#by merry i mean drunk...it just occurred to me some people might not get that

[meneatyoghurt]

Sam's picture of Luke on his lap at the wedding 😁

I'm going to guess everyone was quite merry by that point.

[littlestarofthewest]

Santa’s Little Helper

This was supposed to be a Christmas present for the lovely @verai-marcel​, but tumblr fucked me over and didn’t post it. I’m sorry, dear. Please accept a veeery belated Merry Christmas ❤️️ It was hard to write something for the person who already wrote everything, but I did my best :)

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female reader | Words: 2674 | Rating: Explicit!!!

Summary: You hate working at the mall as an elf. At least until a new Santa comes around.

You have to dig deep into your closet for your costume. You remember exactly how you tossed it in there last year, fed up from hanging around the mall wearing a stupid get up and a fake smile.

Every year, you tell yourself that you'll do better and won't have to do this anymore, but your year has been shitty, and while you hate being an elf, it's a steady gig with good pay. 

After changing in the staff room at the mall, you head out to assist the others in setting up Santa's workshop. Without customers around, you can hold on to the rest of your dignity for now.

Santa's little helpers are a combination of a few new people and some regulars like you. They happily welcome you back, lifting your spirits a little. While decorating the giant slide, you overhear them talking about the new Santa. The old one went into retirement last year, making him the second one you saw come and go. It makes you curious how the new guy is going to be. 

He shows up about half an hour later in full costume. The black belt digs deep into his full belly, a fake white beard hanging over it. The big boots make a heavy sound as he walks, the bobble on his cap swaying back and forth. 

He exchanges a few words with the mall's manager before he walks over with purpose in his stride. It makes you confident that he's not a drunk or otherwise abuses substances that will hinder his performance. There's nothing worse than having to constantly supervise Santa, so he doesn't scare off the children.

He greets the other elves and helps with a few last-minute preparations. You're battling an oversized candy cane that's about to topple over and bury you when a huge hand grabs its top, holding it in place. New Santa is standing next to you, so close that you catch a glimpse at his piercing blue eyes. 

"Careful," he says, his voice a deep rumble.

"Thank you," you say, tying down the rope that holds the candy cane in place. "I feared that one of these monstrosities might finally get me."

"You've done this before, huh?"

His voice sends a shiver down your spine, but you do your best to act calm. "A couple of times. You?"

"Me, too. Just not at this scale," New Santa says, looking around. "Usually, I go from door to door in small towns."

"Why the change then?"

"I just moved here, closer to my brother. My sister in law has a baby on the way, and I'm planning on helping out. Chances are she'll kill my brother otherwise."

"Sounds like a lot of responsibility."

"I'm Santa," he says with a laugh, clapping his huge belly. "I think I can manage."

"Let's see how you handle the mall crowd first," you say in a teasing tone.

He sizes you up for a moment, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "You're going to help me?"

"It's my job," you laugh, "like, literally."

New Santa smiles, holding out his hand. "I'm Arthur, by the way."

You tell him your name while shaking his hand, warmth spreading up your arm and to your chest. There's something so very different about this Santa compared to the others. It's going to be interesting to work with him.

-----

Since you've started working with Arthur, a miracle has happened. For the first time, you're actually enjoying the job. Arthur's great with the kids and endlessly patient even with the most pretentious parents. He doesn't take their shit, but he always finds a way to defuse the situation. 

The breaks with Arthur are nice as well. He's quiet, but when you find the right topic, he's easy to talk to. Over time, you go from joking over teasing to right out hazing each other. If you're honest, it sometimes even feels a little bit like flirting. Still, you try not to read too much into it. The days of working with him are numbered, after all.

After one horrible shift where a kid is dead set on ripping off Arthur's beard, and another one vomits all over his shoes, you tell him to clear out. You and the other elves clean up, and when you finally enter the locker room, it's quiet. At first, you think you're on your own, but then you turn the corner, finding another co-worker half-hidden in his locker.

"What a night, huh?" you say, making him aware that you're here.

"You can say that again," he says, the voice sending the usual shiver down your spine. Arthur appears from inside the locker, smiling at you. "Thanks for cleaning up. I'll help out tomorrow."

You wish you could say anything, but you're too distracted by Arthur's appearance. It only occurs to you now that you've never seen him without the costume before. Without the fake beard, there's still a nice stubble shadowing his chin and cheeks. The huge Santa belly makes way for a nice little tummy that you wouldn't mind kissing, especially to get to whatever's hidden under the tight jeans Arthur's wearing.

"You alright?" Arthur asks, honest concern on his face, so you decide to tell the truth.

"I just realized I've never seen you without the costume. You're not really old and fat."

Arthur laughs, clapping his stomach. "I'm getting there, especially with the holidays coming up."

"Is your partner a good cook?" you ask, hating yourself a second later, but Arthur shrugs before pulling a shirt over his head.

