a mysterious smile spreading onto her lips.

#dark!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #tbosas fanfiction #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

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Comfort & Joy: The Lakes [Loki x Reader]

The Lakes Masterlist / Regular Masterlist Summary: (9) Roll up, roll up for the Stark Christmas Jamboree. Where candied nuts and cunning plans both come with an extra sprinkling of festive sweetness. (w/c 7.8k) Warnings: Minors DNI. Usual Lakes fare. Humour, Asgardian lore, fluff, all the feels. Smut references. A/N: This is the final final edition of The Lakes.

“Remind me, what named day is this in your charming yuletide festivities?” Loki inquired as you stepped out the revolving door of the Tower.

Charming. You smiled.

Last year it would have been any number of synonyms for stupid. You could hear them, see his lips curling the words from memory. Gratuitous. Senseless. Superfluent. Foolish.

But that was your problem, you recognised, not his.

“I don’t think it has one officially,” you shivered, nestling your chin deeper into the scarf. Fuck, it was cold today. “But I call it Christmas Eve, Eve.”

You sighed, watching crowds of the general populous making their way in shuffling merriment towards the Christmas market. No, not market. Festive Jamboree.

Tony had taken it upon himself to create a mini-wonderland right outside the Tower for one day only, all proceeds to the local children’s hospital.

A ferris wheel rose at the end of the cordoned street, every carriage packed. The smell of hot-dogs and caramelised almonds filled the air, old-time speakers tied to high lamps blaring Andy Williams at a volume that couldn’t be code compliant. “Lighten up, darling” Loki chirped as a gloved hand laced with your own. You turned to him, forcing a smile through the nerves. He looked phenomenal. A high collared coat of darkest green framed his cheekbones, pink tipped in the sudden chill. The one you’d seen in the window. You couldn’t resist. But when it came to Loki, what else was new?

He’d popped the collar, loose strands of onyx hair tumbling over the thick of his scarf. The one you’d bought him, of course.

Against the pale of his skin, dark brows peaked above a lowered fan of lashes while his gaze lingered on your intertwined digits. He raised the back of your hand to his lips, kissing it firmly.

“This will be fun,” he murmured against your glove with a knowing glint. “Have you planned...something?” you laughed. “Other than the thing.”

The nerves were fading, finally. He pressed his free hand against his chest in mock-hurt. “You wound me with your suspicions, madam” he purred, playful insolence thick in his tone. He sniffed, raising his chin. “I am merely imbibed with the spirit of the season.” Mid-giggle, your whole body rocked forwards as two hands shook your shoulders from behind. “Merry Christmas Eve Eve, sister!” Thor boomed in your ear. There was ringing. Thor looked good. He smelled good. And blessedly for now at least, there were no crumbs in his beard. “And to you, brother” Loki said, smile widening.

Thor tilted his head, regarding Loki’s jovial demeanour with suspicion. “And to you, brother-” he rumbled. His interest was piqued. “What has my Sponge of a sibling in such a buoyant mood this fine December day?” “It’s Scrooge,” you corrected, grinning. Thor grinned back as all eyes fell on your lover.

Loki gaped, darting his gaze between you both.

“Scrooge?!” he scoffed incredulously. “In past years, perhaps. Yet despite your attempt to churl me, I shall take it as a compliment,” Loki said, squeezing your hand, “for I too was visited by three spirits and thus...changed forever.” Thor frowned, “spirits, says you?” “Yes, brother. Yourself, Rogers, and the spectre of that ghastly reclining chair.”

Thor chuckled, before being distracted by something deeper within the crowd. Or someone. He cleared his throat. “I must to the candied nuts, brother” he muttered formally.

Out the corner of your eye, you saw Rogers tip the nuts-vendor a quick salute as he nestled a fresh bag in his hand like a hamster. Heat steamed from the opening, wafting through frosty air. “Oh yes brother,” Loki drawled with equal gravitas. “The nuts will not eat themselves.” Thor squinted as a restrained smirk danced at Loki’s dimples. “Indeed,” the blonde replied, clearing his throat. “I shall see you at the bandstand anon.” And with a curt nod to you, he waddled hands in his pockets through the throng. You watched him go as Loki’s warm breath seeped down your neck, his mouth fastening to your pulse-point with a happy hum of pleasure. “You’re naughty,” you chided playfully. Loki nodded against your neck, the vibration of his agreement making you fizz. “And I have the knitwear to prove it,” he whispered. As you made your way through the crowd, Loki’s hand never left yours.

The two of you together were a familiar sight in Manhattan, and Avenger-fans on the whole had been beside themselves at news of your reunion. Confirmations had been slow. At you and Loki’s insistence, there had been no official statement. But the public had cottoned on eventually, with the help of the press.

Fans waited politely for pictures, nervously pulling at gloves and activating their cameras while you and Loki smiled and chatted. It was night and day from the way things used to be, while you stood on the sidelines amid a sea of bodies whipped into a frenzy by the god of mischief’s theatrical adulation.

Every so often, Loki would nuzzle your cheek; checking in. You’d squeeze his hand. One for all good, two for let’s go. You didn’t need that second squeeze today.

“With regret, we must depart for the afternoon’s questionable entertainment,” Loki announced. There was a chorus of disappointment, but he patted down the air.

“Please, join us-” he smiled to the crowd gathered around you, extending an arm towards the bandstand not thirty meters away. “Your participation will be most appreciated to drown out the subpar efforts of all of us. Truly, you will never look at us the same way, I guarantee it.” Despite having been erected overnight, the bandstand in the centre of the wonderland wouldn’t look out of place in Victorian England. Thin wrought iron pillars stretched upwards, twisting to an ornate canopy adorned with Christmas lights. Garlands wound up the pillars, twinkling sporadically. It was only 3pm, but the gathering darkness made them shine. A modest band of brass and strings had gathered beneath the canopy, instrument tune-ups peppering the chilly air.

And in front of it, in a semi-circle, microphones.

Steve stood to the side, handing booklets to a line of anxious looking avengers. Bucky, Wanda, Sam, Natas-

“I cannot believe we have to do this,” Bucky muttered ruefully as he threw his coat in the assigned box. “I can’t believe it. I actually can’t? Someone, fight me. Knock me out.” “We’re all in the same boat, Buck” Natasha lamented. She pulled at the baggy jumper hanging around her hips. Bucky looked down at his chest, pleading eyes meeting her stoic stare. “Fight me, Romanoff. Please.” “Don’t tempt me,” Natasha replied. Their jumpers were matching. Red, thick wool hiding any hint of the lithe muscle beneath. And stitched on them in winding, white-knitted lettering? Nice.

Your chest shook with the effort of holding in giggles. Even knowing what was coming, it hadn’t prepared you for the reality.

Looking around, you clocked each of your teammates in turn. Stark’s logic was thus – Avengers with a ‘harder’ reputation? Nice jumpers. And for those reputed to be on the softer side?-

“You’re wearing the wrong gosh-darn sweater, Laufeyson!” Steve hissed over your shoulder.

Both of you spun to face him. Steve’s arms were folded over the green version of the standard knit, the word Naughty emblazoned on his chest in white bobbling letters. Your shoulders were shaking now, too. “Don’t act like you're surprised, Rogers” Loki drawled. His coat hung off one long finger, before disappearing in a flash of seidr. “The public will not be fooled by Stark’s futile attempt at psychological subterfuge. I am simply getting ahead of the inevitable Tumblr edits.”

Steve’s chin snapped towards you. “Did you know about this?” he piped, flustered. You raised your eyebrows guiltily, making Steve’s hands fly in the air. “Perfect. Just heckin’ perfect. Why I outta-” “What seems to be the problem?” Thor’s voice boomed from behind. The words were accompanied by crunching, flecks of almond littering his green jumper like snow. You and Loki parted, making a four-square shoulder to shoulder and shuffling further towards safety from prying ears. “Laufeyson’s taken it upon himself to go against the agreed sweater-allocation and wear a Naughty, that’s what-” Steve bubbled bitterly.

Crimson had begun to creep up his cheekbones. A vein in his neck throbbed. Thor threw his head back with an almighty roar of laughter. Several almonds bounced from the bag in his hand from the force.

“Come now, Rogers ” he managed through gasps of mirth. “What did you expect? Tis just a silly rule, who cares?” He tossed an almond in the air, attempting to catch it in his mouth. It ricocheted off his eye. As Thor began blinking, Steve raised the clipboard in his hand. He tapped it violently. “I’m in charge of project managing this,” he hissed. “Laufeyson – change back to Nice.”

“Shan’t.” Loki quipped. Steve flushed deeper. “Laufeyson,” he warned. “Actually,” Loki started, enjoying the hushed tension. “I think you’ll find I am rather nice. You saw to that. So in truth, my sweater is fitting for this farce.” Steve’s eye began to twitch.

There was silence.

“Look at us, we’re like a little team," you offered, pointing to each of your green jumpers in turn. “Like the old days.”

Thor chuckled agreement as Loki and Steve stared each other down, a smile playing on Loki’s mouth that was irrevocably absent from the Captain’s. All four of you, it seemed, wore the Naughty uniform today. “In your case, as in mine, our knitwear reflects our essence perfectly my darling” Loki purred to you while his eyes narrowed towards a now vibrating super-soldier. “My naughty...naughty girl.” Steve sighed, hanging his head in resignation. “I told Tony this was a pooper of an idea,” he lamented. “It’s a disaster and it’s not even started.”

Thor’s hand clapped the captain’s shoulder in sympathy, lingering in a squeeze. Steve looked up at him, their eyes meeting.

The blonde god’s gaze widened slightly. You saw his fingers clench as his hand froze. In moments, he raised it; fluffing back his hair before sliding the hand into the pocket of his jeans.

“It’s only one sweater, Rogers” he muttered nervously. “Who cares?” Steve’s face fell, eyes darting to Thor’s crotch with a frown before rising back to his face. “I expected better of you, Odinson” was all he said before turning away.

Loki let out an exasperated sigh, elbowing his brother in the ribs. But Thor didn’t even flinch. His features had crumpled, spinning slowly as he watched the captain leave. His nuts? Forgotten.

But Steve didn’t see it. He was already making his way to the cluster of anxious looking Avengers huddled by the bandstand, examining carol music like they were Hydra files. “That could have gone better,” you whispered to Loki. The god frowned. His attempt to provoke his brother into siding with Rogers had not borne fruit. “Fear not,” Loki replied mysteriously as Thor produced a chicken drumstick from his jeans pocket. He tore off a chunk with a thousand-yard stare. Loki watched him in disbelief, continuing slowly. “There is still time to salvage this operation from the wreckage of my brother’s obstinance.” You gaze flitted between your team-mates. Bucky – Nice. Natasha- Nice. Clint – Naughty. Bruce – Naughty. Wanda – Nice. Sam – Naughty. Scott – Nice. Out the corner of your eye, you saw Loki swipe the half-ravaged chicken drumstick from Thor’s hold with hushed reprimand.

“What’s the big man wearing, I wonder?” you asked no one in particular. Loki snorted, “what else?” he said, nudging his head towards the Santa podium. There he was, Father Christmas aka. Tony Stark. Dressed in ray-bans and custom tailored suit, he looked suspiciously trim for a man in his position.

“Ah,” you smiled.

Loki’s smokey cologne filled your nostrils as he looped his arms around your body, pulling you tight to his chest. “It seems he will not be joining us in this public embarrassment,” he smirked before placing a warming kiss on your lips. Then to the corner of your mouth, then to the angle of your jaw. “Places!” a peaky-sounding Steve shouted, tapping a baton against the music stand at the head of the choir section. There was a deep line between his eyebrows that was decidedly un-Christmassy. “Norns,” Loki muttered. His hands slid down your body, fingers weaving through yours. “Ready?” he breathed nervously, your foreheads touching.

“Are you?” you replied.

Loki squeezed once.

The front row of the audience was made up of children, patients of the hospital. Cushioned folding chairs were laid in a half-crescent, two dozen of their smiling faces staring expectantly. Several of them sat in wheelchairs in the middle. Prime spot. One of them was wearing a pin-badge with Loki’s face on it. A young connoisseur, you thought with a smile.

Behind them, the growing crowd heaved. Sparkling Stark-Industries antlers filled your field of vision, handed out at the gates. There was a static hum, hundred of conversations and jokes and countless eyes inspecting each of you with anticipation. You could feel their excitement fizzing in the air while Bucky fidgeted beside you. Thinking about his solo you had no doubt. You rubbed his back sympathetically. He offered a weak smile of thanks. Steve tapped the pedestal again. “Avengers,” he announced with authority. The hushed whispers and small waves of the team to the crowd came to a halt. “One..two..” he mouthed the three.

All of a sudden, the air came alive with the sound of ten voices, stronger and louder and more melodic than you had expected. Unbelievably, it sounded...good. Hark! The Heralds, angels sing; Glory to the newborn king,

The brass quintet upon the bandstand soared. Even in practice, it hadn’t been this good. A Christmas miracle, you thought as you belted out the words in some semblance of tune.

Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconcile, Your gaze flickered to the other side of the semi-circle, catching Loki’s.

He held his carol-sheet diligently at arms-length, not looking at it. But rather, at you.

He winked.

Steve had rightly separated you. The chances of him squeezing your ass in front of the sick children was just too high. What if one of them goes into shock, Steve had said. But in truth, it was the deep, soulful magnetism of Loki’s singing voice that posed the real risk. If you were standing beside him, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to contain yourself. You winked back. Beside Loki, Thor craned towards the paper his brother held.

Thor had memorised every carol. Every modern classic. Everything in the repertoire. You knew that for a fact.

For the last two weeks, ever since your conversation in the common room – you’d been able to hear him before you could see him. And not in the usual way. You’d become accustomed to hearing his theatrical rendition of Silent Night bouncing its ironic way around the tile of the gym, the hallways, seeping through floors. And what he lacked in vocal melody, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm.

No - in truth, as the God of Thunder stared at the music sheet, he was avoiding Steve’s appraising stare which darted to each of them in turn. Joyful, all ye nations rise, Join the triumph of the skies,

Reluctantly tearing your gaze away from your boyfriend, you focused back on the conductor. The crimson flush of his ears had ebbed. He was beginning to smile. Well, a little.

Hark! The Heralds, angels sing; Glory to the newborn king,

The carol continued. And then the next, and the next. Collection buckets that were being passed amongst the crowd began to overflow, the spectators indulging in a mix of swaying, singing, dancing.

With every song that passed, Bucky became more nervous, his voice a little higher.

You only faltered once during Winter Wonderland when you made the mistake of looking at Loki again. At some point, he had raked his hair back. Pink peaked at his cheekbones, his hip slouched casually, tapping his foot in time. One side of his sweater was concealed in the waistband of his dark chinos. A french-tuck, if you weren’t mistaken. It highlighted the sluttish creases that strained at his crotch.

Dark curls fell around the green knit, half-lidded eyes following each word as he sang it. You would fuck that sweater right off him later. Or maybe, he could keep it on...you mused. His smooth baritone slid over the words like a sled in morning’s first snow, to face unafraid, the plans that we made, walking in a- He looked up with a knowing side-smile in your direction. A sharp elbow in the ribs from Wanda made you realised you had lost your train of thought. Your mouth was open, but no words were coming out. “-winter wonderlaaaand,” you squawked out of time.

