#Yuletide chills | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starmapz · 1 month ago

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silent night - s. geto

❦ suguru geto x sorcerer reader

part four of the six degrees of separation anthology of oneshots, however can be read separately.

❝ christmas morning should bring with it joyous laughter and well wishes- but this particular morning is nothing but silent. when your fiancé's calls go to voicemail and you fear the worst, an unexpected guest shows up with news that could only come straight from a nightmare. ❞

❦ warnings ; no pronouns used. angst. hurt/no comfort. pet names (angel, sweetheart, darling). anxiety. panic attacks. mental illness. major character death.

❦ words ; 4.2k.

masterlist || sdos masterlist

previous (nicotine)

The sounds of Michael Bublé’s Holly Jolly Christmas fill the air, holiday joy spurring you to open your eyes.

Christmas Day.

You can only imagine how excited the girls are right now, having been told they can’t leave their rooms until you come to get them. Suguru had also insisted on Christmas music as your alarm to ‘get you in the spirit’.

As if you weren’t already in the spirit for your first Christmas engaged to him.

His fiancé. It has such a nice ring to it that the thought alone makes you smile.

Reaching over, you shut off the familiar bells and yuletide blessings of Michael Bublé’s sultry voice, opting for the silence of the snowy morning. After all, you would be hearing the girls’ excited shrieks and joyous laughter as soon as you made your way to the tree.

Flipping to Suguru’s side, it’s as though something sharp punctures your chest.

His side of the bed is empty. Cold. This wouldn’t be unusual were it not Christmas.

With a knot in your brow, you slip your feet into your slippers at the side of your bed, throwing on a housecoat and tucking your phone in the pocket, and pad over to the girls’ rooms. The chilly air of the house that Suguru prefers so that he can cuddle you at night feels more frigid than usual as a chill runs up your spine at the sight of Nanako’s cracked door.

“Nana?” You call her name gently as you peer through the door. Like every other year, she should be awake, practically bursting at the seams with excitement to see what you and her father had gotten her, but the room is silent save for the ticking of a clock.

You purse your lips, your feet carrying you much quicker to Mimiko’s room. Although quieter, she’s usually equally as eager to get to the tree, but her room is even more deathly silent than Nanako’s.

With concern pooling in your stomach at the lack of noise in the house, you jog to the living room in search of your family. The room is still, the tree untouched as the lights sparkle red like an omen. Your heart drops into your stomach at the sight of every gift wrapped to perfection, not a single one out of place.

The girls were so excited to open them.

Pulling your phone from the pocket of your housecoat, you dial Suguru’s number. It rings five times before going to voicemail.

Hi, angel. Chances are this is you, since I don’t give my number out to anyone. Sorry I missed your call, I promise I’ll return it once I have a moment. I love you.

“Hi, Sugu. I don’t know where you and the girls are, but- um-” your voice breaks, fear gripping your words. “It’s Christmas. I hope everything is alright. I’m sure you’ll be back soon but just… let me know where you all are, okay? I love you.”

You hit the ‘end call’ button, staring down at the screen for a moment.

Maybe you should make yourself some tea while you wait. He’ll get back to you soon. Suguru’s always been good with that.

The tea does little to soothe your nerves. If anything, it sits uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach as you stare blankly at your phone screen. Your heart flutters with hope as it lights up, only to see a Merry Christmas notification from Duolingo.

That damn owl.

Picking up your phone once more, you open your texts with Nanako, your fingers flying across the keyboard.

10:02 AM You || Hey sweetheart, can you text me to let me know you, Mimi, and your dad are safe?

10:02 AM Nana || Message not sent. Tap to try again.

Your heart sinks, dread clutching your heart.

Over the years, Suguru’s put in a real effort to ensure you’re comfortable and happy. He bought a house away from the cult to keep you and his business separate, he never speaks of work even when he invites you along with his friends.

He made an effort to find you a therapist, and even attended couples’ therapy with you. He’s overly conscious of the fact that making the decision to defect from Jujutsu Tech with him is one that affected you deeply. It’s not something he ever took lightly, aiming to give you the best life.

Anything and everything for you. Whatever he could physically make happen, it would come to be. Every wish of yours at his command.

It was always at the back of your mind, the things he had done. The things you felt remorse over. The guilt and pain of failing Haibara and Nanami. The self-doubt of your decision to join Suguru all those years ago, abandoning your vow to keep humanity safe and leaving behind your friends at Jujutsu Tech. But after so many years of therapy, you’ve healed and have been able to live a fairly normal life.

You tend to a beautiful garden during the summer, opting for indoor plants during the winter. You learned to dry and make your own tea leaves, and run a small online business from the comfort of your home. It’s nothing that could pay bills, but it allows you a sense of independence while Suguru provides. You cook for your family and keep the house clean and every single night without fail, Suguru returns and envelops you in his arms, enjoying a warm dinner with his family.

This is the first time in a long time that doubt rears its ugly head in your mind, bringing back with it a familiar sensation of drowning. That feeling that something is wrong and you’re losing control.

In a flurry of unease, you pick up your phone and dial Suguru again. It rings a few times, but his voice repeats that same phrase.

Hi, angel. Chances are this is you, since I don’t give my number out to anyone. Sorry I missed your call, I promise I’ll return it once I have a moment. I love you.

“Sugu, please call me back. I’m worried about you. You never miss Christmas. I love you, baby.”

The end call button somehow feels more daunting than it ever has, as though pressing it tells the tale of an end that you aren’t ready for. You rhythmically tap your nails along the screen in thought, dialing Suguru’s number again. Five more rings, one more voicemail.

“Suguru, please call me. Nanako’s texts aren’t delivering. I’m worried about you all. I can’t find anyone. I love you.”

You chew on your lower lip, leaning over the table on your elbows as you shut your eyes. You shouldn't be worried, they’re all strong sorcerers. They can take care of themselves. Suguru will keep his girls safe, you included. He always does.

You can hardly move in the hour that follows, calling Suguru every so often and trying Nanako, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. Mimiko’s phone is still in her room, there’s no use calling it. It makes you think that maybe this is all a misunderstanding. She wouldn’t simply forget her phone.

It’s the following hour that leaves you stranded, alone on an island of terror in the deep sea of your anxious worries.

It’s around noon when Suguru’s phone stops ringing before going straight to voicemail.

Hi, angel. Chances are this is you, since I don’t give my number out to anyone. Sorry I missed your call, I promise I’ll return it once I have a moment. I love you.

Your voice is no longer even, you have to strain to feign even a semblance of control over your emotions, but you would be lying to say you aren’t a wreck. Your heart pounds each time you hear the phrase.

Hi, angel. Chances are this is you, since I don’t give my number out to anyone. Sorry I missed your call, I promise I’ll return it once I have a moment. I love you.