"Nah, I'm single," he says, sitting down to put on his shoes. "Just got a bunch of friends who drown me in holiday treats."

"Not the worst way to go," you say, and Arthur laughs.

"You're right. I really can't complain." He picks up his bag but leans against his locker, obviously in no rush. "How about you? Any plans for the holidays?"

"The usual," you say with a shrug. "Eating, drinking, and staying in bed as much as possible."

"That sounds great," Arthur says, and the way he looks at you makes you feel like you're in a heap of trouble.

-------

"I can't get you all in the frame like this. Move closer together, people," the photographer says.

It's your last day on the job, and the manager insists on an annual picture of the Christmas Crew. You shuffle closer to your co-workers, but the photographer still isn't satisfied. He alternates between checking his camera and barking instructions.

"You there, stand behind the slide. You three on the side, get on the ground in front. And you, you can sit on Santa's lap."

With horror, you realize that the last order is directed at you. When you don't move, the photographer clicks his tongue with annoyance. "Go on, dear. I'm sure he doesn't mind. It's in his job description."

You throw a questioning look at Arthur, and when he gives you a little wave, the photographer claps his hands. "See? Now, the two of you, up here."

He keeps giving orders while you settle down on Arthur's lap, trying your hardest not to put any weight on him. That works for about a minute, but the photographer keeps giving orders, and you fear your legs might cramp up.

"I'm not going to break, you know?" Arthur whispers behind you, and you move around a bit to get in a better position.

It's not so much about not hurting Arthur but more about not embarrassing yourself. You had a crush on Arthur from the start, but ever since you've seen him out of costume, it's been way worse. You've been thinking about him a lot, and he even showed up in your dreams. Being close to Arthur is dangerous. It wouldn't be the first time you did something foolish because of a guy.

The photographer keeps rearranging people, giving you ample time to notice how good Arthur smells and how hot his body feels against your own. It makes you tingly all over to think about certain things you could do together. Without meaning to, you move around even more until you hear Arthur's breath hitch behind you.

You're about to ask if he's alright, but then you feel something pressing up against your ass, and a wave of heat rushes through your body. Arthur tries to shift his weight under you, but then the photographer finally seems satisfied.

"Alright, nobody move!" he instructs before diving behind his camera. "Big smiles!"

You do your best to force a smile on your face while you still feel Arthur pressing hard against you. The photographer lets all of you make faces or wave, every second of it seeming like hours. You wish you could say that it didn't affect you, but the thought of Arthur's dick merely a few layers of clothing away from your pussy gets you all worked up.

Thoughts of you together rush through your head, and you can't help but move a little, making Arthur groan behind you. You wish you could just turn around and make things interesting, but instead, you jump up the second the photographer releases you.

You still feel hot all over by the time you arrive at your locker, and you busy yourself with your phone, not wanting to change now with other people still around. 

This morning, you even thought about asking Arthur for his number, so you wouldn't lose track of him, but that's out of the question now. You just hope he's not one to harbor a grudge in case you both end up working here next year.

"Hey," a deep voice says next to you, and you jump in surprise.

Arthur's standing at the far end of the row of lockers, fidgeting with his hands. "We're the last ones here, but I can leave as well if that makes you uncomfortable."

You didn't notice that everybody left already, but you don't mind at all. This gives you a chance to apologize. "No, it's alright."

"I just wanted to apologize for what happened out there," Arthur says. "It's just that you're so goddamn sexy, especially in that stupid costume, and you were sitting right there-"

You can't believe what you're hearing, but Arthur stops himself, taking a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm not trying to make excuses. I'm just very sorry for what happened, and I hope we can just forget about it."

"Don't worry about it, Arthur. I'm not uncomfortable, and you did nothing wrong," you say, trying to reassure him. "I would be happy to ride on your lap any time."

"Oh, okay. Good," Arthur says, a nervous smile dancing around his lips. "Have a good evening then."

He disappears behind the lockers, and you lean back against your own, swallowing a sigh. You can't believe you said something so stupid. Arthur's a sweetheart, and you totally blew it.

You open your locker to get out your clothes when Arthur rounds the corner. "You said 'ride,'" he says, "not 'sit' on my lap but 'ride.' Did you mean like-?"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but you can't help yourself. "Like sex, yes."

You both stare at each other, and you're about to apologize, but then Arthur moves. A second later, your hands are in his hair, and he cups your face in his hands as you kiss. You end up pressed against your locker, you and Arthur both ready to devour each other. Still, he manages to move a few inches away, both of you breathing heavily. 

"Is that okay?" Arthur asks in between breaths. "Do you want to-?"

"God yes," you say, cutting him off to pull him in for another kiss.

Your permission seems to hit a switch inside of Arthur. He picks you up, and you end up on the next durable surface, Arthur's hands roaming all over you. You reach down to lift his shirt over his head, and while he opens the buttons on your blouse, you run your hands over his chest and stomach.