Steve’s eyes snapped to you, brow arched. He couldn’t complain, not really. Considering how well it was going. A brief erotically-charged moment of disassociation was the least he could expect, surely. As the song drew to a close with a flourish of conductor Rogers’ arms, the crowd burst into applause. With every passing number, it had become louder. You weren’t sure if there were more people, or if the mulled wine had been refilled. Steve spun to face the audience, growing darkness making the warm glow from fairylights create a halo around his blonde hair.

“And now...a very special treat,” he announced mysteriously to the expectant crowd. “Something very, very special indeed. I’ve heard it in rehearsal and golly, he’s just spiff.” Bucky’s feet began scuffing on the ground. He’s going to do a runner, you thought. But thankfully for Bucky, he had nothing to worry about.

The plan was for Barnes to perform a rousing rendition of Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) by Olivia Holt. Or Michael Buble, depending on the demographic. Backed up by the jingling ooo’s and aaa’s of the team of course. But despite Barnes initial enthusiasm, the thought of it had filled him with more horror each passing day.

Steve had been very excited about the whole affair. A grand finale for his orchestral debut, such as it was. And Bucky hadn’t the heart to tell him. “Buck?” you muttered out the corner of your mouth. You glanced at him, trying to be covert. He was sweating, staring blankly ahead. “Buck?” “Yuh.” Barnes mustered quietly as Steve began to move a microphone between the sick kids. Their little voices made your heart flutter. But you had a job to do. The weight of Loki’s concentration radiated from across the space between you. He was watching you and Bucky, completely still aside from one twitching finger and the small smile flickering at his dimples. You cleared your throat, leaning to the side towards the soldier. “In a few seconds you might feel a bit funny-” “I already feel a bit funny doll,” he murmured bitterly. “Yeah but...well, you’ll see. Just don’t freak out.” “Freak-what-now?” “Out-” “-Yah I got that-” he snapped, trying to turn towards you and failing. He tried to twist, but his shoulders wouldn’t budge. “What the-?” “Buck?” you repeated slowly. He met your eyes, the first shadows of fear creeping in. “When Steve calls you up, just shake your head. You have a little bit of movement in your neck. And you can talk a little. Just a little so I can check you’re okay. Okay?” Bucky raised his eyebrows in a grimacing caricature. You decided to assume that meant it was totally cool. “Who are hoo hurkin’ hor!?” he hissed in a wreckage of lisping syllables. His shoulders shook ever so slightly back and forth like a wound-up nutcracker as he tried and failed to move his feet. “Oh, no-” you said, realising he thought you’d been turned. “No, it’s just Loki’s magic. Don’t worry.” Bucky’s eyes widened.

‘Please welcome-’

“You’re off the hook with the song?” you chirped quietly, hoping it had the intended effect. Barnes stopped struggling. ‘-my friend, James Buchanan Barnes!’ A round of deafening applause snapped you from your bubble. Steve stood back at his podium, baton poised and ready for the band to begin.

Alongside the other Avengers, except Bucky, you bent down and picked up a sleigh bell carefully placed at your feet. You could beat someone to death with this thing, you thought as the chrome bells jingled beneath your hand. Wanda shot you a knowing glance, holding in a laugh.

The applause ebbed as James Buchanan Barnes remained rooted to the spot. His eyes darted side to side across the waiting crowd. He shook his head very, very slowly. Showtime, you thought. “I’m afraid he has a bit of stage-fright,” you explained loudly. Collective disappointment hummed in the air. Steve’s face flushed an immediate shade of fuchsia, features hardening. You could see the cogs in his brain turn, a victorious glittering finale slipping from his grasp. His lips puckered, sucking in his cheeks. “I’m sure with a little...encouragement,” Steve said with a grimacing smile, raising his arms. The crowd roared back to life.

Bucky shook his head, a bit faster this time. Rogers head lowered, the breath from his sigh of exasperation clouding around his face. “If I may...” came Loki’s calm drawl from across the line-up. It dripped with sensual showmanship, treacleish tones sending an immediate flood of desire leaking into your panties.

Men and women in the front rows grasped at each other, gawking as if suddenly seeing him for the first time. It doesn’t get any easier folks, you thought with a smile. “My brother here knows the arrangement by heart,” Loki continued. “The lyrics and suchlike- I’m sure he would be happy to relieve Barnes of his duties-”

Mutters of excitement spread through the crowd like a mexican wave. Thor immediately turned his back to the audience, muttering something at surprisingly hushed volume in his brother’s ear. Loki listened diligently, holding up a penitent finger to the crowd. Steve’s arms were folded, storm-clouds knitting his brow. The foot had begun to tap. “My brother makes the valid point that of the two of us, I am the more musically inclined-” Loki began, gracefully gripping Thor’s shoulders and spinning him back to face the audience.

He brushed his brother’s collar, removing the last of the almond crumbs which resided there. A smile you knew all too well stretched across Loki’s lips as he looked deep into Thor’s eyes, willing him to understand. “But alas,” Loki purred, “I know not the words.” And perhaps these words will heal, Loki thought.

Loki held his breath as Thor began to gingerly shuffle forwards, tugging at the hem of his Naughty- emblazoned jumper. If father could see us now, Loki mused with a shiver as his brother gripped the microphone.

The crowd was beginning to stomp in appreciation, driven into a frenzy by the turn of events. Thor gave a small wave, bashful smile growing wider as people began to whistle. Loki turned his attention to Rogers, standing stiff and poised with baton in the air. He gave it a singular flourish, counting down from three. The crowd fell silent.

Loki saw the moment that Steve and Thor’s eyes met. It seemed to make every fairy bulb glow a little brighter in the darkness, sparks of hope spreading like embers from a fire, fluttering upwards in a night sky. Please brother, Loki pleaded silently as he raised his sleigh bell. Don’t arse this up. He suddenly wondered if Thor had felt this way during their time at the cottage. Loki supposed that he had. The brass band sprang to life, drums making an entrance. (Christmaaaas) Loki sang suddenly with the others. Nine voices harmonised as one.

Thor panicked, pulling the microphone to his mouth. “Snow is...coming down...uh-oof-” he spluttered, the cable tangling around his shoe. (Christmaaaaas) they sang, cringing slightly.

One line in, and Loki had almost lost all hope. “I'm watching it faaaaall” Thor crooned in bass – a little more tunefully. (Christmaaaas) “Lots of...very lovely and festive, yes – you...people aro-hounnnd,” (Christmaaaas) Loki sang, a smile beginning to spread as his brother came alive. He was pointing at the children, giggles and squeals peppering the air. The sleigh bell beat against his palm in time with his brother’s voice. “Baby, please come ho-hommmme,” Thor sang. Loki looked up, catching a look on your face that he hadn’t seen before. There was something different in that look. Some deeper variable of your smile that ignited his heart. But there would be time for overthinking it later, he surmised as his brother launched into the chorus with a glottal barrage of enthusiasm. For now, he had a love to nurture.

As Loki released his practised backing harmonies with the rest of the team, his brother got into his stride. ‘Owned the stage,’ Loki believed was the term. Steve didn’t take his eyes off Thor for the whole number. And if Loki didn’t know better, which of course – he did, he would swear that the captain was blushing.

(Please) they sang, sleigh bells jangling in time. “Pleaseee” echoed his brother. (Please) “Please” (Please) “Please” (Please) “Please Baby, please come hommmme-” You were surprised the operatic efforts of Loki’s brother didn’t make the ground shake.

The crowd were beside themselves, singing and jiving and waving their hands in the air. Thor worked the big crescendo, falling to his knees on the ground. His thighs spread, and whether it was his intention or not, you saw Steve grip the podium as his sensibilities buckled. Just a bit. The captain’s lips rolled together, stifling what you were sure was a bite. Thank god Thor wore the tight jeans today, you mused as you held the final note. With a swiping flourish of the conductor’s baton, the song was over. The cheers were deafening.

Thor stood and gave a small bow, sudden bashfulness descending. He waved, backing off to the side. His eyes met Steve’s, giving him an understated nod. The captain returned it slowly, a look in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. You watched him mouth two words, thank you, before Thor collided into Loki.

There was only one more song to go. You watched as Loki patted his brother’s shoulder across the semi-circle, pulling him into a hug. His face was alight with pride. It melted your heart. Despite the passing of the months, you couldn’t get over how different his smiles were now. Open. Genuine. Real. He’s finally opened his heart.

Have you? The thought came intrusively. Fairy lights shone all around as Loki tussled his brother’s hair. Thor couldn’t stop smiling. And neither could Steve, you noticed. One more song. Rogers tapped the podium for the final time, raising the baton. The mellow sound of the saxophone twisted in the air, followed by strings.

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas Just like the ones I used to know” you sang. Loki’s eyes met yours, sparkling with the glitter of mischief well done. “Where the treetops glisten, And children listen, To hear sleigh bells in the snow,”

Bucky’s voice began to grow louder beside you. Released from his bodily prison at last. On cue, the Avengers began to peel away from the semi-circle, mingling with the crowd. Of course, any production orchestrated by Steve Rogers would end in a collective heart-melting communal singalong. Nothing else would do.

You watched as Wanda cosied up to a older man holding a mulled wine. He offered it to her immediately, stunned as he mouthed the words to White Christmas. She took it.

For your part, you made a beeline for the children sitting at the front of the audience, joining them in their sway. This whole thing was for them, after all. Loki’s shadow crept behind you, falling over the little girl with his face emblazoned on the pin badge.

“I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write” Loki purred melodically as he lowered to his haunches. He paused, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek. You watched her face, transfixed in joy as all her daydreams came true. The God of Mischief in person, his shadowed blue eyes looking into hers as though she was the only person in the world. That never gets old, either, you thought. He took her hand, pressing her tiny palm against his own. “May your days,” he sang with the crowd as his fingertips glowed green, “be merry and bright-” You couldn’t tear yourself from the look of absolute sincerity on his face. The utter determination painted on softened features to give this sweet girl a memory that would last for the rest of her life – however long that was.

Tears began to prick your eyes, seeing the crane of her neck upwards as her mouth fell open in wonder to the sky. Loki smiled. The green shimmer of his palm pressed to hers grew stronger. A glow flashed across the inky night, a billowing flourish of northern lights erupting over central Manhattan seeped in emerald and pinkish hues. They twisted in waves, swirling like a cloak which moved and rolled. It was alive. Loki's voice was quieter now, but no less beautiful as he sang. “And may all your Christmases, be-” “white,” the little girl gasped as snow began to fall. He did that, you thought in wonder as the crowd began to cheer, hugging each other. All sets of eyes were turned upwards to the sky. All but yours. They stayed fixed on Loki as the band played on amidst a flutter of newly swirling snowflakes. The man I love.

“The tie, brother-” Thor muttered nervously, “is it..?” “It is well done, brother” Loki replied.

He dusted the lapel of Thor’s crushed velvet suit jacket a final time, a deep red the shade of fine merlot. The blonde released a trembling sigh, pulling at his fingers.

It was Christmas Eve. “Did you take the pharmaceuticals as instructed?” Loki enquired quietly as the elevator bounced to a halt. Thor nodded, patting his breast pocket. “The Tums? Yes. I have some on my person should the gaseous beast rear in my belly.” Loki nodded, satisfied. All the bases were covered. He had done all he could do. Now, it was up to Thor. Well, almost. It had been Loki’s idea for the brothers to dress together for the party tonight. And although his initial plan was to ensure that Thor was in peak condition for this eve of great import, Loki would admit that he had enjoyed it. Very much.

He wore a suit matching his brother’s in all but one detail. Loki’s was a crushed velvet of richest emerald green. Thin silk ties of gold adorned them both, fastened tight to the white shirts beneath with a pin bearing their respective emblems. Loki’s gift to his brother. The Asgardian Princes were showing up, tonight. Loki had made sure of it. Mother would be proud, he smiled as the elevator doors opened. Thor’s Yuletide offering to him had been a gift certificate to the Cheesecake Factory, but Loki paid it no mind. Gifts had never been his brother's strong-suit.

The rest of the team was already gathered by the Christmas tree, festive beverages in hand. A rolling cheer of greeting sounded as the duo strode towards the scene. Loki grabbed two glasses from the bar, passing one to his brother who necked it immediately. The dark god swirled his finger, refilling it. Loki felt his brows rise as he saw you, standing with one finger curled over your lip and an entirely too sensual smirk on your beautiful face. Beneath the perfectly cut trousers of his suit, Loki’s cock twitched. “You look handsome,” you coaxed quietly as he slid an arm around your waist, releasing a breath he’d been holding as a charged grunt of need.

“If we had gotten ready for tonight together,” Loki growled hot in your ear, “I fear that dress would never have been seen by another intact.” He pressed himself to you with a lingering kiss, an appreciative thrust of his hips rubbing against your own. He sighed into your open mouth, feeling your fingers dig into his shoulders. “God,” Natasha muttered with playful scorn under her breath, shuffling over to give you both space. “Can’t take them anywhere,” she murmured to Sam. Sam grunted in agreement.

“Presents!” Tony cried, clapping his hands together. “Party starts at eight, tick tock. Cutting it fine thanks to Paris and Nicole here.” He nodded in Loki and Thor’s direction. Steve checked his watch. “One cannot rush perfection, Stark” Loki smirked, releasing you. He watched as Rogers turned and adjusted a decoration on the tree. A plush rabbit wearing a santa hat. He was nervous. Tony knelt down, reading each gift tag and throwing it to the corresponding team-member. An oblong package whizzed past Loki's face, hitting his brother square in the mouth. 'Ooft,' Thor grunted as mulled wine slopped over the side of the glass. He stumbled, catching the present. Loki sighed, flexing his fingers and removing the stain from the front of his sibling’s suit. His brother nestled the empty glass dangerously within the tree branches to his side, inspecting the package. “Tis soft,” he muttered seriously. Across the circle, Loki saw Steve’s anxious gaze darting upwards at his brother in intervals. He noted you offer the captain a comforting nod while Thor tore at immaculate wrapping, ripping off the red ribbon and casting it aside. “Odin’s beard…” Thor gasped as the final sliver of paper fell away.

The team fell silent, looking up from their various body massagers and associated tat. He raised the item in his hands like Simba, slack-jawed in awe. The amazed god stared at it, eyes glossy.

Bruce frowned towards the blonde, peering over his glasses with an oversized posing pouch dangling from one finger. “Is that-?” “-A chicken drumstick?” Nat gawked. “Tis’ soft…!” Thor breathed in wonder, twirling it in his hands. He clutched it to his chest, eyes darting around the group. “A thousand thanks upon whomever bestowed this plush poultry treasure upon me,” he murmured, unable to resist holding the cushion proudly at arms length.

“Truly whomever be my secretive santa knows me to my core-” he continued dreamily, looking to each avenger in turn. They all looked befuddled. All except one. Thor’s brow creased, doing a double take as Steve’s cheeks plunged to new depths of crimson. “Rogers?” the blonde god whispered, so low only Loki could hear it. “Open yours Steve!” someone probed. Captain America still held his own package in his hands, toying with it gently.

Loki maintained his stoic expression, tossing his newly acquired bottle of luxury dry shampoo between his hands as he noted horror descend on his brother��s face. Never fear, brother; he thought smugly. Thor thought that Steve was about to open a small box containing yet another gift certificate to the Cheesecake Factory. But Thor was mistaken. Firstly, America’s saviour was lactose intolerant. Any internet search would have told him that. But despite his brother’s poverty of imagination where presents were concerned, his heart was in the right place. And for the cunning plan his love and he had concocted, there was only one gift which could bring the two men comfort and joy this Christmas. The truth. “Wait, wait-” Thor yelped as he took several panicked strides across the room. He knelt down to Steve’s level, placing his hands over the box that Steve had only just revealed through the wrapping. “It’s not-” Steve looked up, meeting the god’s panicked stare with practised indifference.