“Sugu, come home. Pl- please come home. I need you. I love you.” The encroaching tears are evident in your voice, choking you with each word.

You don’t know what to do, at a complete loss and alone, so painfully alone.

What are you supposed to do, call one of your non-sorcerer friends to tell them that your fiancé who barely tolerates them on a good night has gone missing? The reality is, a search party won’t help in this case. A search party can’t help you search for your criminal partner.

The loneliness had gotten easier to handle over the years, but between the doubt, fear, and concern already creeping into your heart, there’s little you can do to fend it off now. You continue to chew on your lip, gripping your phone tightly under white knuckles.

The following hour sees your tears fall. Suguru doesn’t go this long without answering. Nanako never puts her phone down.

You have to resign yourself to the knowledge that something has happened and you’re helpless in tracking them down. You haven’t used your cursed energy in so long you can hardly call yourself a sorcerer, but if ever there was a time to use it, now is the time.

Your pacing comes to a halt. When had you even started pacing? You’re not sure.

Someone with strong cursed energy is approaching your home. Suguru.

You run to the door, tears of relief falling as you practically tear the door from its hinges at the relief of seeing-

Satoru.

His expression is solemn, his hands buried deep within his pockets.

“Merry Christmas, sweets.” His voice sounds different. Deeper, forlorn. He’s traded in his dark shades for white bandages, equally snowy locks pushed out of his face. He’s filled out over the last ten years, his shoulders much broader and his chest much more pronounced. He still wears the Jujutsu Tech uniform, though it must be as a teacher now.

“Merry Christmas.” Your voice is meek, it sounds almost foreign to you. “You look good, Satoru,” you force a smile, though it’s hardly convincing given your distressed expression.

“Likewise,” he returns your smile.

“I don’t mean this in a bad way,” you begin, wiping your tears at the realization that you likely look like a mess. The most you’ve done today is make tea using your hand-dried leaves. It didn’t sit so well in your stomach though, and the remainder of the tea is still in a mug on your counter. “But, why are you here?”

Satoru shouldn’t know where you are. You suppose he does have those stupid Six Eyes, whatever that even means, and he could realistically have found you years ago if he so pleased, but he never did. For all the care that Suguru still held for Satoru, it was exactly that care that drove him to push his friend away, for their ideals and values stood too far apart. They weren’t as blurred as yours had become.

“Suguru mentioned I would find you here.”

“You spoke with him?” You perk up, your heart skipping a beat at the mere mention of his name. “Is he okay? My daughters, did you see them?”

Satoru’s tongue swipes over his lips before he presses them into a thin line. Your throat tightens, suffocating you.

“Can I come in?”

You purse your lips, slowly opening the door for Satoru, who has to duck to enter the house. He takes in your home, well organized and clean, with a cozy looking tree lit at the back. The overcast sun pours in through windows near the tree, illuminating the awaiting presents.

He makes his way inside, confidently making himself at home in typical Satoru fashion. He finds the first comfortable looking chair and plops himself down with spread legs. He hasn’t changed one bit. You follow after him, standing at the edge of the living space.

“You’ve got a nice home,” he comments, punctuating the phrase with your name.

“Thanks.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fear shaking your vocals as you push out the question you’re dreading. “Where’s Suguru?”

Satoru doesn’t move. You can’t read his expression under the bandages. You think you prefer the sunglasses to the makeshift blindfold, even if they made him look like an asshole.

“Have you turned on the TV at all today? Checked the news?”

Your heart drops to your stomach. A pit could open up and swallow you whole and it would be a kinder fate than whatever easy way Satoru is trying to let you down. You appreciate the way he’s gentle on your frail heart, but you wish he wouldn’t beat around the bush.

Maybe the fact that you’re aware he’s letting you down easy should be your first clue that something is wrong.

“No, I haven’t.”

He sighs deeply. This is the most serious you’ve seen him since Suguru defected. “Sit down.” It’s not a request, nor a demand, but you oblige anyway. You fear if you don’t, you’ll collapse as your legs begin to quiver under the gravity of your emotions.

Satoru turns to face you finally, pulling a strand of the bandage and allowing it to unravel so that you can see his eyes. They seem to glow even in the well-lit living area. He blinks a few times, before he seems to find his voice.

“Has he spoken to you at all about what the cult has been doing?”

You shake your head, your voice caught in your throat.

“I see.” He straightens, facing you as though he’s giving you a debrief. It almost brings you back to your high school days. “Last night, Suguru released two thousand cursed spirits in Kyoto and Shinjuku. I won’t cover the casualties given your relationship, but I need to stress that this wasn’t an act of self defense.” He pauses, searching your expression. He sounds like Yaga when he speaks like this, it makes you feel sick.

The formality of his tone drives you crazy as you take in what he’s saying, yet his words don’t feel like they’re processing. It’s as though you’re watching this conversation from outside your own body, experiencing Satoru’s presence from afar.

When you don’t reply, he continues. “He attacked the school. He attempted to kill my student.”

Contrary to his prior explanation, this one registers. “A kid? He tried to kill a…?” You trail off, trying to comprehend how your fiancé could possibly act on something like that. He has two daughters himself, how could he attack a child sorcerer? That was his original breaking point, that was what had affected him so deeply he had finally broken.

That was the reason you had two adopted daughters at such a young age.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.” You shake your head, tears freely falling although you’re numb to the warmth of the salty liquid falling down your face.

Satoru frowns, clasping his hands together. “He went down a path that there was no coming back from.” He’s beating around the bush still, searching for ways to help you understand your loss without directly saying it, to help you come to terms with your grief. He himself is still grappling with his own, but Satoru had ten years to heal where you didn’t.

He couldn’t deny his only friend’s final request, to seek you out. It didn’t take much. A house in the countryside, far from the cult’s quarters, it only made sense for you. Satoru was never really sure why you followed Suguru. He knows your love for him runs deep, but he also knows you have a kind heart. It didn’t shock him to hear that you had never been involved in the cult’s businesses, nor had you ever laid a hand on anyone with intent to cause harm.

You had always been the kindest of them all. Troubled, perhaps, but kind, always.

He watches as you absentmindedly fiddle with a ring on your finger. An engagement ring. Shit. He never realized. He supposes that the distant, uncomprehending look in your eyes makes all the more sense knowing that you were soon to be married.

Your silence speaks volumes, tears still trailing down your cheeks, your eyes reddened and puffy. Satoru understands your pain, even if his pain culminates in a different form. Still, the distant look in your eyes pains him.

“Still with me?” He asks, leaning forward.

“I don’t get it.” You shake your head adamantly, sniffling. “He wouldn’t attack a child sorcerer.”

Satoru nods slowly. Denial. You’re in denial, that’s understandable.