As soon as you're out of your blouse, Arthur kisses along your neck, down to your breasts. Your fingers dig into the skin on his shoulders as he teases your nipples with his tongue, both of you not wasting any time. When Arthur runs his fingers up your thigh, you pull up your skirt and spread your legs. 

Arthur simply pushes your underwear aside to tease your pussy, and you're getting so wet that you can think about nothing else but getting off as hard and fast as possible. You open up Arthur's pants, his low curse when you pull out his dick, giving you way more satisfaction than it should.

Grabbing your legs, Arthur pulls you closer, and you can't help a little cry when he pushes into you. It's been a while since you've been with someone, and with the way this is going, you won't last long. 

You put your arms around Arthur's neck, and he lifts you up a little. It's not exactly riding him, but you roll your hips to welcome each of his thrusts, both of you moaning and panting.

It feels so good; you wish you could drag it out, but the way Arthur's holding you in place to have his way with you already got you going, and then Arthur does the worst thing he can do.

He's holding on to your hair, his lips right by your ear, whispering between eager breaths. "Dammit, you feel so good. I dreamed about this."

Arthur talking right into your ear feels like someone poured honey all over you, a nice glaze soon covering every inch of your body. You pull him closer, doing your best to get as much friction as possible.

"Jesus, sweetheart, you're killing me here," Arthur groans, sending you right over the edge.

Your muscles clench around him as you come, your face burrowed in the crook of his neck. He doesn't move until you relax and your breathing evens out a little. Still, you feel how Arthur is, so you roll your hips, drawing more curses from him.

"Come on, Santa," you whisper in his ear, "let your little elf please you."

Arthur groans, his fingers digging into your hips as he buries himself inside you with short, hard thrusts. With eager moans, he picks up the pace, and although he seems like he might explode any second, he manages to kiss you in such a tender way that you feel like melting.

Finally, Arthur pushes deep into you, and this time he stays there until he comes, the tension slowly fading from his body. While he's focused on breathing, you scratch his back and stroke a few loose strands of hair out of his face.

Arthur looks up to you with a thankful expression, and you smile. "This morning, I thought about asking for your number."

"I guess we rushed way past that," Arthur says with a laugh, but then he reaches into the pocket of his jeans and hands you a small piece of paper. I usually start with coffee - not this."

You kiss him one more time before you part to get dressed. "I wouldn't mind coffee."

Arthur runs a hand through his hair. "I've got some great coffee at home."

"Do tell," you say, acting nonplussed as you get your things out of your locker.

"Remember what you said about not getting out of bed, just relaxing?" Arthur asks. "I have a nice bottle of wine I could never finish by myself."

The mere thought of spending more time with Arthur makes you all tingly, and you turn around to look at him. "Did you borrow that suit, or do you take it home with you?"

Arthur grins. "Really? Santa?"

"Probably not every Santa," you say, running your hands over his chest before kissing him again, "but I like this one."

-------

For the next two days, you and Arthur only leave his bed when you absolutely have to.

[welllpthisishappening]

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 

The crux of their problem, really. 

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 

She’s totally going to say it again. 

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 

And they’re trying to avoid that. 

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 

Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 

It made—sense adjacent. 

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems. 

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 

Will looks far too entertained. 

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 

That’s fair. 

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge. 

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 

Emma smiles. 

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 

Probably because she’s wearing it. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 

Sooner rather than later. 

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 

Emma rolls her eyes. 

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 

Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 

Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 

He flips his wrist. 

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 

That sucks, admittedly. 

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?” 

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 

He opts for honesty. 

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 

Sort of. 

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. 

[mandysimo13]

At uni, when drunk, John was a truly slutty club dancer. His mates used to cheer him on because he was actually quite good, and it was very funny. When sober John is not a talented dancer - he thinks too much about what he's doing and forgets one of his feet or looks like a poor animatronic model.

Sherlock gets the surprise of his life when he sees John go absolutely bonkers on a dance floor during a case. 

He’s never seen him dance anything that wasn’t strictly choreographed. By him. With hours and hours of practice. To only have him look passable. 

This is...different. 

Originally, they hadn’t intended to stay and “make merry” after their case was done. Originally, Sherlock just wanted to hand of their embezzler that had made the club his preferred spot to unwind and then go back home with John. Maybe John would put the kettle on and Sherlock would play the violin. Perhaps they would sit with a finger or two of whiskey and rehash their case. Or, if Sherlock was very very lucky, John would recommend some telly and they would fall asleep on the couch, laying against each other until the morning. 

But then the club owner had said “whatever you want, it’s on the house. All night long!” and John had grinned up at him and said, “just a drink or two, yeah?” 