“Let me open it, will ya?” he said calmly. Thor sank back, head bowed as he waited for the axe to fall. With every careful unlatching of sellotape, Loki saw his brother’s heart sink a little more into his stomach. “Good gravy, what’s this? A pocket-square?” Thor looked up, regret turning to confusion as he clocked the handkerchief dangling between Rogers slender fingers. It was familiar, heavy with otherworldly silk and trimmed in thread ground from the most precious jewels of nine realms. On one side, deepest burgundy melting to crimson. But on the other, a rich navy which faded to shimmering azure.

Red and blue, not red and green.

The two colours met in the middle, threads glittering and overlapping like foam on the shore. They seemed to move. To change and ebb in the light like a living thing. And stitched across the handkerchief in the finest gold,

En sannhet byttet mot en sannhet. “Jeepers,” Steve muttered as he pulled the silk appraisingly through his fingers. “Someone definitely went over the twenty dollar limit.” Thor twisted his head incredulously towards his brother. Loki narrowed his eyes briefly in response, coupled with a small nod. The blonde god cleared his throat, finally catching up to the scenario unfolding before him. “A truth for a truth,” Thor breathed quietly, looking to the floor.

Steve’s concentration broke, as if suddenly seeing the person kneeling beside him on the floor for the first time. “P-pardon?” he stuttered. There was a sudden wave of green hued light through the room, reminiscent of the northern lights which lit up last night’s sky at the jamboree. “My apologies, Rogers…” Loki purred, stepping forwards. “I feel it best to inform you that the others cannot see nor hear us at this moment. As far as they are aware, you are both by the bar.” Loki nodded to where a slightly glitchy duo of duplicates stood behind Tony’s counter, clinking glasses of tequila. “Just myself, and she-” he nodded to you, “are witness.” “W-witness?” Steve spluttered, trying to stand and finding his knees starting to buckle. He looked at Thor, eyes wide. But all he found was softness. “Say the words, Rogers” Thor urged gently, gesturing to the handkerchief. Steve frowned, as the blonde god pulled the silk from his grip.

“A truth for...what was it? Truth for a truth?” Rogers asked, confused gaze darting between the men and you.

Loki clapped his hands together quietly. “Wonderful. You are now bound to the Accords of the Kerchief.” Steve frowned deeper. “Accords of the what-now?” “Kerchief,” Loki repeated formally, nodding towards the silk in Thor’s hand.

“You have both held it while the other spoke the words. And now, you must exchange the truth which causes the conflict between you – so that it may be resolved.” “And what if I don’t wanna?” Rogers sniffed, ears burning. He avoided Thor’s eyes. Loki released a whittling hum of discontent. “Unfortunately, failure to comply with the Accord of the Kerchief once initiated means instant smiting at the hands of Heimdall.” “Smiting?! You can’t be serious,” Steve scoffed with gusto. “Oh yes,” Loki nodded very seriously. Thor was nodding too. Also very seriously. “The penalties are most grave, Rogers.” “You tricked me,” Steve hissed to the blonde opposite him.

“Technically I tricked you,” Loki smirked apologetically. Rogers eyes narrowed in his direction, his lip trembling with what looked suspiciously like a swear. “Laufeyson,” he warned. Loki extended his forefinger, waggling it slowly side-to-side. “It will do not a jot of good, Rogers. You can thank my mother for this one. Now -” he gestured expectantly between the men. Thor took a deep breath. “Rogers-Ihavefeelingsforyouwhichcannotbeexplainedin,mere...Norns-” “Slow down, Thor-” you cooed gently.

Loki felt your hand slide into his. The nerves roaring in his belly soothed as your fingers interlinked. Despite maintaining an exterior of calm, he was terrified.

“Rogers,” Thor began again. Steve stared at him, transfixed. The aura of suspicion which surrounded him was fading, his stiff spine slackening as he looked at the god. Really looked at him. Saw him.

“I have feelings for you, which run deep to the heart of me. Which I cannot deny any longer. And if you feel that you cannot return my interest, then I shall understand. But I cannot spend another night unable to sleep, thinking that you believe me to hate you. And I apologise for my boorish behaviour these past months.” There was a pause as the god took a breath before continuing. “It was self preservation, you see-” Thor rumbled quietly, before sighing.

Steve looked down, still except for his fingers fidgeting with the wrapping paper in his lap. “That was well done, brother” Loki soothed. Thor shot him a sad smile. “I-” Rogers started.

The three of you held your breath. He looked up, just at the moment Thor curled a blonde tendril behind his ear. “I-” Steve choked, shifting on his knees. “It’s okay Steve,” you coaxed from the side-lines. It was the final nudge he needed. “I feel the same,” was all Steve said. He looked up, meeting Thor’s widening eyes. “Truly?” Steve nodded shyly. “I got myself in a tizz, about a whole bunch of things which weren’t really to do with you. Or….us. Not really,” he stammered. "It wasn't a mistake. And I was a dummy to say so." Loki felt your fingernails dig into his palm, both of you craning forwards as the captain continued. His voice was serious, a slight waver just audible between the words. “For a while, I thought you thought I was just some kinda tart. Some kind of loose Jack. Well lemme tell you Odinson, Steve Rogers is no one’s tart.” “You were never my tart, Rogers,” Thor uttered with gravitas, gently cupping Steve’s jaw. The captain’s eyelids fluttered closed, leaning into his hold. In seconds, the space between them closed. Rogers arms wrapped around Thor’s shoulders, Thor’s hands sliding around the captain’s waist. They fit together like a glove, Steve’s fingers winding in the god’s hair like a spindle through spun gold. Low mutterings of apologies cascaded from their lips between kisses, small gasps and sighs as unpleasantness of past months were forgotten. “What the fuck?” Tony spluttered. Every set of eyes in the room was fixed on the God of Thunder and Captain America’s passionate embrace. Hel, Loki thought with a shock. In all the excitement, he had neglected to hold the spell which shielded them. The kiss ceased, but still their arms were wound around each other. “Sheesh,” Wanda laughed, grabbing a bottle of the good stuff on her way past the bar. “It’s about time.” A murmur of agreement rolled around the room, a chorus of whoops sounding as each teammate stooped to offer a clap on the back to the newly outed couple. And for the first time in living memory, the colour of Thor’s cheeks rivalled his lover’s. “Maybe you guys won’t be the public embarrassment at parties anymore,” Nat quipped as she passed, tapping Loki and you lightly on the ass. Your laughter lit up Loki’s heart. And there was that look in your eye again, the one he couldn’t place yesterday.

‘We did it,’ you mouthed silently to him. Loki winked in response, just as the clock chimed eight. With a spring in his step, Loki made his way to the men kneeling awkwardly on the floor, noting their interlinked fingers with a wave of pride. He offered both hands, and each was taken. He heaved, pulling the men to stand and immediately into a hug.

“Merry Christmas, brother” he whispered in Thor’s ear. “Do you need the handkerchief back?” Thor muttered through a smile. “I am assuming the revised colours were only temporary.” Loki chuckled, pulling him and Rogers tighter. The captain released a strangled ooft as the air was pressed from his lungs.

“I think not that we need such a trinket to ensure our bond. Not anymore. Do you, brother?” Loki murmured into his sibling’s hair.

From deep within the embrace, in a hold which seemed to melt the centuries, Loki felt his brother shake his head.

The party was a roaring success. And in the early hours of Christmas Day, you and Loki stumbled back to your apartment upstairs.

It was tiredness, mostly – and happiness. Strands of tinsel poked from Loki’s curls. You pulled one out with a giggle before unlocking the door and pulling him inside. “Finally,” he growled longingly as one slim finger toyed with the strap of your dress. Making quick work of pushing the velvet suit jacket from his shoulders, your fingers were halfway down his shirt buttons before you suddenly remembered- “-your present!” you cried, making Loki flinch back from where he had been buried in your neck.

“Can’t it wait?” he whined with feigned impatience. You waved an excited hand, scurrying to the cupboard. “No.” you shouted, head popping out behind the cupboard door. “I’ve been dying to give it to you.” Loki sighed, a reluctant smile spreading across his beautiful face. “I thought we agreed no gifts,” he huffed as you ran and sat cross-legged on the bed.

You bounced on your knees while he swaggered over, undoing the last of his buttons with a knowing grin as he enjoyed the roam of your hungry stare across his skin. His carved abdomen flirted into view, obliques visible with each stride as the thick cotton folded to his movements. Loki sat on the bed, legs spread at the edge. His thighs creased the material in a way that made your mouth water.

He picked up the box, inspecting it before throwing you a lingering smoulder. “Mischievous elf,” he purred. “It’s just a small thing” you bargained, biting your lip as the first side of paper was torn. “I stole it, actually.” Loki raised an eyebrow. “Open it!” you said, chewing on your thumbnail as you watched his eyes drop to the package. Suddenly the god’s face changed.

Playfulness melted to a frown, his smirk fading. He swallowed thickly, staring down at the mug in his hands before looking up at you. “-with the yellow bear,” he said quietly. “and the eyepatch!” you beamed. “I took it from the cottage. I noticed you always used it, I thought you might like the-”

Before you could finish, Loki’s hand had cupped the back of your head and pulled you into an all-consuming kiss. He bore down on you, the passion of his adoration sinking through the air and deep into your soul. Every circle of his tongue against yours, every caress of his breath as he repositioned his mouth over your own. He broke, panting. “Darling,” was all he could muster in thanks as he looked down at the ceramic with adoring eyes. You couldn’t stop smiling. His gaze snapped up, a click of his fingers making a perfectly wrapped present appear beside you on the bed. Golden paper shimmered before becoming whole. It was flat, and light. “No presents, huh?” you goaded sweetly. Loki smiled. “Open it,” he echoed. You complied. And inside the paper was a perfectly folded nightdress, adorned with autumnal leaves. The very same one. You hugged it to your chest, a dopey smile on your face. “I knew it was the one thing in that room you would miss,” he rumbled apologetically.

You reached for his hand, thumb running over the veins taut and thick on the back. “I hope this doesn’t mean I’ll be sleeping alone,” you whispered with a smile. Loki placed his mug on the side table, before reaching for the nightdress and placing it beside. “God forbid,” he growled. Loki pulled another errant strand of tinsel from his hair, making it vanish. Without breaking eye contact, he lowered you back on the mattress, the pad of one fingertip tracing down your cheekbone. Memorising it.

The way he was looking at you, the silence that hung where words should be. You knew which words they were. He was holding back, even now as he inhaled against your pulse-point. Holding back for you. As dark curls blanketed your vision, you thought of the excitement in his voice as the cunning plan was formed. Of the way his fists clenched as he silently cheered his brother on, how his face fell when he thought that it was all for naught. How his eyes had swum with joy as it all came together. Not for himself, but for them. And you thought of the smile on that little girl’s face, joyful in the midst of Christmas lights and magic that shouldn't be possible. But for her, and for you - with him...it was. Yes, you’d thought about that a lot. “I love you, Loki” you whispered slowly in his ear.

Loki’s kisses against your neck faltered. You heard a sigh rack his chest, breath hitching as his heart-beart quickened on top of your own. “Truly?” he murmured in response.

It was cautious, wary. His eyes came into view, concern clouding them. You slid a hand up his jaw, kissing him gently. “I love you,” you repeated solemnly. He pressed his forehead to yours, a choke of relieved laughter accompanying a long inhale of breath. “Gods,” he whispered on the exhale, “what have I done to deserve you?” “Everything,” you replied quietly. It was a truth.

He kissed you as though he was trying to absorb each atom of your breath, capture each flutter of the three words he’d longed to hear. As though they might vanish if he did not mark the moment with the seal of his touch. But they wouldn’t. You knew that now. How could they? “I love you,” he whispered back. And you believed him.

A/N: Thank you again so so so much for coming on this journey with me and the gang. I'm so happy with how this ended, even though the expansion was a bit unexpected(!) and I really hope you are too! Although the 'main' story is chapters 1-7, it felt like there was more to explore. Please let me know what you thought, any insights or additional HCs you have - they are always welcome ❤️ Tags

@lokischambermaid @meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @fandxmslxt69 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @thenotoriouserg @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @joyful-enchantress @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @kellatron55 @mrs-illyrian-baby @icytrickster17 @muddyorbs @buttercupcookies-blog @goddessofwonderland

#the lakes #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki x female reader #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki fluff #loki odinson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson fluff #loki marvel #loki imagine #loki x yn #loki x you #loki gif #loki series

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musicforastylesrestaurant · 1 year ago

Text

I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i feel like this idea is really cute and just had to be written down:)

word count - 1.4k

in which, when you and harry are putting the christmas presents under the tree on christmas eve, with harry dressed up in a santa costume just for his own novelty, and share a little moment to themselves, unbeknownst to them that there four year old son arlo, was watching the whole time.

00:13am. 25th December, 2023.

On this whimsical Christmas Eve, the air is infused with the scent of pine and anticipation as you and your husband Harry, donned in a jolly Santa suit purely for his own delight, tiptoe around the cozy living room.

The soft glow of twinkling lights casts a warm ambiance, enveloping the space in a serene holiday magic.

Upstairs in the master bed, your precious four-year-old, Arlo, is lost in dreams of sugarplums and toy-filled wonderlands.

As his dreams weave their gentle tapestry, you and Harry share mischievous smiles, conspirators in the clandestine mission to deliver presents beneath the twinkling Christmas tree.

In the quietude of the night, laughter bubbles between you and Harry, a shared joy that needs no reason. Silently, you exchange glances, finding amusement in the simple joy of being together on this enchanting night. The muffled laughter dances in the air, a secret language spoken in the hushed tones of love.

The presents, adorned with festive paper and ribbons, find their places beneath the tree like treasures awaiting discovery. With each shared giggle, you and Harry weave invisible threads of happiness, wrapping the room in the warmth of familial love.

The task at hand becomes a delightful game of stealth and joy. Harry, in his Santa suit, moves with a festive grace, and you follow suit, your hearts synchronized in the shared delight of creating magic for Arlo. Laughter, sweet and spontaneous, becomes the soundtrack to this festive ballet.

Beside the twinkling evergreen, Arlo's offerings for Santa and his reindeer beckon: a plate adorned with mince pies and a bunch of crisp carrot for Rudolph.

Harry, ever the good sport in his Santa attire, merrily takes a bite of the sweet, spiced pie, savoring the festive flavor with genuine delight.

Meanwhile, you opt for the crunchy carrots, enjoying their crisp freshness. The contrast of flavours mirrors the yuletide spirit, blending the sweetness of the mince pies with the earthy simplicity of the carrots.

The pièce de résistance, however, is the offering of milk. Harry, with a theatrical flourish, lifts the glass to his lips, only to be met with a cringe as the chilly liquid meets his tongue. The milk, left out for Santa's refreshment, bears the unmistakable chill of a night spent waiting. The internal wince is evident on Harry's face, though he valiantly soldiers on, determined not to let a bit of cold milk dampen the festive mood.

As you stand in the hushed glow of the Christmas tree, satisfied smiles exchanged with Harry, a sense of completion washes over you. The presents are arranged, the festive treats enjoyed, and the world outside is wrapped in a blanket of silent snow. It feels like the perfect moment to retire to bed, where dreams of sugarplums can join the night's symphony.