“Okkotsu, first year student. He accidentally cursed his first love and she became a special grade apparition. Suguru wanted to absorb her.”

You shake your head, brow furrowing. “He wouldn’t.” Your breathing is growing ragged and Satoru can’t bear to see you suffer this way.

Getting to his feet, he approaches slowly, taking a seat on the couch beside you. He offers a hand, thankful you take it, although your tight grip on him sends a jolt up his body. “Damn, sweets. Quite the grip,” he chuckles, a barebones attempt at comforting humor.

His joke goes over about as poorly as you would expect as reality begins to set in. You pull away from his grip, bringing your hands up to your face as you gasp into your shaky palms.

He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. There won’t be a honeymoon in three months. There won’t be a wedding to celebrate. There won’t be a Christmas shared in the warmth of his arms.

Every last hope, dream, and tradition, shattered for a vision that you never once believed in. There wasn’t a world where Suguru succeeded, and there’s a small part of you that thought he was aware of that. A part of you that thought he only surrounded himself with people who believed in this vision simply because they shared his values and ideals.

Suguru Geto wasn’t an innocent man, but you didn’t think he was a foolish one either. You didn’t think he was one to sacrifice everything he had built for a vision that he couldn’t possibly achieve.

Strangled gasps part your lips as grief claws its way up your throat. You have to swallow down bile as you struggle to get air. Everything crashes in on you at once, pulling you underwater into a sea of what were once well-controlled and understood emotions.

If the world pities you, it shows no sign of it, letting you choke as your world splits down the middle.

Suguru was your lifevest, he kept you above water even as the tides grew and shifted. He would be there to watch over you as the ocean grew and the shore lessened. Even at your worst, he shone as a beacon to guide you back to land, to him.

Satoru pulls you into him, rubbing your back with gentle coos and shushes, but he isn’t what you need. He isn’t who you need. He doesn’t provide the calm escape from the storm that Suguru did. His warmth doesn’t feel the same. His arms enveloping you are foreign. It’s as though he’s little more than another cloud leaving your mind foggy and uncertain, lost in chaos.

Sobs repeatedly wrack your body and Satoru fears he’s losing you to grief. There was once a time that you two were close, and while he’s sure he can’t provide for you what Suguru did, he hopes as he tightens his grip around your frame that you feel that he still cares.

He never resented you for leaving with Suguru. Even as you were sentenced to death and he was told to hunt his closest friends, he never once attempted it.

The higher-ups knew. They knew he could find you. They never pushed. They feared Gojo for what he could do. What he would do if he did manage to find you both.

“I- I can’t-” you stammer out choked words, clinging to him suddenly as though your desperate gasps for air aren’t enough. They aren’t enough. You’re pale, clinging to him for purchase as you fail to catch your breath.

Everything seems to close in, your vision blurring as black closes in on all signs.

Satoru recognizes the signs that you’re losing consciousness. So choked by your own grief that your body fails you, allowing your anxiety to tear a hole through your chest as though your heartbreak wasn’t enough.

He fears there’s nothing he can do, simply holding you as your mind fails to make sense of the situation you find yourself in. He’s not sure how long he holds you before you come back to the present. He doesn’t move an inch, opting simply to be there for you. Even if no one was there for him as he wrapped his own head around Suguru’s crimes, he wouldn’t let the same be said for you.

You’ve suffered enough.

Your breathing accelerates rapidly as you blink and take in your surroundings, every limb sore to the point where you’re growing numb. Satoru may have a penchant for endless talking, but he remains silent as you come to, processing the world. All he offers is the occasional squeeze of reassurance or a quietly whispered ‘I’m here’.

Something under the tree catches your eye, a gift you don’t recognize, but Satoru doesn’t dare let you go in this state.

“Can you breathe, sweets?”

You swallow hard with a shaky inhale. “It hurts, but I can.”

“Good.”

“Wh- where are the girls?”

Satoru leans back to get a look at your face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see much of Suguru’s followers beyond Miguel.”

You cling to the hope that maybe they’re okay, but the dread in the pit of your stomach tells another story. You can’t reach Nana and Mimi left her phone here. It all has to be for a reason. This is premeditated and there was a calculated decision made not to contact you. Not to fill you in.

They’re gone, too.

Your eyes remain fixed on the new gift beneath the tree. Leaning your full body weight against Satoru, he still refuses to let go, following you to the ground by the tree as you drag him off the couch.

Placed atop the largest wrapped gift is a tiny box with a folded note attached. You don’t recognize it and it’s too nicely wrapped to be from the girls.

With a sharp intake of breath to try to regulate your emotions as you tug the note from the box, unraveling it.

Angel,

Merry Christmas. If you’re reading this, I suppose I have some explaining to do.

Suguru’s penmanship is impeccable, and tears stream down your face at the realization of exactly what you’re reading. Satoru’s grip tightens around you as he reads over your shoulder, feeling every muscle in your body tense.

I think there was always a part of you that thought more of me than what I truly am. For that, I am deeply sorry. I’m beyond grateful that you accepted my proposal. You would have looked absolutely stunning standing at the end of the aisle.

But someone like you deserves more than what I can provide. It’s destroyed me, all these years, to know that you allowed me to break your spirit simply out of love. I don’t think any words could help me fix the error of my ways, but it’s one of my greatest regrets.

If you’re reading this, then the cult’s plans went sideways. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for Christmas day. You can add that to the long list of promises that have now been broken. I made many vows when I got down on one knee, but I suppose it was presumptuous of me to speak so highly of my ability to provide for you when I imagine you’re falling apart again.

Promise me something, my love. I want you to pick yourself up, and start fresh. Seek out Satoru, he’ll help you find a place to begin again.

I don’t expect it will be easy, but I know you can keep your head above water. Keep staying strong for me. You’re a diamond in the rough and no one will ever compare to the way you shine so brightly. Keep your chin up and keep going, my love.

I am so deeply sorry. I only ever wanted what was best for you.

I love you always.

Your Sugu ♡

You gasp between choked sobs, running your hand over the note. The ink is smeared in his final apology, a circular marking on the page’s corner as though he’d shared your tears when he wrote the note.

Setting it aside, your hand hesitates over the box. Satoru squeezes you gently, a reassurance that at least you aren’t alone. He might not be Suguru, but the reminder that you aren’t alone does provide some sort of comfort, regardless of it not being what you truly need right now.

Pulling the box into your hand, you chew at your lip until iron stings on your tongue, the taste bitter and miserable.

Holding your breath, you finally find the courage to tear the wrapping paper from the tiny gift. A small red velvet box sits in your hands.

One final gift from Suguru, one so cruel it could only have come from him.

Sitting within the box are two beautiful matching silver bands clearly crafted custom to suit your unique styles.

Wedding rings.