Sherlock had reluctantly agreed -because let’s be real, how can he resist when John looks so carefree and happy and like sunshine is pouring out of his eyeballs when he’s having a good time- but once he saw what happened to a happy drunk John, he couldn’t force himself to complain. 

John had removed his usual, comfy, stuffy but shockingly cute jumper, tossing it at Sherlock shouting over the loud music, “I’m going to dance!” He undid the first three buttons of his dark colored button down and rolled up his sleeves, sliding fingers through his slightly sweat-damp hair back and gave Sherlock the biggest smile before dashing off to the throbbing mob on the floor. 

Sherlock’s jaw hit the ground, his mouth suddenly dry, his hands suddenly moist, and his prick having many opinions on this new-found development. Sherlock watched in rapt fascination as John gyrated, shimmied, swayed, jumped, and writhed with intoxicated vigor. He soon became the center of several people’s attention and found himself the meat of a very human sandwich. Before this occurred, Sherlock was having a lovely time watching his crush flatmate dance. But, seeing the introduction of two partners, he was suddenly irate that he wasn’t on the dance floor and once again the center of John’s attention. 

Sherlock watched as John’s hands gravitated to the waist of the attractive woman to his front and tilted his head to allow the man behind him to whisper into his ear. When said man’s tongue flicked out to taste his skin, John’s mouth dropped open and Sherlock decided they’d both had enough. 

He marched across that dance floor and unceremoniously shoved John’s dance partners out of the way before grabbing his wrist and dragging him into the cool, night air. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock are you even listening to me?!” John wrenched his arm back, stopping their fast paced retreat from the club. “What is going on?”

Sherlock whirled on him. “I might as YOU the same thing!”

John’s glassy eyes shined in confusion, his eyebrows knit together. “What did I do? I was just having fun.”

“Since when do you have that kind of fun?! Since when do you dance like you’re working for tips?! Since when do you let men lick your neck, John?! Hmm???” 

John blinked owlishly at him before a wicked grin tugged at his lips. “That rile you up, huh? Seeing me with another man?” 

Sherlock crossed his arms, huffed, and refused to answer verbally whilst in his mind kept screaming he said not gay not gay not gay not bloody gay. Every protestation John had ever uttered whirled in his mind all the while John’s sexy stupid smile tugged at the breath in his lungs. He finally cleared his throat and said with as much righteous anger as he could muster, “your previous statements led me to believe you had no interest in the attentions of men.” 

John slowly, confidently closed the distance between them. Sherlock could smell his many drinks on his breath and Sherlock knew, objectively, you couldn’t get secondhand drunk on someone else’s breath but looking at John’s lips he was willing to give it the old college try. 

“I think,” John said, looking up at him, “that someone is jealous.” Sherlock sputtered in misplaced indignity and tried to run but John caught the sleeve of his coat before he could make it too far. “Hey, come on! I’m not teasing,” John insisted. 

Sherlock averted his gaze, cheeks pinking in embarrassment. “Then what, pray tell, are you doing?” 

“Deducing,” John said simply. He pulled Sherlock close, looking almost surprised at how willingly Sherlock came. He closed his arms around him and leaned up to whisper in his ear, “take me home and I can show you all my good moves.” 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Y-you mean...dance moves?” 

“For starters,” John said, voice dripping in flirtation. “We can work in some other “moves” later, if you like.” 

Sherlock liked. Sherlock liked very much. He had never dared hope before now that John would one day say those words to him. Then Sherlock’s heart fell when he realized that John only behaved this way because he was drunk. He gently detangled himself and said, “you’ll regret this tomorrow. You’re drunk and uninhibited and you will wake up hungover and embarrassed and I can’t lose you John-”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” John interjected, hands coming up to cup Sherlock’s face. “Slow down, love.” Sherlock’s panicked eyes darted to John’s relaxed ones and John continued. “You’re absolutely daft if you haven’t discovered by now my embarrassingly huge attraction to you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. “What?” 

John smiled, suddenly beaming at knowing he had surprised Sherlock. “Absolutely daft,” he confirmed before rising up onto his toes and inching his face closer. “Sherlock, I would very much like to kiss you then take you home and dance and fall asleep next to you, probably still in my cloths if we’re being honest, and wake up and share a cuppa with you in the morning.” He smiled and added, “does that sound good to you?”

Sherlock licked his lips and whispered, “yes, John.” 

True to his word, John gave him the snogging of his life, complete with tongue and hands in his hair. They flagged a cab and swiftly made their way home where John showed him some very non-regulation dance moves before they collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep. Their necks ached, their backs ached, their mouths were parched. But the sight of John waking happily in his arms was worth any hangover Sherlock would ever have. 

Later there would be questions and stories from uni. Later there would be laughter and nostalgia and more tea. Later there would be showers and brushing of teeth and redressing in comfy pajamas. Later there would be more dancing. Later there would be lots of horizontal gyrating and dancing between the sheets. But for now, Sherlock wanted John to make good on his promise. 