But just as you entertain the idea of slipping under the warm covers, Harry, in his Santa suit, wraps his arms around your waist with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His lips press gentle kisses against your neck, creating a trail of warmth that contrasts the cool air of the room. You can't help but laugh, a delighted sound that dances in the quietude.

"M’not quite ready f’bed yet," he murmurs against your neck, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "If I go now, I'll just get kicked in the back by ‘Lo, and I'll end up with no quilt."

The unexpected declaration sends a ripple of laughter through you, and you playfully turn around in his embrace. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you meet his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" you tease, your lips curving into a smile.

In the gentle dance of shared laughter and lingering gazes, you both revel in the magic of the moment. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow on Harry's face, accentuating the warmth in his eyes. His lips meet yours in a brief but tender kiss, a sweet punctuation to the unspoken joy that fills the room.

"M’suppose bedtime can wait a bit longer," he concedes, his arms tightening around you. "After all, who could resist the allure f’a quiet, magical Christmas night?"

In the gentle glow, Harry's eyes meet yours with a magnetic pull, and the world outside seems to vanish. His arms envelop you, creating an intimate cocoon that shields you from the outside world. The soft strains of holiday tunes linger, providing a subtle backdrop to the unspoken language of desire that fills the room.

The air is thick with a sweet tension as Harry's lips find yours in a series of passionate kisses, each one deepening the connection between you. Both of you smiling into each others mouths, your hands find the peach fuzz at the back of head neck, whilst his find habitat on the groove of your bum.

The room transforms into a haven of shared intimacy, where the only language spoken is that of desire, and every touch is a brushstroke in the masterpiece of this moment.

The heat of the moment intensifies as you lose yourselves in the magnetic pull of each other. The world outside continues its hushed existence, oblivious to the crescendo of emotions echoing within the room.

The bed, usually shared with the comforting presence of his parents, felt empty, and a sense of curiosity tugged at his tiny heart. Arlo, with his baby blanket in tow, embarked on a solo journey down the hallway.

The plush carpet beneath his little feet muffled his steps as he approached the top of the stairs. The house was still cloaked in the tranquillity of the evening, and Arlo, with wide eyes and tousled hair, peered down into the living room below.

A strange sound caught his attention, and he instinctively clutched his blanket a bit tighter.

At the bottom of the stairs, a tableau unfolded. His mother, adorned in her pajamas, was locked in an embrace with Santa Claus—or so it seemed. Arlo's innocent gaze widened, his imagination dancing with the possibility that Santa himself had arrived early to share a moment with his mom.

The festive glow of the Christmas tree provided an ethereal backdrop to the unexpected scene.

Unaware that the figure beneath the Santa suit was, in fact, his dad, Harry, Arlo continued to observe with a mixture of awe and confusion.

08:21am. 25th December, 2023.

The Christmas morning sun spilled into the kitchen, casting a golden hue on the day's festivities. As you walked in with Arlo nestled on your hip, the air buzzed with the promise of holiday magic.

However, a quiet tension lingered as Arlo, unusually reserved, gazed around the room with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

Harry, donned in a festive apron, stood at the stove, the sizzle of eggs providing a comforting backdrop to the scene. Arlo's silence persisted, his little mind undoubtedly preoccupied with the mysterious encounter from the previous night.

As you settled into the kitchen routine, the atmosphere held a subtle undercurrent of curiosity. Arlo's wide eyes shifted between you and Harry, his silence becoming a palpable presence in the room.

The bewilderment in his gaze hinted at the lingering confusion from witnessing the unexpected kiss with Santa Claus.

With each passing moment, the unspoken question hung in the air. Harry, flipping eggs with a practised ease, stole a glance at Arlo, sensing the inner turmoil of his young son. The parental instinct to reassure tugged at your heart as you navigated the morning, your steps mindful of the unspoken query hanging in the air.

After the hearty Christmas breakfast, Arlo, still harbouring the mystery from the previous night, toddled over to Harry.

His little arms reached up, a silent request to be lifted. Harry, ever the doting dad, scooped him up onto his hip, planting a cascade of playful kisses on Arlo's cheek. The room echoed with the sounds of affectionate giggles.

As Arlo settled into Harry's arms, he seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing around to ensure that you were nowhere in sight. Satisfied that the conversation would be just between him and his dad, Arlo took a deep breath, his eyes serious.

"I have something to tell you, Daddy," Arlo announced in a hushed voice, leaning in as if sharing a grand secret.

Harry, playfully intrigued, raised an eyebrow and encouraged him to spill the beans.

With an air of importance, Arlo whispered, "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus."

The words hung in the air, and a mischievous sparkle lit up his eyes. Harry's reaction, however, was unexpected.

A loud, hearty laugh erupted from Harry's chest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Arlo, momentarily perplexed, couldn't help but join in the infectious laughter. Harry, wiping away an imaginary tear, managed to compose himself and leaned in with mock seriousness.

Harry brought his face closer to his mini-me and brought his voice to a quiet mock whisper.

“Tell m’more.”

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criticallyinneedofadar · 24 days ago

Note

Hello! I am quite enjoying your writing!

May I please request some Adar fluff? Maybe Yule is approaching in Middle Earth and Reader has organized some small treat for the Uruk children. As the end of the evening Adar offers to escort Reader back to their quarters, when it starts to snow. Reader is delighted, and Adar uses this as pretext to wrap his arm and cloak around them. Then perhaps a goodnight kiss?

Thanks!

This was so sweet I almost cried!! Sweet Adar and his poor Uruks!

Yuletide Joy

The cold in the air signals the turn of the season, crisp and biting, yet it feels softer here among the mountains. The world outside the fortress is blanketed in frost, the ground hard underfoot, but you’ve come to find a kind of peace in the harshness. The Uruks move through the camp with the same steady determination as always, indifferent to the encroaching chill. They are practical creatures, efficient and blunt, and their lives are not built around the sentimentality you once knew in other places.

Still, the approaching season stirs something in you. Yule draws near—a time of warmth, of light in the dark, of remembering what is good even when the world feels cold and unyielding. You have lived through many Yules, some filled with joy, others with sorrow, but never without the sense of something shared, something meaningful.

As you walk through the camp, your breath clouding in the frigid air, you pass a cluster of Uruk children gathered around a low fire. They speak in rough voices, exchanging half-teasing jabs, and though their bodies are young, their faces bear the same hard lines of survival you see in their elders. The fire’s light dances in their eyes, but there is no laughter, no sense of anticipation for the season to come. Something feels… empty.

Later, in the quiet of the hall, you bring your curiosity to one who might answer. Adar sits near the great hearth, his dark eyes reflecting the fire’s glow, his presence both commanding and oddly still. He looks up as you approach, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a flicker of acknowledgment in his gaze.

“May I ask you something?” you begin, hesitant yet determined.

He inclines his head slightly, inviting you to continue.

“Do the Uruks celebrate Yule?” The question feels strange on your tongue, an echo of the life you once knew—before this. “Or… anything like it?”

For a moment, Adar says nothing. The fire crackles between you, filling the silence. Then he leans back, his gaze thoughtful, distant. “No,” he says at last, his voice low and measured. “They have never known such things. Their lives have been forged in darkness, in hardship. There has been little room for celebration.”

The words strike you harder than you expected. You knew, of course, of their suffering—how they were shaped by cruelty, by war—but to imagine a life devoid of even the smallest joy, even the brief warmth of a shared moment, is something else entirely.

“They have known no kindness,” he continues, his tone softening slightly. “And kindness was never taught to them.”

A silence stretches between you, heavy with understanding. You glance toward the fire, watching the embers pulse like faint, dying stars. “Then… perhaps it is time they learned,” you say quietly, the idea taking root in your mind before you can question it.

Adar watches you for a long moment, his dark gaze unreadable. Then, without a word, he turns back to the fire, as if to say he will not stop you—but he will not help, either.

It is a challenge, unspoken but clear. If you wish to teach them Yule, you must do so yourself.

You leave the hall with a strange warmth blooming in your chest, despite the cold outside. For the first time in years, you feel the season stirring in you—not as a memory, but as a possibility. And as you step into the chill night, you find yourself smiling.

This Yule, the Uruks will know something different. Something new.

. The decision you made the night before settles firmly in your mind: this Yule, the Uruks will feel something other than the weight of survival. There will be warmth, gifts, and something resembling joy.

The first step is understanding what they might appreciate—and that means asking questions.

You find Rakha near the camp’s edge, her shoulders broad and scarred, her expression as always, sharp and skeptical. She is one of the few who does not outright avoid conversation with you. Perhaps she even tolerates it. Her eyes narrow slightly as you approach, her hands busy sharpening a blade that has seen years of battle.

“Elf,” she greets with a rough voice, the name more observation than insult.

“Rakha,” you reply, your tone light. “I need your advice.”

She gives a short, barking laugh. “Advice? From me?” She raises a brow, clearly amused. “What mischief are you up to?”

You smile, undeterred. “Not mischief—something more… festive. If you were a child,” you say carefully, “what would make you happy? What do the young ones enjoy?”

Her sharpening pauses, and she frowns in thought. “The children enjoy games, though they play rough. Not like your kind.”

“I’m not asking for my kind,” you reply softly, watching her face. “I want to know what would bring them joy.”

She considers this, her dark eyes narrowing. “A good hunt. A game of strength, something with competition.” She taps the blade thoughtfully. “And perhaps food. Something sweet—if you can manage it.”

Sweet. That will be a challenge, but not impossible. You thank Rakha and make your way through the camp, gathering scraps of knowledge from the Uruks willing to speak. You hear suggestions for rough-hewn games, tales of contests they enjoyed as whelps, and ideas for food that might please even their hardened palates.

By mid-afternoon, your mind is full of plans. You’ll need supplies for a feast—perhaps roasted meat, root vegetables, and something sweet, even if it’s simple. You will craft small gifts from what little is available, carving trinkets from wood, perhaps stitching small pouches of dried herbs and spices. It’s not much, but it will be something.

You throw yourself into the preparations with a quiet determination, keeping your work discreet. The Uruks eye you curiously, though few ask questions. They’ve learned not to expect answers from you unless you offer them willingly.

But Adar is not so easily deterred.

He finds you late in the evening, standing near the great hearth, sorting through a pile of worn fabrics and dried herbs. His steps are soft, his presence unmistakable. You don’t look up as he approaches, focusing instead on your work.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice calm, but with a hint of curiosity. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing important,” you reply too quickly, too lightly. “Just something to pass the time.”

Adar tilts his head, and you can feel his gaze on you, sharp and knowing. “You are lying.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes briefly, trying to muster an air of nonchalance. “It’s nothing,” you insist with a faint smile. “I have everything under control.”

He watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally giving the smallest of nods. “Very well,” he says, though his tone betrays that he knows more than he lets on. “I will leave you to your… nothing.”

As he turns to leave, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He knows. Of course he knows. But for some reason, he is letting you have this—letting you work in secret, pretending he does not see.

A small, pleased smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Whatever he thinks, the Uruks will have their Yule, and you will make sure of it.

Even if Adar lets you think it is all your idea.

The halls are alive with the smell of roasting meat and spices, the rich aroma blending with the faint, sharp scent of evergreens you’ve woven through the space. The fire roars high in the great hearth, casting flickering light across the worn stone walls. For the first time since you arrived, the fortress feels less like a bastion of war and more like a home—at least for one night.

You step back to survey the scene. The long tables, usually bare and utilitarian, are lined with simple but hearty food: roasted meats dripping with juices, stewed roots seasoned with herbs, and in the center, a collection of small, honeyed pastries you worked tirelessly to prepare. It was no easy feat to find the ingredients, let alone bake them without notice, but you managed—and the golden treats gleam temptingly in the firelight.

The Uruk children are the first to arrive, creeping in hesitantly, their wary gazes darting around the room. They eye the decorations with suspicion, unused to such offerings, but the warmth of the fire and the enticing scent of the feast lure them closer.

One small Uruk, barely more than a whelp, edges toward the table, his eyes wide as he stares at the pastries. He glances back at you, suspicion still lingering in his gaze. “What is this?” he asks, his voice rough but curious.

You crouch to his level, smiling. “They’re sweets,” you explain gently, picking up one of the small pastries and holding it out to him. “Try it.”

He sniffs the treat, his distrust warring with curiosity, but eventually, hunger wins. He takes a tentative bite, and his eyes widen in shock and delight. He chews slowly, savoring the unexpected sweetness, before letting out a low grunt of approval.

Soon, the other children follow, cautiously at first, then with more confidence. They dart toward the table, grabbing treats and food, their faces lighting up with something that might almost be joy.

The room fills with noise—laughter, the clatter of plates, the delighted cries of the children as they realize that this night is theirs to enjoy. One of the older Uruks, Rakha, appears in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression. She steps forward, grabs a sweet pastry, and takes a large bite.

Her eyes narrow, as if trying to maintain her usual gruff demeanor, but the way she devours the rest of the treat gives her away. “Sweet,” she mutters, chewing thoughtfully. “Didn’t think I’d like it.”

You grin, leaning against the edge of the table. “Seems you have a sweet tooth after all.”

She snorts but doesn’t deny it, reaching for another. Around the room, other Uruks begin to filter in—adults drawn by the warmth and scent of the feast. They take their seats hesitantly at first, watching the children with quiet curiosity, but it doesn’t take long for the tension to melt. Soon, the room is filled with the sound of conversation and laughter, rough and unfamiliar, but genuine.

The children play games near the fire, shouting and chasing each other through the hall, their sharp-edged voices echoing with unexpected joy. One of the younger ones topples, only to be scooped up by an older Uruk, who chuckles as he sets the child back on his feet.

You watch it all unfold, the sight filling your heart with warmth. They are fierce, scarred, and hardened by life, but tonight, they are something else: a family, if only for a moment.

At the center of it all, the fire crackles and roars, casting golden light over the gathered Uruks. Some sit close together, sharing food and stories, while others lounge near the edges, their expressions relaxed, their usual wariness softened. The sound of laughter, rough and raw, fills the room like music.

As the night deepens, you feel a presence behind you, and you don’t need to turn to know it’s Adar. His footsteps are soft, but the air seems to change when he enters, a stillness settling over the moment.

“You’ve done well,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not nothing,” you reply, teasing, recalling your earlier evasion.

Adar’s dark eyes glimmer in the firelight, and though his expression remains unreadable, there is a softness there, a hint of approval. “No,” he agrees. “It is not nothing.”

Together, you watch the Uruks—your Uruks now, in some small way—as they revel in this unexpected celebration. For once, there is no war, no fear, no pain. Only warmth, joy, and the fleeting magic of Yule.

The hall is finally quiet, save for the crackling of the fire, its embers glowing faintly in the hearth. The Uruks, full and content, have begun to drift away—some lingering near the warmth, others guiding the children back to their sleeping quarters. The scattered remnants of the feast remain: half-empty plates, crumbs from the pastries, and overturned wooden cups.

You sit at the edge of one of the long tables, exhaustion settling into your bones like a deep ache. Yet, despite your weariness, there is a glow in your chest, a kind of satisfaction that makes the fatigue feel lighter. You move to gather a few plates, intent on helping with the cleanup.

“You’ve done enough.”

Adar’s voice, smooth and low, cuts through the quiet, and you turn to see him standing at the edge of the hall, his dark eyes unreadable but soft in the firelight. He crosses the room, his steps slow and deliberate. “Let the others take care of it,” he says, his gaze locking with yours. “You deserve rest.”