All over again, everything seems to crash in on you.

masterlist || sdos masterlist

previous (nicotine)

❦ a/n ; i'm so sorry :') this has been in my mind for a bit and i figured what better time to complete this series than christmas? but! i promise i have some christmas fluff coming soon too <3

❦ taglist ; @ghost-buddies @depressedemosantaclaus @s3vtrue @troyesivanfrl

writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight and cafekitsune.

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perlelune · 11 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

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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 · 2 months 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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lotties-ashwagandha · 1 month ago

Text

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

riley johnson x fem!reader

you’re home for christmas, and in the chaos of the holiday season you find solace with an old friend. make the yuletide GAY wooooo!!! tell me you see my vision. 3.2k words.

You stand in the corner of the event center like Santa’s greatest reject. You have banished yourself, let yourself succumb to the fate of being The Weird One Standing In The Corner. It suits you better than the rest of the party — you have no connection to local politics here, you haven’t met half of the guests before in your life, and those you have met you would much prefer to stay away from. Your family has ditched you to mingle, and you start to regret coming back for them.

You are home for the holidays, and it has lived up to your expectations. Staying in your childhood home, met with familiar faces around town, dragged to every Christmas party you come across — privacy has evaded you, and so has the prospect of sleep.

You take a sip of your coffee. It’s the only thing keeping you standing — any of the alcohol being passed around would have you passed out in your car, and the warmth helps to soothe the biting chill.

You don’t hear her approach, but you recognize her voice instantly. “Good choice. If I got drunk right now I would grab the microphone off the stage and yell, ‘No, everyone, I can’t hook you up for any dull pain in your funny bone.’”

You turn to see her, a cup of coffee in her hands to match your own. She watches you with tired eyes, an ever-worn expression that you know every line and look of. Riley Johnson has joined you at your side.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Riley says. She turns to gaze out at the rest of the party. “You never called me.”

Fuck.

“Everything happened so last minute,” you lie. You knew you were coming back for weeks before you left home. “It has all passed by so quickly. The holidays always happen that way.”

She hums in response, offering a quick nod. Riley takes a sip of her coffee, a faint crimson smudge is left behind on the mug.

You’re desperate for anything to say to get yourself out of this. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Riley gives you a deadpan look and shoves her free hand into the pocket of her grey blazer. “No.”

It’s been a year, almost exactly, since you last saw Riley Johnson. You were once friends in high school, then roommates in your first two years of college, and now since you moved away you have been immaculately estranged. Since your early twenties you have been seeing one another once a year: during your visits to your hometown during the holidays.

You shouldn’t be avoiding her. Your relationship with Riley has faded pleasantly — she’s a doctor now, you’re successful in your own field, both of you have all you could want out of life. Yet the nostalgia you experience every time you meet her again is wrenching. It has become ingrained in you, triggered at every photo you see of her, the sound of her voice, the way you watch each other change and age with every passing year.

Riley studies you. She smiles softly. “You aren’t enjoying yourself either.”

“Just wait until the White Elephant party.”

She’s silent for a moment, clears her throat and looks back out at the crowd. “I don’t think I’m going this year.”

“You’re not?” A great sense of dread comes over you. Every year you attend the White Elephant gift exchange hosted by Harper’s family — Riley’s ex, another one of your strained friendships, whose family is intensely close to yours. You go every year. Riley usually joins you and for the night you are instantly allies again in the suffering.

“I have had enough years in a row of going to my ex’s house on Christmas Eve, getting drunk on cheap spiced alcohol, and spending the day at the mall wanting to kill myself in pursuit of a White Elephant gift.”

It is a fair point, but still… “I don’t think I can make it through the event without you.”

“No, you will be just fine,” she says. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

You need a drink after all – you need a drink because the hidden implication that you don’t need her has brought you to your limit. “Up for grabbing microphones off the stage?”

“What?”

You look down at your empty coffee mug, over at the drinks being served at the bar near the entrance.

You sit with Riley on a bench outside the building. Three drinks in now, both of your spirits have been lifted, and you disregard the cold night. The light coming from inside the party is cast over you, though you find relief from the noise of the crowd.

“Wait, wait,” Riley starts. “Do you remember when we went to a gay bar for the first time together? And then we got a cab home back to our apartment and you fucking vomited all over the backseat?”

You cringe at the memory, but beside you Riley is hardly able to breathe through her laughter. You throw your head into your hands. “I thought the driver was going to kill me that night.”

Riley pulls one of your hands away from your face and jabs a finger at you. “If you had thrown up in our apartment then I would have killed you. You got lucky.”

“I don’t know if lucky is the right word. Everyone around town was talking about me for weeks.”

“Oh, come on,” she sighs contentedly. “You’re complaining to the wrong person when it comes to public disgrace.”

She leans against you, hands stuffed into the pocket of her blazer and empty glass disregarded on the ground by her feet. For warmth, you think. She leans against you for warmth, and because you lived together for years, and because you are familiar and safe and even after all these years she knows everything about you. She leans against you because, like you, she holds trust in your friendship — however strained and monotonous and lonesome.

You want to wrap an arm around her and pull her closer. You want to lean into her, too, close your eyes and let yourself succumb to the comfort of her beside you and the sharp pine of her perfume. You stay still — if anything, you become more tense, though an unwelcome giddiness spreads through you at having her so close and you work hard to resist the urge to take her hand in yours.

“You’re an asshole,” Riley says.

You panic. “Why?”

“The elephant in the room. It wants me to go to its party.”

“It told you itself?”

Riley nods.

“What else did it say?”

Riley sits back up straight. She considers the mysterious white elephant’s words. “That we should go into town tomorrow and look for White Elephant gifts — unless you’ve already gone shopping.”

“I haven’t yet,” you smile. “I would love to go.”

“Good,” she nods. Her gaze settles on you, she leans back against the bench. For a second she seems to hesitate, gauging your expression to anticipate how you might respond when she says: “I’ve missed this.”

You nod, searching for the words – you have missed this too, you have missed Riley so intensely that you try to disregard any memory of her as it resurfaces during your everyday life. You have missed her so much that you neglected calling her and telling her you were coming back home for Christmas this year because you knew that if you saw her you would leave feeling empty without her. “I’ve missed this too,” you say simply. “I wish we could see each other more often. Once a year isn’t enough.”

Riley smiles softly, her features possessed with the same nostalgia wracking you. She doesn’t have to say it: once a year is the best the two of you will get. Your ship has sailed, you have parted ways, and you will have to make do with the blessing of your paths crossing every once in a lifetime.

Riley stands up. She looks down at you, surveying you for any changes since last year, in the same way you have been examining her. Above all, in her you have noticed a new exhaustion. It possesses her features with tantalizing strength, it has grown parasitically.

“Tomorrow,” she starts, always in her same awkwardness that is charismatic in a way you are not. “We will brave the storm of the mall.”