Sherlock tilted his head down to press a chaste kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” John replied, kissing Sherlock’s cheek in reply. 

[imagine-loki]

Unofferable

TITLE: Unofferable

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 8, Duty and Worth AUTHOR: unofferable-fic ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Frigga bringing you to Asgard as a child after finding you abandoned and injured on Midgard. Uncertain as to what happened to you, Odin allows the healers save your life, and the Allmother makes it her duty to ensure your safety. 

RATING: M

NOTES/WARNINGS: Violence, language, fluff. Playlist: “Santa Monica Dream” — Angus & Julia Stone, “Pools” — Glass Animals

The princes’ visit to Alfheim ended up lasting for far longer than they had both hoped for. By the time Odin saw them fit to return, almost a year had passed by. They had missed many an occasion in Asgard as well as Ellie’s tenth nameday — something that Loki knew she wouldn’t be impressed about. Odin had lengthened their stay when Thor had created a ruckus in a local village by getting exceptionally inebriated and accepting a challenge from a surprisingly aggressive group of travellers. 

“Thor, there is really no need for you to accept,” Loki had explained, trying to convince him to just let it go as the crowd from the tavern began to gather around them. They cheered loudly, slamming tankards down on tables in delight. Though more reserved than the Aesir, it seemed that the Light Elves were feeding off the buzz created by the lumbering travellers who had initiated the fight in the first place.

‘Come out’, Thor said! Loki thought to himself. ‘We can go and find ourselves some voluptuous maidens for tonight’! All I wanted was a decent fuck and now Thor has to prove just how powerful he is to some other imbecile out to do the same thing.

“Nah ah, Loki,” he drawled, pulling up the sleeves of his undershirt and pausing to hiccup. “This man wants a fight and a fight he shall have!”

“Thor—”

“Get a load of this, fellas!” Thor’s challenger, a burly brute who also hailed from Asgard, declared to his friends. “I am about to beat the God of Thunder at hand-to-hand!”

Thor bellowed in amusement at the comment. “You’re quite cocky for someone who has not felt the force of a strike in the jaw from said god!”

While Loki was also on the verge of being drunk, he was very close to sending the men away with some particularly chosen words that both stroked their ego and subdued his brother in his drunken mess, but it was a sudden lunging punch at Thor from one of the challenger’s friends that caused all the violence to erupt.

“Oh, bugger,” Loki sighed and watched as Thor tossed a body off of his and across the tavern. Chairs flew along with people, drinks splashed everywhere, people yelled and roared as fists met stomachs and boots met teeth. Loki managed to dodge most of the blows thrown his way, bar one that left him with a black eye he covered up with glamour.

“Thor!” he screamed as he reached his older brother. “We need to get out of here!”

“But the fun has only started!” was the delighted reply as Thor threw a man out of one of the windows. The glass smashed everywhere and before Loki could even reach his sibling, he had another man grasped in his huge hands. Even in his intoxicated state, he was still tossing punches left, right, and centre, and effectually subduing his attackers.

“We have to get back to the castle!” Loki insisted and grabbed Thor’s shoulder while the fight waged around them, bodies slamming together like a churning, sweaty sea. “Now!”

“They started it!” Thor scoffed and swung a table into a man charging him. “Who’s up next?”

Loki had had enough and shoved with all his might and with the assistance of seiðr. “Out! Now!”

Once outside in the formerly peaceful night, the battle refrained from spilling out with them. They were lucky that the drunken brawlers were in fact too drunk to notice the reason for their aggression had left. The cool and fresh night air was a welcome change to the sticky and hot feeling of inside the tavern. That and it was always nice not having to dodge numerous punches towards you.

“When Father hears about this,” Loki grumbled as they mounted their horses and began their escape. “He is going to wring our necks.”

“You worry too much, Loki,” Thor slurred with a dismissive wave of the hand while he struggled into his saddle. “We will be fine, you’ll see.”

Loki rolled his eyes and pushed some soaking hair from his face. “I should have gotten a bloody goat to distract them.”

“Oh, yes, brother!” Thor agreed and began to laugh uncontrollably. “The revellers do love it when you tug with the goat!”

Despite the rough night they had, the brothers looked at each other before sharing a laugh on the road back to the castle.

Thor’s confidence ended up being for nothing. While the berating Odin gave them was mild upon hearing about their antics, they were forbidden from returning to Asgard for another five months. Frigga sent a letter from home every now and then, asking for how they faired and telling them of whatever happenings occurred in their absence. Because of their galavanting about in what was formally a peaceful tavern, Frey ordered them to remain within the castle walls for the remainder of their stay, mostly due to Odin’s insistence, so the siblings were forced to obey. The five extra months they had to suffer through ended up being surprisingly quiet. It was hard to create a ruckus when they were confined to the palace. That and the endless mentoring and political meetings they had to attend left them drained.