You hesitate, glancing at the mess still left to be cleaned, but the warmth in his voice and the weight of your own exhaustion finally convince you. “Perhaps,” you admit with a small smile, “I could use some rest.”

“Come,” Adar offers, extending his arm in a subtle but unmistakable gesture. “I will walk you back.”

Surprised but grateful, you nod and rise, taking his offer. His presence is steady beside you, and as you step out into the cold night air, the sharp chill is softened by the nearness of his warmth.

The snow has started to fall, soft flakes drifting down like stars shaken loose from the sky. The quiet is profound, the sounds of the camp fading behind you as you walk together, boots crunching in the fresh powder.

“You’ve done something remarkable tonight,” Adar says after a moment of silence. His voice is quiet, but there is something weighty in it, a rare gentleness. “They laughed. Truly laughed. It has been many years since I heard such a sound.”

You smile, watching the snow gather in the dark locks of his hair. “It wasn’t just me,” you reply. “They were ready for joy, even if they didn’t know it.”

He glances at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying something like amusement. “You underestimate what you’ve done.”

You walk a little farther, the night air crisp and still. The conversation turns to the night’s success, and as you speak, a thought strikes you like a sharp pang. You halt mid-step, realization blooming in your mind.

“I forgot something.”

Adar stops, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

You exhale, a soft puff of white in the cold air, and laugh at yourself. “I forgot to make you a gift. With everything else, I… I didn’t prepare anything for you.”

He tilts his head, studying you with that patient, enigmatic expression. “You think I require a gift?”

You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling foolish. “It’s Yule. I should have made something, given something—”

Adar steps closer, close enough that the cold air seems to vanish between you. His hand reaches out, barely brushing your arm. “You gave me something,” he says softly, his voice like the distant roll of thunder, “something no gift could surpass.”

You blink, caught by the intensity in his gaze. “What?”

He smiles, a small, rare thing, and the firelight from the hall catches in his eyes. “The sound of my children laughing,” he says. “Of them living, not merely surviving.” He pauses, and the weight of his words lingers in the air like the falling snow. “That is more than I could have asked for.”

At his words, warmth blooms in your chest, fierce and unexpected, and you realize there is nothing else you could have given him that would mean more.

As you stand at the threshold of your chambers, the snow falling in gentle silence around you, Adar steps forward, his gaze heavy with unspoken meaning.

Adar leans in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. His hand moves from your arm to cup your cheek, his palm rough but his touch achingly gentle.

“If there is one gift I desire,” he murmurs, his voice low, “it is this moment.”

Before you can speak, his lips brush yours, soft and deliberate. The kiss is warm, unhurried, and tender, his confidence steady where yours trembles. For a heartbeat, you freeze, uncertainty swirling in your chest—but then the warmth of him draws you in, and you melt into it, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest.

The kiss lingers, sweet and fragile, until he pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air. His thumb brushes your cheek, a soft, lingering touch.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, his voice a soft caress.

You manage a shaky smile, your heart still fluttering. “Goodnight, Adar.”

He steps back, his cloak brushing the snow as he turns and walks away, the snow falling around him in a silent curtain. You stand at your door, the warmth of the kiss lingering long after he is gone, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.

#adar x reader #adar x you #the rings of power #fanfiction #adar rings of power #adar #adar fanfic

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moonselune · 9 days ago

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🎄A Very BG3 Ladies Christmas 🎄

Karlach:

The cottage was alive with the warmth of anticipation and the smell of a Christmas dinner in the making. The air was fragrant with roasting vegetables, a hint of spiced cider simmering on the stove, and the rich, buttery aroma of a pie baking in the oven. The small Christmas tree in the corner stood proudly, adorned with mismatched trinkets and tinsel—an endearing chaos that spoke of love and effort rather than precision. You hummed a cheerful yuletide tune as you stirred the gravy, your mind lost in the rhythm of preparation.

Outside, the steady thwack of an axe splitting wood echoed through the snow-covered landscape. Karlach had insisted on chopping wood, declaring that no infernal engine-powered warrior was going to let a little cold stop her. Occasionally, a loud curse or exclamation of triumph would ring out, bringing a smile to your face.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a gust of icy wind, snowflakes tumbling inside like tiny invaders. Karlach filled the doorway, her broad frame outlined against the snowy backdrop, steam rising from her in wispy tendrils as her infernal engine battled the chill. She stomped her boots on the mat, shaking off the snow, and let out a loud, exuberant curse.

“Hellfire and holly berries, it smells amazing in here!” she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of you. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly damp from melted snow, and she carried an armful of wood, which she promptly dumped by the fire.

You turned, laughing, wiping your hands on a dishtowel. “Karlach! You’re bringing half the snow inside with you!”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she practically bounded across the room to your side.

“Forget the snow—what are you making? It smells like heaven in here!” Her voice was full of wonder as she peeked over your shoulder at the pots and pans.

“It’s a practice run for Christmas dinner,” you explained, still smiling. “I wanted to make sure everything turns out right for the big day.”

“Well, let me be your taste-tester,” she declared, already reaching for a spoon. You playfully swatted her hand away but couldn’t stop laughing as her persistence wore you down.

One by one, you let her sample everything—the velvety mashed potatoes, the savory gravy, the tender roasted vegetables, and even a bite of the pie crust you’d saved from earlier. Each taste was met with exaggerated groans of delight and compliments that made your cheeks warm.

“You’re going to spoil your appetite for the actual dinner,” you teased as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Karlach leaned against the counter, her grin widening. “Worth it.”

Just as you were about to turn back to the stove, she cleared her throat dramatically.

“You missed something,” she said, her voice full of playful mischief.

You frowned, looking at her in confusion. “What? Did I forget a seasoning?”

Karlach simply gestured upward with a devilish smile. You followed her gaze and froze. Dangling above the two of you, tied hastily with a red ribbon, was a sprig of mistletoe. Your mouth opened in mock indignation.

“When did you even—”

Karlach didn’t give you a chance to finish. She closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, her arms wrapping around your waist as she pulled you close.

“Merry Christmas,” she murmured, her voice warm and soft despite the grin on her lips. Then, with the snow melting in her hair and the scent of Christmas filling the air, she kissed you—a kiss full of love, fire, and all the joy of the season.

As you pulled away, her grin turned cheeky. “Best practice run ever.”

Minthara:

The hearth crackled softly, its warmth radiating across the fur rug where you and Minthara lay intertwined. Limbs tangled effortlessly, her pale, slender fingers tracing lazy circles along your arm as you both held goblets of wine. The flickering firelight painted her silver hair with streaks of gold, her crimson eyes glowing with a rare softness reserved for these quiet moments.

Minthara tilted her head, her lips brushing against yours briefly before she pulled back with a smirk. "So, tell me more about this… Christmas of yours. You say it is a time of joy, but from what you’ve described, it sounds more like an invitation for chaos."

You chuckled, swirling your wine thoughtfully. "Well, it’s a celebration of togetherness, goodwill, and generosity. There are decorations, like holly and mistletoe, feasts, gifts exchanged, and songs sung by the hearth."

She raised a silver brow, clearly unconvinced.

"So, you gather your loved ones in one place, get them drunk on wine and spirits, fatten them with food, and create an air of contentment with gifts and song?" She leaned closer, her expression sharpening with amusement. "If I were in Menzoberranzan, that would be the perfect time to eliminate one's foes. No one would see it coming. Poison in the goblet, a knife between the ribs. A massacre veiled in celebration."

Her words, spoken with an alarming mixture of sincerity and delight, made you burst into laughter. She frowned, watching you with mock offense as your shoulders shook.

"Minthara," you said, catching your breath, "never change."

She huffed softly, though her lips twitched upward. As you turned to refill her goblet, a glint of red and green caught her eye. She plucked a sprig of holly from where it had fallen from the mantlepiece, holding it up with curiosity.

"Is this the plant you mentioned? The one you claim people kiss beneath?"

You glanced at the holly, shaking your head with a grin. "No, that's holly. The plant you're thinking of is mistletoe. It has white berries and hangs in doorways."

Minthara scowled at the holly as if it had personally offended her and tossed it into the fire without a second thought. The flames hissed as they consumed the sprig.

"Useless," she muttered, but her smirk returned as she fixed her gaze on you. "And mistletoe means you must kiss, no matter what? Such an excellent tradition. I like that power."

You reached to brush a strand of her hair away from her face, your voice soft and amused. "Minthara, you don’t need mistletoe to kiss me. You already have that power."

Her eyes narrowed, and her smirk grew predatory. She set her goblet aside and in one fluid motion, she was on top of you, pressing you down into the soft fur beneath. Her fingers curled into your hair as her lips hovered just above yours, her smile wicked yet filled with an undeniable affection.

"I suppose you’re right," she purred, her breath warm against your lips. "But hearing you admit it makes it all the sweeter."

And with that, she kissed you deeply, the fire crackling beside you as the warmth of her affection matched the heat of the hearth. You could only surrender, lost in her intoxicating mix of passion and dominance, silently thanking the universe for the strange, wonderful joy that was Minthara.

Lae'zel:

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warm glow casting flickering shadows across the room. You and Lae’zel sat on a plush rug, sharing a bottle of spiced wine you had brought out in the spirit of the season. Lae’zel’s cheeks were flushed, both from the alcohol and the comfort of the evening, and her usually sharp gaze had softened into something almost dreamlike—though her natural intensity never wavered entirely.

"Tell me more of this… Saint Nick," Lae’zel said, her words slow and slightly slurred. She leaned back, her movements less precise than usual, a rare sight for the disciplined warrior.

You grinned, already halfway through explaining Christmas traditions to her. The concept seemed to fascinate her, though not in the way you’d expected.

"Well," you began, swirling the wine in your cup, "he’s a mysterious figure. He watches over everyone and knows if you’ve been naughty or nice. Then, on Christmas Eve, he sneaks into homes and leaves gifts—or coal, if you’ve been bad."

Lae’zel stared at you, her golden eyes narrowing in disbelief.

"This… Saint Nick judges mortals?" she said, her tone low and dangerous, the way she might speak of an illithid. "He decides who is deserving and who is not? And then he enters your home without challenge?"

You blinked at her, trying not to laugh, but her fiery indignation was already bubbling to the surface.

"Well, yes," you said cautiously, "but it’s a good thing. People leave cookies and milk for him. And he travels the whole world in one night, pulled by a sleigh of flying reindeer."

Lae’zel froze, staring at you as though you’d just revealed some deep, existential threat.

"Flying reindeer?" she repeated slowly, as though tasting the words for the first time. "An army of magical beasts at his command? This is no benevolent figure. This is a tyrant cloaked in merriment and mystery! This… Saint Nick must be stopped."

You burst into laughter, doubling over as Lae’zel rose unsteadily to her feet. She wobbled slightly but held herself upright with the ferocity of sheer will.

"Lae’zel," you choked out between laughs, "it’s not like that—"

"It is exactly like that," she snapped, pointing a finger at you accusingly. "He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you are awake. What kind of perverse spy is this?" She began pacing—well, swaying more than pacing—her usual commanding movements undermined by the wine.

"To pass judgment on us, he must have some means of divination," she continued, her voice rising dramatically. "And to cover the entire world in one night? That requires an artifact of immense power, or perhaps a pact with some vile entity." She stopped suddenly, glaring at you. "And you celebrate this?"

You couldn’t contain yourself. Tears streamed down your face as you laughed uncontrollably, clutching your sides. "Lae’zel, he’s not… He’s just a legend!"

"A legend that invades homes and enlists magical beasts!" she shot back, wobbling slightly as she pointed at the ceiling. "One of them with a glowing nose? That sounds like a weapon. A means to light the sky and strike terror into his enemies. This is an emergency, tav."

You tried to speak but could only wheeze through your laughter. Lae’zel glared at you, clearly unamused by your mirth.

She crossed her arms, swaying slightly, and declared, "This… Santa shall not enter our home unchallenged. If he dares to come, I will meet him blade in hand and show him the folly of judging Lae’zel of the crèche."

Her dramatic proclamation only made you laugh harder. She stepped closer, leaning down until her face was level with yours.

"Do not laugh," she growled, though there was no true anger in her tone. "You may mock now, but when the sky is filled with reindeer and the tyrant descends, you will thank me for my vigilance."

You gasped for breath, wiping tears from your eyes.

"Lae’zel, I can’t… I can’t breathe…" you managed, your sides aching.

She huffed and sat back down, muttering darkly to herself. "A man who spies on the world and judges mortals. Hmph. He should fear me."

You leaned against her shoulder, still laughing, and she begrudgingly allowed it, though she continued to mutter about "the audacity of Saint Nick" and "the treachery of reindeer." Even drunk, she was a force to be reckoned with, and as absurd as the moment was, you couldn’t help but adore her passion.

By the end of the night, you were both sprawled on the rug, her mutterings fading into soft breaths as she drifted off. You chuckled to yourself, imagining Lae’zel standing guard on Christmas Eve, ready to face Santa Claus himself. As chaotic as it was, it was moments like these that made you fall even more in love with her.

Shadowheart:

Wyll's Christmas party as the Grand Duke was in full swing, the chatter of the guests blending with the faint sound of music and the warm crackle of a nearby hearth. You and Shadowheart had started the evening with the best of intentions—just a drink or two to toast the season. But as the night wore on, the drinks multiplied, and soon enough, you were both laughing louder and leaning on each other a little more than usual.

"We need to sober up," Shadowheart declared at one point, her words slurring ever so slightly. Her silver hair gleamed in the dim light, and her cheeks were flushed from laughter and drink. "We’re champions of the gods, or at least I am. We can't let this… festive nonsense take hoo-miliate us."

You nodded sagely, or as sagely as you could manage, trying to appear serious despite the hiccup that punctuated your agreement.

"Food," you said with a dramatic wave of your hand. "We need food. Lots of it. I’ll meet you in the cloakroom."

With that, you both set off on your respective missions, weaving through the throngs of merry partygoers with the determination of someone attempting a noble quest. You managed to swipe an entire tray of vol-au-vents from the buffet table, dodging a suspicious glance from the server as you disappeared into the hallway.

When you finally reached the cloakroom, precariously balancing your loot, you opened the door to find Shadowheart already there. She was perched on a pile of cloaks, her black dress blending with the dark fabric beneath her, and a plate piled high with food rested in her lap. Her mischievous smile greeted you as she popped a small tart into her mouth.

"Ah, there you are," she said, her voice tinged with amusement. "Impressive haul. Truly, you’re a scavenger after my own heart."

You stumbled into the room, letting the door close behind you as you plopped down beside her on the makeshift throne of cloaks. With a mouth full of food, you gestured proudly at your tray.

"Vol-au-vents," you mumbled, spraying crumbs as you grinned.

Shadowheart looked at your tray and gave an approving nod, but then her smile turned sly.

"Not bad," she admitted, "but I think I’ve outdone you."

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as she reached behind her and pulled out a hidden bottle of wine, still corked. She held it up triumphantly, her grin widening as she caught your expression.

"You’re a genius," you said, reverence in your voice as you stared at her with newfound admiration. "I fell in love with a genius."

Shadowheart’s laughter filled the small room, warm and soft, as she handed you the bottle. "Well, don’t just sit there praising me. Open it. Let’s celebrate our brilliance."