Terrifying. “I’ll meet you there.”

The night has grown colder. Riley stalks off and a frozen breeze whips against you, and no matter how you brace against it you are chilled to the bone.

You eye the forgotten glass she has left by the leg of the bench.

When Riley meets you at the mall the next morning, you are jittery with the coffee buzz you’ve gotten. You’re nervous, though you hardly have reason to be, and through a lapse of judgement you have been sipping on copious amounts of holiday-flavored coffee drinks while you wait for her.

Riley steps into the coffee shop you had agreed to meet at. It is a place of refuge from the chaos of the rest of the mall, though you have tried to escape the worst of the last-minute Christmas shoppers by going so early in the morning.

In an attempt to be gallant you pay for the black coffee she orders. A simple gesture, one she thanks you for and that you hope can start your journey of reconnecting.

“Okay,” she takes her coffee and looks out of the coffee shop at the rest of the mall. “Anywhere you have in mind to start with?”

You hesitate. It’s been so long since you visited the mall here – you usually come to town with a White Elephant gift in tow, but this year you ran out of time. You shake your head listlessly.

“Come on,” Riley grabs your arm and leads you into the mall.

First she leads you into a home decor store. You browse dinnerware, towels, anything cheap but still appealing enough to give away at a party.

Riley disappears into an area of kitchen gadgets and comes back with a plastic handheld citrus juicer. “Look at this fucking thing.”

She holds it up like a block of gold.

“Oranges,” she starts listing with a deadpan expression, “lemons, limes, grapefruit. Juicers are the future.”

You take the juicer from her. Looking it over, you see the appeal, but you don’t think Ted or Tipper will be as enthusiastic about a citrus juicer. Even one of the high-tech mechanical ones would still be a disappointment to their standards.

Riley snatches it back. “You don’t like it?”

“I like it,” you try. Riley shakes her head and tosses the juicer into the basket you carry.

“I’ll get it for myself. Merry Christmas.”

You look down into the basket. “You used to have one of these when we lived together. You would juice a bunch of oranges and make one singular mimosa for yourself on Sundays.”

Riley nods. The two of you walk deeper into the store. “Remember why you never got a mimosa?”

“No.”

“I had two juicers. The first one broke because you tried to crack nuts in it.”

Oh.

You pay for the citrus juicer, too. “For my sins,” you tell her and offer the juicer in a plastic bag.

You visit a fragrance store next. You decide that if you would appreciate a gift of seasonally-scented soap, so might someone else. You test the peppermint scents, the snowball scents, every variation of gingerbread. The store is packed and you lose Riley in the fray, but you end up by a back wall of older scents you suspect are soon to be cycled out.

You test the scents of the perfumes and soap, but one of them gives you pause. An old perfume you used to wear when you were younger. You thought the line had ended, but now you hold it new and rebranded.

“What’s that?” Riley peers over your shoulder. “Did you find one?”

You hand it to her. “You won’t remember. I used to wear this all the time, I thought it had been discontinued.”

Riley holds it up to smell. There’s a change in her features, the same heady nostalgia that you wore last night has spread to her. “I remember.” She looks down at the perfume, then back up at you, something unreadable in her expression that has you averting your gaze as your chest tightens. “It still suits you… Let me buy it for you.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

She has made it to the cash register before you can stop her.

You end up at Riley’s house after purchasing your White Elephant gift, a gift card you put no thought into that everyone will be disappointed in — it’s hardly a gift, and not extravagant enough for White Elephant, but as the mall had gotten busier both of you had been craving to get out. Riley had invited you back for a drink, and it had been beyond you to decline.

You sit on the sofa with her, glass of wine in hand. A small fire dances in the fireplace, relief from the chill running through her house — one far larger than yours, exhibiting the wealth she has obtained through the years. You have been successful apart in your own fields, but you hadn’t realized the extent of Riley’s accomplishment until you had stepped into one of the grandest houses in town.

Instead of feeling welcomed by the grandeur, though, the house feels isolating. It is empty, except for her, and while you know she enjoys her solitude you can’t help but question how much more confined one would feel in the winter months living in a home like this.

“It’s different here for you, isn’t it?” Riley questions. “More contained than Christmas in the city.”

She says it like you loathe the ground you walk on, and you would sell your soul to be back in your house in the city a few hours away. As if you are dropping down into the fire every year you come back to smaller suburbs.

“It’s familiar,” you say carefully. “There are always pieces of this place I’ll miss and pieces I would rather not see again.”

“Is that why you didn’t call me?” She asks, studying you carefully, wearing a playful expression to fall back on. Gold is reflected in her eyes from the fire. It casts the two of you in its light, the rest of the room darkening as the day fades on.

“No,” you shake your head, stunned by the implication – but you remember your earlier avoidance of her, and even now you feel it in your bones drawing you away as you feel forever pulled towards her. It is a balance you don’t understand. “I always want to see you.”

Riley takes a long drink of her wine. Then she leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, and a spike of adrenaline runs through you like a high at her proximity. The silence between you is a heavy, living thing, charged with something best left unnamed. Her gaze flicks up to you and you hate how your breath catches, like it is her your heart beats for. “I hate those fucking parties.”

You know. You hate them, too, the political events and social squabbles hosted annually by the families the two of you grew up with – the events you hardly have a choice but to go to, because you have nowhere else to be for Christmas without a family started on your own and the parties are part of the package.

“I only go for you,” she says softly – anxiously. It is a new color on her. “I’ll never get anywhere with the people here. They all think I’m a stalker.”

You smile. “Aren’t you?”

“Are you into that?”

“I could be.”

Riley laughs, it cuts through the tenderness of her earlier confession. She sets her glass down on the coffee table. When she sits back up she shifts closer to you, like you are a very curious and outlandish thing to occupy space in her home, but one she would like to keep here permanently.

Again, you want to pull her closer to you, live in the bliss of her claiming your senses – and immediately, like being shot in the leg, you realize the nature of your push and pull. Every year it dawns on you and every year you push it aside, the growing love for her that has haunted you throughout every year you have spent apart.

You see it in her, the same longing. It sets you both in terrifying stillness that you don’t know how to break out of. She shifts again and her knee brushes against yours and sends a quick jolt through you, and no matter how you set your gaze away from her you betray yourself in the way you look at her lips.

In the nature of present longing, you make up for past regrets: You kiss her.

She leans into you, wrapping her arms around you and tugging you closer. For a fleeting moment you are wracked with guilt at the touch – after Christmas you will be separated again, back to your own lives and jobs and fates. You will return to your solitude and all of this will have to be forgotten.

The guilt is gone when her tongue slips into your mouth and her hands slide under your shirt. Just for now, you need each other. You have been given the blessing of an escape and it would be a waste of both of your time not to take it – you need it, and you feel in the hunger Riley kisses you with and the yearning in her touch that she needs it, too.