If Odin’s goal as to leave them regretting their ‘unseemly’ behaviour, he had succeeded.

Loki usually relished in time away from Asgard to explore other realms, but he was genuinely happy to be home when their time was up. The embrace that his mother gave him was a comfort that he had surely missed.

Ellie was more than merry upon their return. She even let Thor pick her up and embrace her when she first saw him again. But Loki was not left out when they reunited — a firm hug around his waist was a surprise, but he didn’t push her away.

“You missed my tenth birthday,” she said dryly as they separated. 

Loki rolled his eyes.“Namedays have less meaning to those who have roughly five thousand of them in their lifetime.”

Her eyes went wide. “You guys are so old!”

“I am only just passed my thousandth year, little one, so I am not that ancient yet.”

“But you’re a lot older than me. That makes you old.”

“It would seem that your logic is quite flawed.”

Ellie crossed her arms over her chest and gave him her best pout. “You’re just annoyed because I’m not scared of you!”

He shrugged dismissively. “I never claimed that I wanted you to be frightened of me. That you should recognise me as your God and that you are beneath me, maybe, but frightening you was not part of my intention.”

She let out a little laugh and grinned up at him since he first arrived. “You’re funny, Loki! I missed your jokes.”

“I did not make any jokes!” 

No one had said that he was amusing before. It was not a common word people used to describe him, but if saying saucy remarks resulted in her laughter, he wouldn’t mind saying them more often. It was far better to see her laughing than cowering from him.

* * *

A few days later, Loki was strolling idly through the gardens of Asgard with Frigga. They had been in the yard together going through their combat training as usual. While she had taught him how to effectively wield daggers and to win a battle through tactical assault many years ago, she still insisted on refreshing his skills once a week. Two handmaidens followed them at a distance, bringing them cups of water or some fruit when asked.

“What is your opinion on Midgardians, Mother?” he asked her after a brief silence.

“Why do you ask?” was her curious reply.

“I have been thinking on what Father said about them during the banquet when he informed Thor and I that we would be sent to Alfheim. He said that they were of no importance, that their lives end so quickly they are a waste of our time as gods. Do you agree?”

As Frigga contemplated her answer, their footfalls began to sync up, their feet landing in step on the stone path below. “Not entirely, no.”

“No?”

“I do not agree that their mortality makes them unworthy of our time. Yes, we are gods and they are mortals with much shorter lives who, in some cases, worship us as being above them, but I would say that their mortality has an entirely different meaning.”

Loki furrowed his brow and turned his gaze on her pensive expression. “And what would you say it means?”

“Your father believes that a human’s mortality makes them unworthy, whereas I feel that their mortality makes their life precious.”

“Precious?” he scoffed. “Mother, I would agree that Father was harsh in what he said, but you cannot honestly tell me that you believe them to be cherished? Surely they are there to worship us and go about their human lives, while we prolong their existence by keeping peace within Yggdrasil?”

Frigga gently rubbed the arm that he had linked around her own. “My son, look at it this way for a moment. Their lives are short — far shorter than our own. That means that they have a lot to do is such a short amount of time. It also means that we will outlive them. Take little Ellie for example. She has now spent half of her own life here on Asgard with us. She looks up to you, likes playing with you and Thor, likes to read her stories and listen to her Midgardian musicians, but you will see her pass from this world before you do. It is an exceptionally harsh reality when you have bonded with a human, but their mortality will inevitably cause you pain. Yes, your position as royalty means that you are above her in status, but her human life does not make her unworthy of your time. If anything, it makes your time with her more precious. Do you understand?”

He paused and mulled it over. It made logical sense — the less time you had with someone, the more it should be cherished, but he knew his father was firm in his stance. As far as Odin was concerned, mortals were beneath the gods and that was that.

“I can understand your logic,” he eventually said, slowing as they walked around a well-decorated fountain. “After all, she is exceedingly less annoying that I thought she would be.”

“And she also seems to have taken after you in some regard,” Frigga laughed gently, giving his arm a little tug. “I have never seen Thor’s hair so well decorated with flowers before.”

“She may be mortal,” Loki murmured with an air of approval. “But I must admit she has a knack for little tricks.”

“It does not surprise me after all the time she has spent in your company.”

“The less she spends in Thor’s, the better.”

That earned him a mild scold, even if Frigga did recognised his playful tone. 

* * *

Loki was in the library late one night when he had unexpected company. The large doors opened with a slight creak, and he looked up from his book to see Ellie potter in.

“It’s a little late for you to be wandering these halls, don’t you think?” he said loudly, causing the little one to jump.

“Loki!” she exclaimed before letting out a sigh and visibly relaxing. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought I was caught for a sec.”