You fumbled with the cork, eventually managing to pop it free with a satisfying thunk. The two of you toasted each other, forgetting entirely that this entire plan had been about sobering up. Between bites of stolen party food and sips of wine, the night blurred into a haze of laughter and whispered conversations.

At some point, you leaned your head against Shadowheart’s shoulder, and she rested hers against yours, both of you basking in the warmth of the small room and each other’s presence. The wine bottle lay empty on the floor, surrounded by crumbs and half-eaten vol-au-vents.

It was in this state that Wyll found you hours later. He opened the cloakroom door, intending to grab a spare scarf, and stopped short at the sight before him.

You and Shadowheart were curled up together on the pile of cloaks, both of you sound asleep. Your heads rested against each other, and her arm was draped loosely across your chest. The plate of food had tipped over, scattering crumbs everywhere, and the empty wine bottle glinted in the faint light from the hallway.

Wyll sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement crossing his face.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath. "The two of you are impossible."

He grabbed the nearest cloak, tossed it gently over the two of you, and quietly shut the door, shaking his head as he returned to the party. After all, it was Christmas—he could let you two have your moment.

Jaheira:

The smell of simmering spices and citrus filled the small kitchen, making the chilly winter air beyond the windows seem like a distant memory. You stood side by side with Jaheira, each of you tending to a pot of mulled wine over the crackling fire. Jaheira’s pot was a picture of precision—carefully balanced spices floating atop deep crimson wine, orange slices nestled just right. Yours, on the other hand, was more of a chaotic experiment, and Jaheira’s exasperation was already palpable.

"Now," Jaheira began, her voice steady with the wisdom of a seasoned teacher, "you must be patient. The key to good mulled wine is balance. Too much cinnamon, and it overpowers the rest. Too little, and it lacks warmth. Watch carefully as I—what are you doing?"

You glanced over guiltily, holding a small pinch of dried chili flakes above your pot.

"I thought it could use a little kick," you said with a sheepish smile.

Jaheira pinched the bridge of her nose. "Spiced wine is already warm. It does not need to burn the throat as well."

You shrugged. "It’ll be fine," you assured her, dropping the flakes in anyway. "I trust my instincts."

Jaheira’s lips pressed into a thin line, though you could see the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Your instincts are going to ruin perfectly good wine," she muttered, returning her focus to her pot. "Pay attention to the proportions. A single bay leaf. Three cloves. One star anise. Not—" she gestured to your chaotic collection of additions, including what looked suspiciously like a sprig of mint, "whatever that is."

"It’s innovation!" you countered, adding a drizzle of honey without measuring.

"It’s madness," Jaheira replied, shaking her head. Still, there was a fondness in her tone as she stirred her pot with practiced grace.

You worked in silence for a while, sneaking glances at Jaheira’s meticulous process. Her hands moved with such certainty, each motion deliberate and confident. She was as commanding in the kitchen as she was on the battlefield, and you couldn’t help but admire her.

"Are you paying attention?" she asked suddenly, catching you watching her.

"Of course," you said quickly, though your pot told a different story. It bubbled ominously, the array of ingredients battling for dominance in a way that was decidedly unbalanced.

Jaheira sighed. "I’ve never met someone so determined to ruin a simple recipe," she said, but there was a softness in her voice that betrayed her amusement.

Finally, both pots were ready. You ladled some of your concoction into a mug and took a tentative sip, trying not to grimace as the chaotic blend of flavors assaulted your tongue. The chili was overpowering, the honey cloying, and the mint—why had you added mint?—was an unmitigated disaster.

Jaheira arched a brow, waiting for your verdict.

"Well?" she asked, the faintest smile playing on her lips.

"It’s, uh…" you hesitated, searching for the least damning word. "…Bold?"

Jaheira laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. "Bold is one word for it. Let me guess—too much chili?"

"Maybe a little," you admitted, setting the mug down and reaching for hers. "Can I try yours?"

"Be my guest," she said, handing you her mug with a triumphant look.

You took a sip, and your eyes widened as the flavors unfolded on your tongue. It was perfection—the warmth of cinnamon, the depth of cloves, the subtle sweetness of honey, and the brightness of citrus all working in harmony. It was everything mulled wine should be, and then some.

"Jaheira," you said, your voice almost reverent, "this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted."

Her expression softened, pleased with your praise, but before she could reply, you added with a grin, "Well, second best. You’ll always be number one."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, though she maintained her composure.

"Really?" she said, her voice laced with mock disapproval. "My children are around."

"Your children are always around, there are thousands of them." You chuckled, leaning in closer. "But I don’t see any now."

"That is beside the point," Jaheira said, though the corners of her mouth twitched upward. She took the mug from you and set it down before pointing a stern finger at your chest. "Next time, you follow my instructions to the letter. No improvising."

"Yes, ma’am," you said with a grin, earning an eye-roll and a small smile from her. You pout at her and move in, capturing her lips in a stolen - festive- kiss.

Credit to @tsunami-of-tears for the super cute dividers !

A little festive treat for you all, there will be a boys version coming up. I am getting back into writing after all the chaos that has been my personal life these past few weeks. So hope you guys enjoy it !! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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pursuitseternal · 1 year ago

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“A Yuletide Miracle:” Spawn!Astarion learns the (nsfw) meaning of the season, finding 🔥heat in the cold❄️

Spawn!Astarion x Reader | E | 3.4K

Part 1: “Yuletide in Faerûn”

Summary: A very “Grinchy,” cantankerous Astarion walks with you home on the eve of Yuletide, loathing the sights of celebration. Little does he know the surprise you have planned to make his heart grow three sizes that night, and well… other part of his undead anatomy…

Slightly inspired by “The Grinch” 🌟

CW: Cranky, festivity-hating Vampire Spawn, a Yuletide surprise that warms his undead heart, and helps him learn the true meaning of the season.

Read on Ao3 | Astarion fic Masterlist

🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️

“I do not get it,” Astarion grumbles as you walk towards your flat in the lower city. Baldur’s Gate, blanketed in snow, crisp and pure and crunching under your boots as you return from your shopping. Night has fallen, the stars are bright. Voices fill the air with music from taverns and the scent of spices wafts on the breezes. It’s beautiful, this time of year. But the enterally handsome Vampire Spawn at your side couldn’t be more glower and glum. “I mean, I have every right to be merry and filled with cheer this time of year. The nights are longer, the days are darkened, it’s a Vampire Spawn’s paradise. But the rest of this… mirth…” he grimaces as you stroll, arm and arm, past a group of carolers serenading outside of the Elfsong. “They have no right or reason to be so chipper in the dark and cold.”

You give him a tug on his arm, a good-humored and disparaging glance from the side of your eye. “Come now, music and parties and warmth and gifts…. It’s Yuletide, my love. Surely even you would love to have people thinking about you and buying you gifts upon gifts?”

He falls silent. Tense. As you make the last turn towards your little home, you walk in the silence. Just a flat, but it’s yours. Yours for the last few months since your victory over the Netherbrain. This little gift from Wyll, new Duke of Baldur’s Gate, it’s your safe haven from the sun while you both settle yourselves to find him a cure… and while you fuck each others brains out like you’re still about to maybe die tomorrow.

Old habits die hard.

But as the winds whip around you, bitter and cold, you hide your frame behind his broad shoulders. He may be chilling to the touch and undead, but at least he can block the ice of winter. And it makes him scoff. “Really? Truly, you use me as a shield? Some partner, some selfless merry cheer you spread.”

You clutch your sack and the precious contents tighter against your body, keeping it warm and safe. “I told you, my little surprise for you can’t freeze. Else, our trip to the shops will all be for naught and you’ll get nothing for Yuletide, my love.”

You draw to a stop, huddled behind his back at your doorstep. You barely hear him mutter to himself over the icy wind and the snap of the key in the lock, “So like every other year…”

Words not meant for you to hear. But they pierce your heart more than the cold and ice.

You pause inside the door, shaking off your cloak from the piles of snow that have accumulated. “Why don’t you start the fire in the study? I’ll be in, just in a moment….”

He turns, leaving his own damp cloak a pile on the ground. Like always. Messy thing. “So you can finish readying your…” he scowls, bitterness behind those crimson eyes, “…surprise? Gods, I hope it’s not some cheesy Yuletide gift.”

“Would it be so unthoughtful of me to give my lover a little something tonight?” You smirk, hiding the little satchel behind your back. “It is the eve of Yule, after all.”

He sniffs in abject derision. “If you insist on wasting our gold on something so frivolous, who am I to stop you.” He closes in on you, making you retreat against the wall of the foyer. “Just don’t expect anything grand in return… well, unless you think what I give you on a nightly basis is grand enough.” He flashes those fangs at you, smirking with all that lust and seduction that makes your legs weak to feel him between your thighs.

You cough, clearing your voice and forcing a pout on your trembling lips. “You could at least put a bow on it?” You tease, making that hungry smirk widen.

“Cliché, but if that’s what gets you going this evening, who am I to judge?” he shrugs slowly, languorously, letting his hand slide from the wall beside your head, the other cupping around your chin to bring you in for a slow and tantalizing kiss.

You hold your breath, trying hard to remember to not drop your precious cargo. He departs, one last suck of your bottom lip between his until it releases with a pop. “Don’t you fret, I’ll get the study nice and warm for you… and your,” a frown turns at the corner of his mouth, “… supposed surprise.”

“Don’t you worry, I won’t overwhelm you with too much joy or peace or love,” you comment, interjecting as he opens his mouth, “and I’ll keep the costumes and singing to a minimum.”

His mouth snaps shut, disgusted beyond measure like he swallowed bile, “Gods… I swear… I am not in the mood… Keep your festivities to a minimum, and as for costumes, I’ll have you naked, preferably…”

He trods into the study. Grumpy, disgruntled. So easy to tease. But you keep it soft. Light hearted. Knowing there was more to his cold and cranky demeanor than just selfishness.

Your mind races… would a spawn of Cazador have even had anything for Yuletide?

You busy yourself, prepping your gift, tenderly setting it on a table. The little plant seems so unassuming, it makes you smile, knowing just what it will mean to him. At least you hope.

He’s been so sour about this time of year, and your heart aches, that one little moment, that clue as to why he might just hate Yuletide.

You ready the bottle from the Apothecary; the shining golden liquid inside warm to the touch as you carry both across the hall and into the study.

He waits, the fire cheerily roaring in the grate, but he stands across the room, in the shadows. His back towards you, you can feel his tension rolling off those bunching and lean muscles as he gazes out the window into the winter night. Arms folded neatly over his chest, you see him shift as he hears you enter, but he doesn’t turn.

You wait. You watch him shifting on his toes, eyes fixed into the dark distance. Until at last he speaks. “When I was… well, before…” he speaks quietly. Pressed. Careful not to mention any names, not that he needs to. “…Yuletide was just another night, another time sent out in our bodies for the bidding, another night spent luring victims, only one that smelled more like oranges and spice and smoke.” His shoulders hunched slightly, arms holding tighter as he hugged himself tighter. “I used to dream of gifts and punch and music. Instead I got only more shame and abuse and… loneliness…”

You move, setting your items down on the small end table before you hurry to his side, your arms wrapping around him tightly.

“Yuletide never came for me. I was always alone… and in darkness…”

“Yuletide doesn’t come in packages and ribbons and songs, Astarion,” you nuzzle your head into his chest. “And now you’ll never be alone again, my love,” you smile into the crushed softness of his doublet. “And… if you let me share my cliché gift with you… you might find yourself not in darkness any longer either…”

He eases in a split second. You look into his face, surprised and hopeful against his better judgment. “Really?” he stumbled on his words. “I -I mean I know about the not-lonely-anymore bit, thank you…”

He hesitates, crimson eyes darting to the corner of his gaze, wanting to see what you got him.

Then he sees it, turning. A little plant, leaves deepest green, a round, fleshy bud nestled in the verdant leaves. “Is that…?” he breathes.

“A Solaris,” you beam at him. “I had to pay that apothecary no small amount of coin to get it… not to mention I had to hustle his chief competitor a bit in order to really seal the deal.” You laugh at the way his face is just… innocent. Hopeful. Happy. “But for a flower that blooms with light and warmth like the sun, one day a year…”

You watch the corner of his mouth grin wistfully.

“…I figured it would make for a very merry Yule. So you could feel the light of the sun without… you know…”

“Roasting like a chestnut on an open fire?”

You giggle against the macabre image. “Yes, that.” You pick up the little vial, its golden glow pulsing. “Here,” you murmur, proffering the small glass bottle. “The key to unlocking your vampire-safe sunlight.” You reach it towards him, his palm opening, fingers unfurling for it.

“I…” he swallows. You watch his Adam's apple bob, emotional as he holds back so many feelings and words. “Thank you,” he finally relents, letting you place the vial in his cold and near-trembling palm. You watch his face, the little lines of his smile deepening as he holds the glass bottle, its warmth seeping into his chilled, undead skin.

“If it’s your first Yuletide gift in two-hundred years, I’m glad I can make it count,” you murmur, trying not to disturb the glow that seems to come from under his pale and lustrous skin.

“You’ve… found your way to… let me feel the sun again,” he smirks at you briefly, “if only for tonight.”

You simper, pouting your lips, catching his eyes with all the allure you can muster. “That’s the idea, my sweet vampire, to give you something because I love you.”

He closes the distance, eager, anxious. But you press the tips of your fingers on his lips. “Ah, ah,” you grin. “Don’t risk that elixir with one of your all-consuming, fang-filled kisses. Why don’t you… open your gift?”

For a moment, he looks nervous. Just the tip of his fang biting into his lower lip as he uncorks the glowing elixir. A slight, sweet scent fills your nose, it makes you thrill.

Almost as much as the childish smile dancing on his lips as he pours it at the base of the massive, rounded yellow bud.

Heat fills the air, a soft shimmering begins to stretch from the plant, until, petal by petal, it opens.

A ball of light perches in its center, pulsing and glowing and lighting up your study more than any fire ever could.

Light in the dark. The sun itself shining.

Astarion’s eyes are wide, his mouth open in shock. “It feels… so good,” he whispers, as if he is scared that the second he looks away, blinks his eyes, or moves it will disappear.

“It does, the sun itself for you to bask in for one day, my love…” you reply, crossing to close your window curtains, to keep the light for yourself. And because, your stomach flutters, you anticipate just what will come next. You turn, already undoing your own buttons of your tunic. Expecting him to already be naked, to be bathing his cold and pale skin in the light.

But he’s not.

He’s sitting on the settee, knees hugged tight into his chest. Just watching. Fixated on the swirling golden blossom on the table before him.

Grinning like a fool.

Still, you tug your shirt from over your head, and the Solaris’ light does warm your skin, feeling no different than the true sun. Slowly, you round to sit beside him, half naked and totally ignored in favor of your gift. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t mind. Not as you hear his little giggles in his throat, the little clenches of his body as he feels… giddy.

You scoot right beside him, the skin of your torso pressing into that linen shirt of his, and you feel him leaning back against you, his head tipping to rest on the top of yours.

His breath washes through your hair, that clean scent on his skin, always the same, always making your body hum with desire and awaken with love. Then you hear it, faintly, he hums a melody, the same carol you had heard outside the tavern. His voice is deep, sweet if imperfect. But it’s music to your ears. His arm reaches around you then, a slight jolt as he realizes he’s touching nothing but skin as he skates his fingers across your back and down your arm.

“Ahem,” he clears his throat, more sultry than surprised. “I do see you are taking full advantage of your own present, darling.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting for my own in exchange,” you simper and pout, your hand reaching to stroke up those sinews of his thigh.