She pushes you to lay down on the couch, lips only leaving yours to pull your shirt over your head. Her hands are cold, you moan into the kiss when they start exploring the newly revealed skin. The warmth of the fire soothes over you in compliment, new softness amid the hunger.

Riley is gentle with you, handling you like an endlessly fragile thing. Her touch is anxious, cautious, but with every passing moment need grows in you, surging beneath your skin. In a smooth motion you pull her down so that it’s Riley with her back to the couch and you hover above her.

Her hands find your hips, nails digging sharply into your skin when you lean down to kiss her. Any hesitation is gone, you are left only with your longing as you rid her of her button-down shirt and your lips latch onto her neck. It comes naturally to you to be above her like this, you are driven on faultless instinct as you find every way to explore her neck and chest that leaves her breath heavy and back arching to find more of you to sate her.

Something breaks in the moment, tenderness returning when she pulls you back up from her neck to meet your eyes.

“Stay here with me,” she whispers. One of her hands runs through your hair and your eyes shut as you savor her. “I want to wake up with you on Christmas.”

You close the distance again, an unspoken promise that you are bound to her. You have found harbor here together, in the privacy of her home and in the love that never extends beyond each other.

HI HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! happiest season has been my movie obsession this christmas so i had to write a fic for it 😋 if you enjoyed and wanna be my sexy secret santa then fill my stocking with a giant coffee (?) and i will consider it the merriest christmas ever. or just comment or reblog or whatever. anyway love love love you all thank you for reading!!!

#riley johnson #riley johnson x reader #happiest season #happiest season x reader #riley johnson smut #clea duvall thank you for giving us christmas sapphics please give us more

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moonselune · 2 months 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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dead-dolphins · 1 month ago

Text

Deaddolphins presents:

A heartwarming collection of 17 Christmas drabbles lovingly crafted just for you.❤️

Publication date: from 12/25/2024 to 01/06/25

Drabbles that you will find:

1. THE BEST GIFT OF ALL

Three years into their marriage, Eren is overwhelmed with baby fever, especially during the holidays. This Christmas, Mikasa has a surprise for him: three gifts that might just make his dream come true.

2. SMOOTH CRIMINAL

Eren, an unprofessional and slightly incompetent thief, stumbles into Mikasa's luxurious home while struggling to get his life together. But when he sees her, his priorities shift—now, his only goal is to steal her heart.

3. A FAMILY AFFAIR

Mikasa finally brings her boyfriend, Eren, home to meet her family. Her parents adore him, but Uncle Levi isn’t so easily impressed. Determined to expose Eren, Levi grills him with questions at the dinner table.

4. JINGLE BELLS & BLOOD CELLS

Eren, a Christmas-hating vampire, plans to scare off Mikasa and her orphanage carollers, until her beauty stops him. For the first time in a century, he’s willing to listen to carols if it means she’ll stay.

5. HOMECOMING

After years of being apart, Mikasa stands at the airport, her heart racing as she waits for Eren’s plane to land. She’s spent months, even years, imagining this moment, but now that he is finally here, she’s terrified. What if she has already lost him?

6. RAWR!

Eren and Mikasa are struggling to find the dinosaur toy that their 4-year-old son has been asking for as a Christmas gift the whole year.

7. UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Normie Eren has a crush on his best friend, Goth Mikasa, who feels the same. When their families celebrate Christmas Eve together, Eren tries to kiss Mikasa under the mistletoe, but noisy kids and nosy relatives keep interrupting. Finally, they get their moment.

8. LAST CHRISTMAS I GAVE YOU A CHILD

On Christmas Eve, Eren, Mikasa, and their friends are having a karaoke night. As Mikasa sings Last Christmas, Eren interrupts with their 3-month-old son in his arms, he jokes, “I gave you a child!”

9. OF LONELY HEARTS

Hot Dilf Eren is head over heels for Mikasa, his son/daughter’s kindergarten teacher. Unbeknownst to him, he also takes up most of her mind.

10. THE LUNCH RUN

Mikasa, an office lady, surprises her coworkers when her husband shows up to bring her the lunch she forgot at home. Everyone’s shocked—not just because they didn’t know she was married, but because he’s a... hobo.

11. THE GIRL WITH THE TAIL

Eren, the son of a pirate, dreams of the sea but is stuck ashore. He sneaks onto a fishing boat with Armin’s help and accidentally kills a fisherman while saving a girl. Fleeing, he ends up in Hizuru, where he meets the girl again—now with a tail.

12. PANTS SNATCHED TO SATURN!

Sugar Baby AU. Mikasa is about to give birth on Christmas Eve, and Eren, despite this not being his first time, is panicking—so much so that he forgot to put on his pants!

13. A WOLF'S FIRST SNOWFALL

Yuletide has arrived in the North, and with winter’s chill, the winterlord and his princess wife celebrate their first holiday season with their beloved firstborn.

14. A CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL

Alpha Eren plans the perfect Christmas proposal for Mikasa, his Omega girlfriend of five years, complete with a ring and her favourite scarf. When she unexpectedly comes home early, a near mishap almost ruins the moment.

15. COSY CHAOS

Eren and Mikasa’s first Christmas with their baby, Carla, finds Eren struggling to make something special for their little one.

16. SURPRISE!

The day Athlete Eren found out Mikasa was pregnant with his child was a whirlwind of shock, joy, and overwhelming emotion, changing their lives forever.

17. SWEET NIGHTS

Lord Eren adores his princess wife even more after her baths, as the warmth she enjoys heightens her sensitivity, making their moments together even more intimate.

Thanks so much for participating guys!

#eremika #christmas drabbles #deaddolphins christmas

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unboundprompts · 1 month ago

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hallo!! Im making a new wip and I was wondering if you had any ideas for holiday or christmas themed mystery titles

Holiday Mystery Titles

-> feel free to edit as you see fit.