Upon questioning her further, she revealed that she had forgotten to get one of her new Harry Potter books from the library earlier and managed to sneak from her shared quarters to come and get it. He remained in his chair, brushing over some seiðr notes his mother had given him as the girl went to fetch said book. Three years after his return from Alfheim, Ellie had reached the age of thirteen. Her interest in Midgard — which had just reached its two thousandth year — only grew stronger the more history and facts she learned. After his discussion with Frigga, Loki saw the importance in her words and refused to let Odin’s insistence prevent him from making Ellie’s life in a foreign realm a little easier. She had remained settled thankfully and continued to slowly adjust. The mental scarring from whatever befell her on Midgard remained, but physically she had looked less weedy of late. As a result, he and Thor settled into their old habit of seeing her when they could and the Allfather said nothing about it. As to whether that had anything to do with the Allmother, Loki did not know, but he still assumed as much. He was so transfixed by the sheets of paper, he barely noticed her return.

“Are you studying seiðr, Prince Loki?” she asked with the book tucked under her arm.

“Yes, little Ellie,” he replied, looking up briefly.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I have not yet attempted it.”

Ellie looked between the prince and the book in her hands. “I wish I could do magic.”

“Like your book?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Maybe… But more like your magic — seiðr.”

He scoffed. “It is not exactly a Midgardian practice. There are even few Asgardians who are very familiar with it. The Vanir would be considered the masters of it, even if they are ridiculously arrogant about the fact.”

“Hogun doesn’t seem that arrogant.”

“That is not exactly the word I would use to describe his personality…”

Perhaps the term pompous ass would better suit him?

“I know it’s not a very Midgardian thing,” Ellie continued on, seemingly unfazed by Loki’s words. “But I wish I was as good at it as you are.”

He looked up from his studies at her statement, lips pouted curiously. “You wish to learn seiðr?”

She shrugged. “If I could.”

Loki remained in his seat, tapping his fingers and watching the young mortal as she read the back of The Goblet of Fire. In his mind, he considered his options (mostly Odin’s disgruntled reaction to said options) before opening his mouth.

“You know,” he began casually. “There are certain Midgardians that are capable of learning the art of seiðr.”

His statement seemed to grab her immediate interest. “Really?”

“Indeed, little one. Certain individuals who trained hard enough and for a long enough time. They dedicated themselves to the art and became shamans with a connection to both good and evil spirits in the world.”

“Would they not practice for a super long time?”

“Well, you could put it that way, yes. It took a lot of practice, a lot of time, and a lot of patience. Much as it was when my mother taught me.”

“Have you ever taught anyone seiðr?”

He shook his head. “Not as of yet. Although I had yet to find someone I thought worthy of learning.”

“So,” she drawled out, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Does that mean you would teach someone? If you thought they were worth it? You would then?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged slightly and gestured to the stack of tomes on the table. “If my student is willing to study as hard as I.”

“I’m willin’!” Ellie blurted out before he could explain any further.

He assessed her expression — a surprisingly earnest one — before he opened his mouth to answer. “Are you now, little Ellie?”

“Yeah, I am. I would love to learn how to do magic, my Lord, and you’re the best one to learn from, instead of maybe the Queen herself!”

“Oh my, you do flatter me.” 

Standing abruptly from his chair, Loki strolled over to the section of the library dedicated to the practice of magic. Being so familiar with this section, he easily found one of the first books he read in relation to beginners seiðr and made his way back over to where Ellie was waiting. Upon his return, she straightened her posture and waited to be spoken to, a habit instilled in her by her handmaiden training.

“Relax yourself. There’s no need for formalities at this ungodly hour,” Loki grumbled and held out the book to her. “If you want me to teach you, then go and familiarise yourself with what you will be learning. Once you have completed your duties and lessons each day, read the history of seiðr, what it consists of, and how you can develop your skill over time. Read chapters one through ten and then come back to me when you have done so. After you have done that much, I can start the basics with you if you wish to continue.”

“My Prince—”

“Loki,” he corrected calmly.

“Prince Loki—”

He groaned loudly. “Just Loki is acceptable at this time of night. It’s a bit late for grand titles, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If you insist,” she said with a nod, and took the book he had offered. She gently traced the intricate design on the cover with a finger, wonderment clear in her expression. “Would you really do that? Would you teach me how to wild seiðr like you?”

He snorted slightly. “You have to understand, you will most certainly not be as skilled as I; I do have a thousand year advantage over you.”

  She frowned at the book, brows furrowed at his comments. “If I can’t practice for as long as you can, then why bother teachin’ me? I’ll probably suck at it.” 

At first he thought her words were in jest, but it became increasingly clear to Loki as he studied her disheartened expression that she was being perfectly serious. If she could not study seiðr for thousands of years to master it, if she could never amount to the level of skill that he or other sorcerers possessed, then why bother at all?

… human life does not make her unworthy of your time. If anything, it makes your time with her more precious.