His chuckle tickles the top of your head as he places a kiss there. “Well, if you don’t mind not having it wrapped in frills and ribbons, I suppose I could give it to you now, my love.”

“What need have I for ribbons when I can have you… taking me…. in the sunlight again?”

“Just like old times,” he purrs, a single hand reading around to slip into the band of your sensible breeches for winter. “It always was a pity I never got one last time with you, basking in the heat of your warm flesh and the light of the sun before that blessing of the tadpole disappeared.” He grins, fingers slipping down between your thighs, which you have already conveniently spread for him. “What a gift to share in it again, a true Yuletide miracle, my love.”

That cool touch pierces where you are hot and aching. Where you burn and blister with your own heat. A little moan escapes your lips, your hands shuffling off the thick material of your breeches, words pleading for more from Astarion. You stumble over your “P-please…” as you stand to let that fabric shuffle off your feet.

He’s just watching your writhe on his fingers, bathed in the light. Those crimson eyes unblinking and ravenous. “Feeling merry, are you?” he purrs. “Bursting with joy yet?” His voice is rife with that seduction and wicked bite that makes you instantly wetter.

“A little more effort, and I’m sure I’ll be louder than any of those drunken carolers,” you whimper, the brush of his hand unlacing his breeches presses against your mound and thigh, the pressure of his other fingers deep inside you, more numerous than before in your cunt, guiding you to straddle his lap.

You slide right over, hands braced on his shoulders, gripping into the decadently soft material of his tunic. It’s so calm, so bright, this magical sunlight on your bare back. Your hands ruck up his own shirt, an approving smirk dancing over his breathtaking face as you sweep it off his body in one pull.

The moan from his mouth, hanging slack as he feels the warmth and light on him again, it makes you quiver and thrill. “Gods,” he breathes, “to bask in the light again…” his voice is wet, thick with desire, with emotion. He shuts his eyes, head leaning back against the settee, hands finally tugging his breeches apart to let his cock free. You feel him, his hands lifting it from its confines, fingers silkenly stroking himself. A groan from your mouth, bemoaning that emptiness inside you, your own hand takes up the pressure he started to build.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, still reclining to savor the warmth of the light and the heat your folds on his lap, “you don’t lift a finger tonight for your own pleasure, my love.” He pulls your body flush against him, guiding his cock to run back and forth through your hot and dripping seam. Slowly, his hand presses at the top of your hip, letting your sink down just an inch or so over that blunt head. Then he sneaks you up, sliding away from your aching channel. “Perhaps I should have let you undo my laces, unwrap your present, as it were…” he shrugs, centering your body over that cool hard erection. “I can make it up to you in so many ways,” he growls happily into your lips, sucking them in to a long and tender kiss.

Your hands grip into his shoulders, his hold on your waist steadying you as he thrusts upwards. The fullness of him inside you at last, that stretching friction warms you more than the soft flow of light over your back. Eyes closing, you can almost imagine that little glad back in the Emerald Grove. That morning you woke, sore and tingling from the way you had joined for the first time.

That morning light that once warmed your bodies as you took in the sight of him completely, scars and all. That way your heart first went out to him…

But this, this is so much better. Melting as you bask not only in the heat that defies the dark and cold, but that thrumming seer of your love. His hands rock your hips, letting you shimmy and buck as he matches your every movement with those impeccable thrusts. His kiss dances with your lips, tongue taking yours in his hold, tangling and darting as you lose yourself in him.

Warm all over. Loved all over.

You feel his touch wandering, tracing to cup the swell of your ass, fingers gripping into your flesh with each ride you make on him.

And you know he is feeling that light, the same that caresses his face, illuminating those lines and freckles and ridges of cheekbone that steal your breath with their beauty every day. You break from his mouth to watch him, lips still twitching and slack as he pants and groans.

His eyelids lower, that veiled gaze watching the way your body bounces on his lap, his stare darting to watch where you take him all the way in. Where the increasingly wet slaps of your body echo to fill the little study. Where your own body burns like a furnace, fucked hard to scaling hot as your bliss blisters.

Back arching, hands clawing into the cool muscles of his shoulders, you let it all go, letting that heat on your back and the friction of his fucking wash through you, splitting you apart with your climax. His arms embrace you harder as you spasm, your hips rocking at random, your body bracing against his as your pleasure floods you and steals your every conscious thought. His muscles clench, his belly brushing against yours, his thighs beneath you hitching and tight. You feel him pulsing inside you, his voice resonating in one ear with his groans and sighs as he fills you. Your folds drenched with all the hot slick it can handle, pouring and puddling on his lap.

Vision blurring, you come to, bit by bit. Head resting on his shoulder, his own rasping, unsteady breath washing to cool the warm glow over your flesh, you nuzzle tightly against him.

And you realize, for once, his skin feels warm to the touch. Glowing and heated from the light before you and your love-making. The stillness breaks with a gentle sigh from his iron-wrought chest. Air whistles in your ear. “You win, darling,” he whispers as he places a kiss into the tumbled mess of your hair. “Yuletide can be… merry… blissful even,” he acknowledges, not a begrudging hint in his voice.

“Miracles happen, Yuletide magic in the air… I think your heart has grown three sizes tonight…” you giggle, raising your head, your cheeks flushed and body humming to feel him still inside you.

“I doubt it,” he smirks, rakish and mischievous, “but I do know of other bits of my anatomy that have had that benefit…” he grinds into you, dragging that still-throbbing cock of his around your walls. He gives you a rakish flash of his fangs before you swiftly find yourself laid out flat on your back, sprawled across the bed of the settee. The weight of his body crushes you into the soft velvet, and your body grows unbearable… hot, especially as he sucks your ear fully into his hungry mouth. He whispers, “And you say this Solaris blooms for a day… well then, darling.” He gives that wicked giggle, “you are about to have a night that is not so silent… if you know what I mean.”

“I count on it,” you purr back, lost in the brightness in his crimson eyes. “I want the most out of my gift, after all…”

🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️🌟🕯️

🕯️I hope I got all the tag requests, thank you all for the love. I can’t wait to see what you think, dear readers 💞

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starsofarda · 1 month ago

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Christmas with the Feanorians

I would like to thank @erendur for giving me enough rope for my shenanigans.

Tolkien, ILU but sometimes I need to take everything less seriously.

Of course TIS THE SEASON and I am in my transformation in a Christmas Elf, whilst my SO is becoming the Grinch.

Anyway, possible modern AU, the Feanorians and Christmas, stemming directly from this post.

So, we know how Feanor could be ©Extra™, but what would he be like during the Christmas holidays in a modern AU? Well, LOOK NO FURTHER.

I am basically copypasting my brainstorming session and expanding on it.

Unfortunately Feanor is a "go big or go home" guy when it comes to decorating for Xmas, figure the outside plastered in luminous deers, trees, elves, santas and all the works. You can spot his house from at least two miles afar. He will dress up as Santa*, show up with like all sorts of trinkets, hand-write "Santa's response letters" to his children. The inside of his house is cobered in holly decorations, Yule logs, xmas trees, xmas music all over the place. the guy is extra.

*or Father Christmas, your choice, regardless of who he dresses like he's gonna look like Jack Skellington from The Nightmare Before Christmas, he is very tall, very lanky and he's not gonna be a fat old man delivering gifts.

this also prompts several arguments over the xmas dinner with Fingolfin, cue Finarfin trying to be the peacemaker, all the "not in front of the kids", the "language" and all. In the meantime every single one of the kids, regardless of who's the father, is a different flavour of terror. Nerdanel is with her SILs and nieces, at a certain point Aredhel just starts a treasure hunt with Celegorm and his dog Huan. It's chaos. Maedhros is with Fingon and maybe Maglor, if Maglor and Finrod are not playing Guitar Hero. And so on. Also did someone mention "ugly sweaters"? Yep. All of them lovingly crafted by grandma Miriel (in this AU she is alive, just very divorced from Finwe, but alive). Grandma Indis supplies the wreaths. Grandpa Finwe is sitting by the porch and enjoying some eggnog.

All is good. Feanor and Fingolfin will keep arguing till the end of time. As it was pointed out, this definitely looks like National Lampoon's Christmas holiday.

Now, some clarifications.

THE ELVES They are indeed Feanor's apprentices dressed as Father Christmas's elves. They take turns. They are low key enjoying the attention. Speaking of. I rectify myself, it's not Santa, but Father Christmas and his assistant polar bear - reference to Tolkien's "Letters from Father Christmas". I know Tolkien would have hated it, but this is a modern au. Whatever floats my boat. As for the ugly jumpers: Ofc Feanor has the Silmarils surrounded by snowflakes, deers and red robins. His jumper is red. Maedhros has got a green one with winter gnomes and a "happy yuletide" in elegant lettering. Fingon has a blue one with an icy mountain and penguins with silver scarves and hats.

So. The apprentices don't really mind being hired as Christmas Elves, Feanor pays well and it's all fun and games. They basically get to be up to any shenanigans they can conjure up, because in Feanor's forge not only he is Extra, but his apprentices are the Least Chill on Arda. They will cause problems on purpose, only rule is "be nice to the children" and "don't damage property in a significant way", but everything else is game. They get to dress in fun outfits as a plus.

Miriel and Indis are both there, mostly ignoring Finwe and doting on their daughters in law.

As for the jumpers.

Grandma Miriel lovingly embroidered and knitted them all. Any bad look has been met by Feanor's death glare of "accept my beloved mother's gift or die painfully" and every year they are a must have, especially if the party is at Feanor's house.

So far this is what I have.

Ofc Feanor has the Silmarils surrounded by snowflakes, deers and red robins. His jumper is red. Maedhros has got a green one with winter gnomes and a "happy yuletide" in elegant lettering. Fingon has a blue one with an icy mountain and penguins with silver scarves and hats. Also if Mae has a green one with gnomes, then I envision Fingon with the same but in yellow/golden, but do feel free to envision whatever :p Celegorm has one with like a poodle with a christmas hat and scarf, the poodle looking very much like Huan. Maglor has one with like hollys and singing red robins. Caranthir has one with xmas trees all over. A&A have matching ones, both with snowmen wearing sunglasses and like a cheeky line. Curufin has one designed to show the jacket of a xmas elf and celebrimbor has one with the design of the ribbon of a xmas present.

There will be more as soon as I think of something else.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #feanor #feanorians #sons of feanor #christmas #modern au

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youre-ackermine · 16 days ago

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⋆⁺₊❅. Unspoken ⋆⁺₊❅.

❅ Prompt 18 "Mulled wine"

❅ Characters Levi x Petra - Levi Squad - Hange - Moblit - Nifa

❅ Content Canon Universe / SFW

❅ Warning Swearwords / Alcohol consumption

❅ Wordcount 1229 approx.

❅ Requested by anon

It was already dusk when they finished the chores of the day, chilled to the bone and exhausted.

Snowflakes whirled around them as they got back from the stables, their boots sinking into the thick layer of snow with crunching sounds. They hunched against the relentless wind to cross the courtyard.

Leading the way, Captain Levi finally pushed the heavy wooden door open and a gust of icy wind followed his squad as they entered the HQ main building. Snow clung to their cloaks and boots, seeping through the fabric.

"I can’t stand this weather anymore," Oluo grumbled, shaking his head like a wet dog as he stepped in.

Eld stomped his boots against the floor, sending chunks of snow flying. "It’s warmer in here," he said.

"Barely." Gunther tugged off his gloves, his frosty breath hanging in the air.

"Well it's winter," Levi began. "What do you expect other than shitty snowstorms and freezing your balls off?" He brushed the snow off his own shoulders with brisk, efficient movements. His dark hair was damp, flattened by the snowfall.

His sharp, steely eyes swept over the group to fix on a shivering Petra. She pulled her hood down, slightly shaking out her hair. A few strands stuck to her cheeks, and she pushed them back with gloved hands, her gestures still graceful after hours cleaning the stables.

When Petra caught his gaze and smiled, Levi turned abruptly to walk down the hallway.

"C’mon, let's get to the mess hall," he growled.

They headed further inside, their boots leaving a wet trail on the stones. The old walls were awfully quiet at this time of the year, but they could hear the muffled sound of laughter and clinking mugs coming from the dining hall.

Light streamed through the door left ajar. Levi stepped inside first, his squad filing in behind him, the warmth reaching them immediately. A welcoming mix of spices and baked goods made Petra’s stomach growl.

The fire was crackling in the hearth and candles flickered on a long table. Scouts who hadn’t gone home for the Yuletide season were gathered there, chatting and laughing. Hange stood by the stove, stirring a pot of steaming mulled wine, while Nifa placed a tray of golden oat cakes on the table.

"Finally," Oluo exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. "Something to warm us up."

They shook off the last remnants of snow as they found themselves drawn toward the inviting atmosphere.

Petra’s cheeks were flushed from the sudden change in temperature, her eyes bright.

Settled in a corner of the room, Levi remained quiet, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on Petra for a while as she unfastened her cloak, snowflakes melting into droplets in her hair. She glanced at him, her lips curving into a small smile before she joined the others by the fire.

Levi’s eyes shifted away.

Hange’s mulled wine filled the air with the spicy scent of cloves, cinnamon, and oranges.

As the evening flew by, only a small group lingered near the hearth, Levi’s squad and Hange’s squad. Petra sat in the middle of the gathering, her cheeks glowing from the wine and the firelight. She was laughing at a joke when Moblit came closer.

"Happy birthday, Petra," he said, handing her a beautiful drawing of a serene landscape and a pouch of chocolates. "It’s from all of us in Hange's squad."

Petra’s eyes widened as she took the gifts. "Moblit, this is… Thank you all so much. It’s beautiful."

"Moblit is insanely talented," Hange chimed in, grinning and clapping him on the back. "You should draw more in your free time."

Moblit muttered something about Hange's experiments keeping him too busy and poured himself another mug of mulled wine.

This was Oluo's cue to step forward, holding a small tin in his hand. "And this is from Levi's squad," he announced, puffing out his chest. "Fine black tea. Imported."

He glanced at his Captain as if seeking approval.

Petra thanked her comrades with a soft chuckle. Her eyes drifted on Levi as she cradled the gift in her hands. "You always know exactly what I like."

Levi gave her a quick nod, taking a sip of his tea to avoid speaking. Her gaze lingered a bit longer on him before she turned back to the others.

⋆⁺₊❅.

As the evening wore on, Petra grew visibly more relaxed, her usually composed demeanor replaced by giggles and clumsy gestures. Maybe she had enjoyed Hange’s mulled wine a bit too much and as she reached for a slice of oat cake, she nearly knocked her mug over.

"Oi, Petra," Levi said, standing beside her chair. "You've had enough for tonight. Let's get you to your room before you pass out and make me deal with the mess."

Petra giggled, clearly tipsy. She looked up, her amber eyes meeting his. For a moment, the noise in the room seemed to fade and Levi had to avert his gaze to break the spell.

"You’re right, Captain. I think I need to rest."

When she stood to leave, her steps wobbled, and Levi offered her his arm.

"You’re always looking out for me, Captain."

"Someone has to," Levi replied dryly, though his steady grip on her arm was far gentler than his tone suggested.

The halls were freezing, their breaths visible in the dim light of the flickering torches. Petra shivered and Levi wrapped his jacket around her shoulders.

"Thanks for the tea," she said after a moment, her voice soft. "I know it's from your personal supplies. You're always so thoughtful, Captain."