Silent Night, Sinister Night

Mistletoe and Murder

The Holly Jolly Heist

Death by Candlelight

The Christmas Killer

Snowed In with Secrets

The Twelve Clues of Christmas

A Yuletide Whodunit

Frost and Fatality

Murder Under the Mistletoe

Blood on the Snow

Holidays in Hiding

A Chill in the Air

Deck the Halls with Deception

The Bell Tolls at Midnight

#writing prompts #creative writing #writeblr #book titles #title ideas #title suggestions #title list #book title ideas #writing ideas #writing inspiration #creative writing prompts #ask box prompts #holiday prompts #christmas #holidays

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hazyange1s · 1 month ago

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i’ll give you the stars (ominis gaunt x f!mc)

summary: mc (diana) goes home for a quiet christmas to escape the chaos of her sixth year. ominis, still estranged from his family, has come to spend the holiday with her — and brings a gift in the hopes of lifting her spirits and showing her a bit of light in the darkness.

tags: fluff, ambiguous relationship but they obviously are disgustingly in love, suggestive themes while still keeping it “chaste” a la the struggle of Victorian expectations, excessive prose, smooching, Christmas Eve magic, sweet gentleman ominis, cheesy nicknames, lots of astronomy references

word count: 2.7k

a/n: I wrote this over a year ago. like, wow. but I don’t talk about these two enough so here we are, unearthing a relic 😭 this is set during incendiary (so, um, very mild spoilers ig since we haven’t gotten to christmas yet there) and has some references, but it can be read alone 🖤

The crackling fire filling the marble hearth casted shadows onto the floral papered walls, outlining Diana's petite frame as she slid a gauzy nightgown over her head before fixing the dark hairs misplaced by its skirt. Sighing with relief, she sank onto the plush mattress of her four-poster bed at last.

It had been a long day — but it brought the kind of fatigue that came from a day well spent, its leisurely passage of time due not to monotony or stress, but a chest full to bursting with warmth and affection for the people she’d spent it with.

The hours of ice skating, cooking, and telling stories by the fire before finishing the last wrappings on everyone's gifts ensured she was more than ready to be welcomed into the comforting embrace of sleep. Christmas would come in the morning, and with it her Aunt Celeste’s annual Yuletide Feast. She’d need a good night’s rest if she was to properly prepare herself to navigate the whispers and expectations of Celeste’s pontifical friends (who were even more unbearable after several glasses of elderflower wine).

Diana began twirling a lock of inky black hair around a slim finger, gazing absentmindedly out the snow-frosted windows as the day's events replayed in her head:

The way the sunrise this morning (a sight she'd usually ache to paint) was dim compared to the brightness of her best friend's smile; a rare treat as of late. How good the Earl Grey tasted in her mother’s old china, somehow much better than what they served at Hogwarts. And, of course, the many, many times a chill had skittered down her spine any time Ominis brushed her hand 'accidentally' or touched her lower back whenever he walked by.

All of it so wonderful, so familiar, so...maddening in its mundane joy.

Merlin, but my hair has seen better days. Diana sighed, now employing both hands to untangle a stubborn knot that wouldn’t budge, forcing her to drag herself out of bed with a groan and plop down at the vanity by the window. The tug of the brush through the nest atop her scalp elicited a nose-scrunching wince.

It was at that moment that a knock jolted Diana from her reverie, ringing out in the quiet room where only the fireplace crackled. Who would possibly need her at this hour?

It had to be important. Perhaps even urgent.

This was precisely the thought that catalyzed her movement from the mirror to the door, abandoning her hairbrush in favor of snatching up her wand to light the darkened hallway as she flung the door open.

“What? What is it?”

Her visitor appeared just as alarmed by the unceremonious greeting. Ominis jumped at the sudden gust of air, shifting his weight and exhaling forcefully when he’d settled.

"Er..." he began, clearly expecting to have this initially go a bit differently. A hand reached up to scratch the back of his neck, head dipping towards the ground. "Apologies, I didn't intend to intrude."

"Ominis,” Diana breathed. Her immediate reaction to cover her scantily clad form was abandoned the moment she realized it was unnecessary. "No, um, you aren't intruding. I wasn't doing anything important."

It began to feel like every word she said around the man came out sounding entirely idiotic. Truly, it was a mercy Ominis's eyes were not privy to the blush staining her pale cheeks.

Despite it, the corner of Ominis's lips tugged up into a soft, genuine smile. "Not sleeping, I take it? Have you been up painting again?"

Sometimes it shocked Diana to realize how well he had come to know her in just a year of friendship. Everything from the basics such as her birthday and middle name to the most unscrupulous of quirks and habits seemed to be engrained in his mind — not to mention some of her deepest secrets, as well.

"Well, I was about to, but I suspect I'd have had a hard time falling asleep, anyway." Diana lamented with a shrug.

"May I come in?"

Ignoring the way her heart did a little skip, she stepped aside, letting him hear the creak of the door as she held it open. Ominis’s wand hung limply at side, pulsing a vibrant red as it guided him through the doorway and into the spacious warmth of her bedroom. He stopped in the center before deciding to take up residence in a seat by the hearth.

Diana extinguished her own wand after the light from his faded into nothing, leaving only the glow of the fire and a few stray candles to illuminate the tight angle of his jaw, the thin press of his mouth. Ominis started to fiddle with the sleeves of his loose white button-down when she took the seat across from him.

"Is something the matter?" Diana asked.

"No, no. Nothing’s wrong." Ominis replied in one breath. She didn't miss the way his silvery eyes softened at her obvious distress (a state he knew all too well). “I wanted to give you something...well, that is to say...I'd like to give you your Christmas present early, if that's alright."

Of course it was alright, but Diana had to wonder why it had to be now — when the clock in the corner had struck midnight minutes ago, and Sebastian had made them swear to wait until morning before opening any without him.

"Is it time-sensitive? Don't tell me it's a kitten; I've enough animals to care for as it is,” Diana laughed, eying one of said beloved creatures that was curled up on the bed. Saoirse’s whiskers gleamed in the moonlight spilling over the gray cat's sleeping form.

"Not exactly."

She could have sworn Ominis's cheeks were red now, too. But perhaps that was simply due to the flames. "I had just hoped to gift it to you in a more private setting."

Diana didn't think he meant anything untoward by his statement, but it made her breath stall anyway. She had been trying not to think about the logistics of their current circumstances as it was, and then he had to go and say something like that. It was a small conciliation being able to let her wandering eyes sweep over his angular shoulders, down the arms corded with veins to his slender piano player's fingers while she mused if only those fingers could play across her body the same way.

The vulgar tirade of her fantasies was abruptly halted by Ominis's cleared throat. She couldn't tell if it had been meant to puncture the silence that had settled between them in the midst of her stupor, or if it was to steady himself.

Refocusing her gaze, Diana watched him reach into a pocket to produce a square box lined with velvet in the deepest obsidian that let her imagination run rampant, despite her logical mind telling her it definitely was not what she initially assumed. The box was far too large, and his expression all too casual as Ominis reached out to hand it to her.

His little smile told her he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "I hope it isn't too much. Or too little. You don't need to accept it if you don't —“

"Oh, hush,” Diana chastised him affectionately. "I'm flattered you even thought of me, especially since…well, I know you’re still cut off. You shouldn’t have spent money on me.”

"Of course I thought of you. You're worth every effort, every galleon and then some." Ominis said with a shake of his head.

Money was no object to most members of the Gaunt family. Even after he'd publicly disowned the lot of them — save for his older sister Cordelia — part of his inheritance would be granted to him regardless the moment he turned seventeen in January. But for now, the only money Ominis possessed was whatever he had left in his Gringotts vault.

His fingers brushed hers, tentatively, seeking the center of her palm where he placed the box.

The air around them seemed to still. Everything else became background noise to the soft sounds of their breathing and his soft, “Go on,” as she forced herself to tear her eyes away from a smiling Ominis in order to lift the lid on the box.

Her sharp inhale pierced the blanket of quiet. Heart fluttering like a caged bird that had caught a glimpse of the open sky, Diana reverently lifted a silver necklace from the plush bed of silk it rested on. Its chain sparkled in the dim light, along with the deep cobalt stone in the center, cut into a flawless oval and set in the same pale metal. A closer look allowed her to notice the starburst veining through the ebony-flecked gem.

"Ominis..." her voice betrayed every ounce of her amazement as she slid a thumb over the stone's center. "It's — I don't think 'beautiful' even begins to cover it."

Diana's eyes flitted back up to his. He was leaning towards her in his chair, elbows resting on thighs and keeping one of her hands clasped between them. The distance was small enough that she could see the lines of near-white in his icy irises. They reminded her much of the webbing in the crystal, yet somehow infinitely more captivating than any jewel or constellation.

"I suppose that means you like it?" Ominis glowed.

"Like it?" Diana scoffed, unable to contain the bubbling gratitude and affection that filled her to the brim. Every word she summoned to her tongue seemed to fall short, all of them abandoned before they left her lips, so it was decided there’d be only one proper way to show her appreciation.

The already marginal space between them disappeared completely as the Ravenclaw flung her arms around his neck, enthusiastically pulling her startled Slytherin into a hasty kiss.

Ominis's gasp of surprise stole the breath from her own lungs, sending her into a free fall that hopefully ended with him catching her. There was the briefest second that her friend hesitated and she thought she would die of embarrassment.

Their first couple of kisses — too few and far between, in her opinion, but she was patient — had been different than this. More layers between them, for one, and more time to consider her moves carefully.

Mercifully, Ominis did not pull away. On the contrary; after the initial shock wore off his arms came up to cup her cheeks gently, fingers sliding through her loose hair as he returned the gesture with just as much fervor and meaning. Diana instantly became pliant beneath his touch. He still tasted of cinnamon and currant from the wine they’d all shared earlier…

Yet it wasn't the evening's indulgence that had her feeling a bit dizzy, it was the pillowy softness of Ominis's lips combined with his startling heat and devotion.

Though he was sharp-tongued enough to get by with a few clever words, he hadn’t needed to say a thing in that moment. Diana understood what each slight tug on her hair meant and that every slow drag of his bottom lip across hers was a silent question.

Before she could answer, Ominis pulled away, his voice tremulous as he asked, “Will you allow me to put it on for you?"

Diana had almost forgotten about the necklace she still had wound around her palm and yielded it to him with a dazed nod. “I mean, yes. By all means.”

Her body moved automatically up from the chair, pivoting to face the window as Ominis followed suit and came to stand just behind her. It would appear that breathing wasn't so much in the cards for her tonight, because each time she regained it, it was snatched from her chest — this time by the drag of his fingertips along the curve of her neck until they came to rest at its nape, deftly closing the clasp of the necklace beneath her hairline.

"Thank you,” She murmured, not quite ready to turn around and be within kissing distance once again. The brief moment they'd shared had been like an appetizer that only made her hungrier for a main course, and Diana feared she would scare him away if it was too much, too fast.

Patience, remember?

"It's my pleasure,” Ominis's voice held all the same thinly veiled tension as her own. His breath disturbed a few stray hairs atop her head as he leaned in closer, mouth just barely grazing her ear in the most-spine tingling way. He had to know what he was doing, and yet he acted as though he was none the wiser.

"I only..." his admission was broken by a longing sigh, thumbs rubbing circles into her shoulders until they, too, paused.

"Are you...in your nightgown?"

The modesty she'd dismissed at the door returned with full force. Diana's arms snaked around her waist, hugging herself protectively as if she could somehow hide the way the thin material became translucent in the light despite knowing he remained oblivious.

Besides, she'd never been able to hide from him in any sense of the word. He had always sensed her coming up behind him, known the moment she walked into a room as well as every thought and emotion and physical state as if he didn't need the luxury of eyesight to peer into her very soul.

"I was getting ready for bed, so yes,” Diana's giggle was almost giddy. "Perhaps I should have warned you. I just thought —“

"It wouldn't matter, because I can't see it?" Ominis finished helpfully, his tone filled with wry amusement. "But, darling, I can feel it."

To illustrate his point, those wretched hands began a journey over the hills of her shoulders, down the planes of her arms and stopped only when they found the curve of her waist.

"It's likely for the best. I doubt I’d ever look at anything else if I had the pleasure of seeing you like this, but knowing you're wearing my necklace, too… I would give my wand hand to take in that sight,” Ominis pressed a kiss that was laughably chaste — given its lingering duration — on the dip of her collarbone.

Diana found herself beholden to the inner voice that urged her backwards, her back fitting into the angles of his torso and head snug between his pectorals where his heart beat.

"But there's more to your gift than meets the unassisted eye."

Regrettably, Ominis removed his lips from her skin before pulling his wand from his pocket and holding it in the elegant way only he could seemingly master. "Lumos."

Diana’s head tipped back further, eyes wide in awe as the heavens themselves seemed to burst forth from the gem at her throat. Stars danced on the walls, nebulas of swirling violet and startling indigo and colors she didn't even quite have a name for painting the room like watercolor.

She could have sworn tiny glimmers of it played in the shadows of Ominis's starburst eyes, too.

"You're quiet,” He mused. "I can't tell if it's because you love it or hate it."

"What?!" Diana raised a hand reverently to her chest, palm over heart and fingers grazing the underside of the necklace. “Absolutely not. It’s wonderful. No — incredible. I don’t really think I know the right word to cover it, actually.”

"Amit helped, so I can't take all the credit,” Ominis chuckled. “But I’m glad you like it, Di. I only wish…”

His palm cradled her cheek, thumb ghosting over the constellation of freckles there with a reverence usually reserved for praying to deities or admiring great works of art. “…I wish I could give you more. You’ve been through so much lately, and you, of all people, deserve the bloody world.”

“What more could I possibly want?” Diana leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut as a deep sense of calm — a feeling she was granted so little of lately — settled over them like snow. “I have your heart, and that’s the best gift I could ever ask for.”

#they are so goddamn soft for one another I’m melting #this is actually only half of it but yk #I feel I should write more of them. ominis pov chapter coming up soon 🤠#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x mc #ominis x mc #diana blackwine #writing #merry Christmas it’s 5am and I’ve been up all night wrapping presents

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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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