"It’s nothing," Levi replied, keeping his tone neutral. "Don’t read too much into it."

They had reached her room door, and Petra turned to face him, still holding his arm. Her eyes shone brightly.

"No, really. Thank you for everything,"'she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “"You're more… You're thoughtful. And kind. Even if you try to hide it."

Levi frowned. "You’re drunk, Petra. Go to bed."

She laughed softly, and before he could step away, she leaned up and kissed him. Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of mulled wine, lingering on his just long enough to make his breath hitch.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were even redder, though whether from the wine or embarrassment, Levi couldn't tell.

"Happy Yuletide, Captain," she murmured. "And I…" She hesitated, then added quickly, "I appreciate you."

Levi blinked, caught completely off guard. His face remained impassive, but his mind raced.

"Petra," he uttered in a breath. "Get some rest."

Petra smiled and nodded, fumbling with the handle of her door.

"Goodnight, Captain," she whispered before slipping inside, the door clicking softly behind her.

Levi stood there for a moment, staring at the door. The cold seeped through his shirt, but he hardly felt it.

That kiss, so light, so fleeting, so warm, lingered and her words echoed over and over in his mind.

With a deep breath, he turned and headed back to the kitchen. The fire had burned lower, and the room was empty and quiet now. He sank into a chair by the hearth, rubbing a hand over his face. His thoughts refused to settle, replaying the feel of her lips and the look in her eyes.

"Shit," he muttered to himself.

For the first time in a long while, Levi found himself at a loss.

❅‪‪ A/N Not beta or proof read / English is not my usual language

❅‪‪ All graphics by me

❅‪‪ ❤︎‬ REBLOGS APPRECIATED ‪‪❤︎‬ ❅

Holiday Drabbles Masterlist

#holiday drabbles 2024 #levi ackerman #petra ral #levi x petra #rivetra #rivetra fanfiction #rivetra drabble #snk fanfiction #snk drabble #aot fanfiction #aot drabble #val writes ✍️#tw alcohol #tw drinking

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luna-the-cretar · 23 days ago

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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Witchlight Chuckles (I can’t say anything about Stardust Rhapsody Chuckles since I haven’t seen it yet) seems almost like…a semi-decent person? Chaotic, certainly, but also just kinda…chill? As long as you’re not Gideon, anyway (canonically, he seems pretty chill with Gid from what little I saw of the Halloween oneshot)

I only bring this up bc i decided to watch the first Yuletide oneshot (Christmas spirit and all that), and Chuckles is already offering everyone snacks. I mean, they’re made of drugs and probably some other demonic clown substance, but to be fair, Briggsy can’t taste and I’m sure Bitsy and Torbek have eaten worse (I mean, Bitsy has literally eaten hairy floor sausages, so)

#legends of avantris #chuckles the clown #torbek #bitsy uprooted #briggsy kratch #also what brought me to the Yuletide oneshots was their compilation #and one of the clips was literally Briggsy giving Torbek his number #guys I just thought briggsbek was a Yuletide based crackship #I mean it still is but I didn’t realize it actually had some merit to it

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generationexorcist · 24 days ago

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7 Terrifying Festive Ghost Stories That Aren't Just 'A Christmas Carol'

What's more terrifying than spending several days under the same roof as a whole bunch of other adults? Ugh, chilling. Well actually being haunted by terrifyingly spooky ghouls is pretty rough and definitely a worse situation. Especially when it comes to cosy nights by the fire telling each other creepy Christmas stories.

There are some more famous than others. One in particular has actually become a part of the Yuletide vernacular. Ever been called a Scrooge? Hey, me too. The main character of Dickens' legendary ghost story A Christmas Carol was negging the festive period long before the Grinch was made famous for effing things up in Whoville.

The common thread with most Christmas ghost stories, according to The Paris Review, is a "convivial atmosphere" that turns into a bit of a spookfest. So what I'm saying is, this could totally happen to you...

Bustle

Image Source

#paranormal #ghost #haunted #christmas #ghost stories

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labyrinth-runner · 1 year ago

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A Shire Yuletide

Summary: Reader accompanied the dwarves on the quest to retake their home and now its their first Yuletide after being home and they invited Thorin and his family for the holiday. Non-canon compliant in the sense that none of them died in BotFA. Happy Holidays folks

Pairing: Thorin x Gender Neutral reader.

Word Count:

It had been a long shot when you asked Gandalf to help you send Thorin your letter, and yet he'd came and the rest of his family were coming, too. Thorin had been the first to arrive, much to your delight, and the two of you had caught up on your friendship, picking up where you'd left off. The truth was that you missed Thorin, much more than a mere friend, but you couldn't tell him that. He didn't see you like that. No, you were just friends, trauma bonded over a fight for their mountain kingdom that'd left many of them wounded. He was missing this morning, a short note saying he was going to take a walk was resting on your nightstand along with a hot cup of cinnamon spice tea. He'd remembered. You had a laundry list of things to do to set up for the holiday festivities since you had both dwarves and hobbits to house and feed, so you quickly washed up and got to it.

You couldn't imagine what was going through his head as he came in to the kitchen. You knew you were a sight, your arms elbow deep in the mixing bowl, flour handprints down the front of your apron and even the side of your pants because honestly, you forgot you were wearing an apron 90 percent of the time. Your hair was in your eyes and falling out of the quick hairstyle you'd tossed it into to keep it out of the dough.

"What's all this?" Thorin asked from where he leaned against the doorway, gesturing to your general being.

"It's Yuletide baking," you said as if it should be obvious. "I have chocolate crinkles in the oven, gingerbread cooling on the rack, molasses dough in the fridge chilling--and no that is not the same thing as gingerbread even though they are VERY similar in ingredients-"

"And what are you currently making?" he asked, peeking over your shoulder into the bowl. His breath was hot on your neck and you shivered. When had he moved over here?

"Th-this is the experimental cookie," you said, your voice wavering from his proximity.

He chuckled, the sound low and deep in his throat. "And what is so experimental about it if you're following a recipe?"

"Well, the experiment isn't the cookie itself, you see, it's whether the family will like it. I've never made them before, and I've already botched it up by putting everything in the mixing bowl because I was tired and not quite paying attention to where it said mix the egg whites separately to form stiff peaks, like a meringue I'd guess, but..." you trailed off, realizing that you were rambling. "I'm sorry, I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

His brows furrowed. "Stop apologizing." He reached out to swipe some flour off your cheek, following through to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The pad of his thumb was rough against your skin and you held your breath as his gaze roamed over your face. "Your hair will never stay back like that."

"I just needed it out of my face," you murmured.

"May I?" he asked.

You tilted your head at him. "May you...?"

"Take care of it for you."

You shrugged. "I'm fine with how it is, but if it bothers you that much, then sure."

He had a small smile that you saw out of the corner of your eye as he moved behind you. You felt a gentle tug before your hair was cascading down around your shoulders. His motions were so incredibly gentle, nothing at all like when your mother used to do your hair as a child. He was silent, focusing on your hair. A shiver went down your spine as his fingers grazed the back of your neck.

"Are you nervous?" you asked, trying to fill the silence. It weighed heavily, and you weren't quite sure why. Silence between you two had been mostly comfortable these days, but this silence was intense.

"About our families meeting? Should I be?"

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "Aunt Tilda is very... let's just say she doesn't always take to other's opinions. Cousin Mathilde will try to steal the cutlery. I'm more worried about how they'll be to your family. It's..." you trailed off, trying to pick up the thread again. "We're not very conventional."

"Perhaps hobbits and dwarves should mix more often. We're not that much different," he said, tying your braid with a ribbon. "There."

Your hand came up to stroke the tail of the braid hanging over your shoulder. "It's better than I could have done."

"Is there anything you need help with?" he asked, suddenly sounding unsure of himself. It was cute. "I may not be good at it, but my hands are yours."

"Can you put the kettle on? I'll finish this up and we can break for tea."

You could see the relief flood through him. "Cinnamon spice?"

"As much as that is my favorite tea, I think we should take the holiday blend out to make sure it's still good for tomorrow's breakfast. What time are your nephews getting here?"

Almost as if on cue, the door to your hobbit hole swung open nearly hitting the wall.

"Uncle Thorin! Your favorite nephew has arrived!" Kili called from the front hall.

"Yes, and thank you for the introduction, brother," Fili said.

Thorin sighed, but you caught the smile tugging at his lips as he went out to greet them. "You two better not be destroying the house. We are guests here."

You bit your lip. You knew he'd have to return to Erebor. That was his home, but still, part of you wondered if maybe, just maybe, he might find his home with you. You weren't fit to be anything resembling a ruler of the dwarves, that much you knew. You'd tried life under the mountain for a week after the battle had subsided and you waited for Thorin to recover. It was cold and not at all cozy. There was very little sunlight in most places, and everything echoed in the cavernous halls. You heard every groan of pain he made from down the hall, and you got little sleep worrying about whether he'd recover. But he had. He was almost completely himself, aside from the slight limp he had, but even that seemed to be getting better. You'd returned home fairly soon after his fever broke. There hadn't been a place for you in his court, and you knew it.

Peeking around the corner, you spied on the three of them hugging each other, a clap on the back and a good natured laugh as they caught up. You wondered if Thorin felt as out of place here in your home as you did in his.

Kill saw you first, coming over and hugging you so hard your feet left the ground. "Madtubirzul! It's been too long."

"Thank you for inviting us," Fili added, presenting you with a bouquet of flowers that looked an awful lot like the flowers from your neighbor's winter garden.

"Please, you are all doing me the favor of taking the attention off of me," you replied, taking the proffered flowers. "They won't stop asking me about my time under the mountain and I just want a relaxing holiday."

You pulled out a vase for the flowers, setting them on the table in the dining room. "You can put your things in the second bedroom on the left. Dwarves on the left, hobbits on the right."

"And where's Uncle Thorin sleeping?" Kill asked, elbowing his Uncle.

"On the left with the rest of you sorry lot," he said, smacking Kili's hand away.

"Well, I'll let you boys settle in," you murmured, returning to your baking.

The sound of the kettle pulled you out of your baking trance, You wiped your brow with your sleeve. Thorin pulled the kettle off the stove and began to prepare the teapot as you put your last tray of cookies on the cooling rack.

He handed you a cup, expecting you to sit with the rest of them at the table, but instead you walked outside, choosing to sit down in the grass. It was cool, and you needed the break from the heat of the oven. You rested the teacup on your knee as you laid back into the grass and shut your eyes just for a moment.

"Lanselê," Thorin murmured, taking the cup of tea off your knee.

You opened your eyes, realizing with a start that you'd fallen asleep. "Butter and biscuits!" you cursed. "How long was I out for?"

"An hour," he replied.

You dug the heels of your hands into your eyes. "Well now my schedule is all out the window. I won't get anything done in time."

"You have three able-bodied dwarves in your home. Put us to work."

"Thorin, you are my guests, I cannot ask you to do things," you groaned.

"I'm more than just a guest," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"You're right, you're a King. I really can't ask you to do domestic chores," you replied, standing up and brushing off your pants.

"That's not what I meant."

Your brow furrowed. "Thorin, I don't really have time in my already ruined schedule to argue semantics." You marched back into your kitchen and began to pull out the goose and start to brine it so that you could cook it the next morning.

Kili was the first to pop into the war zone that was the kitchen. "Can I help with anything?"

"Want to peel some potatoes?" you asked, pushing the bucket of potatoes and peeling knife towards him.

He nodded and got to work, his eyes flicking to you every couple of seconds.

"What?" you snapped.

"Your braid," he said.

"Thorin did it for me earlier."

"And the bead on the ribbon?"

"What be-" you looked down to see a small wooden bead that the ribbon had been strung through. It had a wide, ornate, almost X shape carved into it.

Kill laughed from where he sat on a stool peeling. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"

"Should I?" you raised a brow at him.

Kili shrugged. "If I were going to braid your hair I'd at least would have told you the importance of it first. That's what I did with Tauriel."

You narrowed your eyes at him, pulling your arm out of the goose's carcass. You washed your hands, wiping them on your apron to dry them. Thinking better of it, you removed your apron and left it on the kitchen table before stomping off to find a dwarf.

He was in your library, sitting at your desk. Reading YOUR book manuscript.

"Do you normally read other people's things? I don't know how you do things in Erebor, but you aren't under the mountain anymore," you snapped.

His eyes flicked up to you. He held the book up, waving it towards you. "Is this how you see me?"

"What are you talking about?"

He opened the book to the page he was on and began to read, "There were a gaggle of dwarves in my home, but then one arrived unlike any I had ever seen before. He was incredibly handsome, but his eyes were ice."

"Well, you didn't make a very good first impression," you grumbled.

Thorin began to get up.

"Thorin," you pleaded.

With a sigh, he sat back down.

You took a tentative step towards him. "What does this bead mean?"

He blushed and looked out your window. "It's just a bead."

"Kill doesn't seem to think so."

He muttered something under his breath.

"Thorin," you said, sitting on your desk. "Why did you come?"

"Because you invited me." He looked up at you, his eyes tired. You hadn't noticed it since he'd gotten there, or maybe you had but you'd just explained it away with the fact that you just hadn't seen him in a while and people change. "Why did you invite me?"

"Because I missed you," you admitted.

"We wrote all the time, but its not the same, is it?" he said, placing a hand on your knee.

You placed your hand on top of his. "Stay."

"What?" he asked.

"Are you happy as King Under the Mountain?" you asked. "Because... I think that you've seen too much of the world to be content to hide away in a cave again. I think that it's nice to know that you have a home to go back to..." you took a deep breath to choose your next words very carefully. You stroked your thumb along the side of his hand. "But I don't think home has ever been a place for you, has it?"

"It can be a very lonely mountain," he murmured, squeezing your knee.

"So stay," you begged.

"I can't. I have to take care of my people."

"But who will take care of you?" you turned a critical eye on him, taking in everything about his appearance. "You look exhausted. You've lost weight. You didn't reply to me for months. I'm worried about you."

"You don't have to worry about me," he said, a slight edge to his voice.

"But I do!" You grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Listen, you stubborn dwarf, you need to take care of yourself, and sometimes what you think you wanted isn't what you actually want once you get it."

"What could you possibly know about that?"

"Everything!" You stood, exasperated. You were crying tears of frustration at this point. "All I wanted to do was get home and now that I'm home, all I want is to be with you."

Thorin stood and cupped your cheeks in his hands, brushing the tears off them.

"Stop comforting me when I'm cross with you," you sniffed.

He rested his forehead against yours. "Dwarves braid the hair of their consort."

You rested your hands on his chest. "By hobbit standards, we've been courting since you all asked me to go on the longest walk of my life."

Leaning forward, you kissed him. It was soft at first, as if he was afraid that you'd pull back and regret it. When you didn't, he slanted his mouth against yours and sunk his fingers into the base of the braid at your neck, wrapping his arm around your back and pulling you flush against him. He had lost weight, but he was still so strong under your hands. You kissed him back, running your tongue over his bottom lip. He grunted against your mouth.

Incessant knocks sounded at the front door and you reluctantly pulled back, a slight grimace on your face. "That would be the hobbits."

"Well, I guess I should meet my future family," Thorin said with a grin.

"I never said yes," you replied.

He deflated a bit.

"But you also never asked," you said pointedly. You paused in the doorway. "Tomorrow, after dinner, let's go for a walk."

Thorin smiled. "A walk would be great."

#thorin oakenshield #thorin x reader #thorn oakenshield x reader

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