Without another thought, Loki placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Whether you can survive one hundred years or one thousand means little to me in terms of learning. After eight years in another realm, you have managed to continue your learnings of Midgardian English and Norse ruins, and have excelled in your responsibilities as a handmaiden. If you want to learn, then I will teach you as much as I can in the time we have. Do not think so little of yourself. You won’t get far with an attitude like that.”

“Sorry,” she replied sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

He waved his hand at her and took his seat once more. “Worry not. Now, get yourself to bed before the Einherjar find you sneaking about. I trust you to get back in one piece.”

“I won’t let you down,” she insisted, gesturing to the books in hand as she made her way to the massive library doors. She opened it, careful not to let it creak, hesitated, and then turned to face him again with a small smile. “Thanks for that. And for the books too.”

He gave her a nod and answered. “You’re welcome, little one.”

With that, Ellie turned on her heels and slipped out the door, leaving Loki alone once more, reading his notes in candle light.

[unofferable-fic]

UNOFFERABLE: 8 - DUTY AND WORTH

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

————

Set Pre-Thor 1

Pairing: Loki x child OFC (platonic)

Inspired by this imagine

Warnings: Fighting, fluff.

Word Count: 3,219

Previous Chapter     Next Chapter

Playlist: “Santa Monica Dream” — Angus & Julia Stone, “Pools” — Glass Animals

————

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

The princes’ visit to Alfheim ended up lasting for far longer than they had both hoped for. By the time Odin saw them fit to return, almost a year had passed by. They had missed many an occasion in Asgard as well as Ellie’s tenth nameday — something that Loki knew she wouldn’t be impressed about. Odin had lengthened their stay when Thor had created a ruckus in a local village by getting exceptionally inebriated and accepting a challenge from a surprisingly aggressive group of travellers.

“Thor, there is really no need for you to accept,” Loki had explained, trying to convince him to just let it go as the crowd from the tavern began to gather around them. They cheered loudly, slamming tankards down on tables in delight. Though more reserved than the Aesir, it seemed that the Light Elves were feeding off the buzz created by the lumbering travellers who had initiated the fight in the first place.

‘Come out’, Thor said! Loki thought to himself. ‘We can go and find ourselves some voluptuous maidens for tonight’! All I wanted was a decent fuck and now Thor has to prove just how powerful he is to some other imbecile out to do the same thing.

“Nah ah, Loki,” he drawled, pulling up the sleeves of his undershirt and pausing to hiccup. “This man wants a fight and a fight he shall have!”

“Thor—”

“Get a load of this, fellas!” Thor’s challenger, a burly brute who also hailed from Asgard, declared to his friends. “I am about to beat the God of Thunder at hand-to-hand!”

Thor bellowed in amusement at the comment. “You’re quite cocky for someone who has not felt the force of a strike in the jaw from said god!”

While Loki was also on the verge of being drunk, he was very close to sending the men away with some particularly chosen words that both stroked their ego and subdued his brother in his drunken mess, but it was a sudden lunging punch at Thor from one of the challenger’s friends that caused all the violence to erupt.

“Oh, bugger,” Loki sighed and watched as Thor tossed a body off of his and across the tavern. Chairs flew along with people, drinks splashed everywhere, people yelled and roared as fists met stomachs and boots met teeth. Loki managed to dodge most of the blows thrown his way, bar one that left him with a black eye he covered up with glamour.

“Thor!” he screamed as he reached his older brother. “We need to get out of here!”

“But the fun has only started!” was the delighted reply as Thor threw a man out of one of the windows. The glass smashed everywhere and before Loki could even reach his sibling, he had another man grasped in his huge hands. Even in his intoxicated state, he was still tossing punches left, right, and centre, and effectually subduing his attackers.

“We have to get back to the castle!” Loki insisted and grabbed Thor’s shoulder while the fight waged around them, bodies slamming together like a churning, sweaty sea. “Now!”

“They started it!” Thor scoffed and swung a table into a man charging him. “Who’s up next?”

Loki had had enough and shoved with all his might and with the assistance of seiðr. “Out! Now!”

Once outside in the formerly peaceful night, the battle refrained from spilling out with them. They were lucky that the drunken brawlers were in fact too drunk to notice the reason for their aggression had left. The cool and fresh night air was a welcome change to the sticky and hot feeling of inside the tavern. That and it was always nice not having to dodge numerous punches towards you.

“When Father hears about this,” Loki grumbled as they mounted their horses and began their escape. “He is going to wring our necks.”

“You worry too much, Loki,” Thor slurred with a dismissive wave of the hand while he struggled into his saddle. “We will be fine, you’ll see.”

Loki rolled his eyes and pushed some soaking hair from his face. “I should have gotten a bloody goat to distract them.”

“Oh, yes, brother!” Thor agreed and began to laugh uncontrollably. “The revellers do love it when you tug with the goat!”

Despite the rough night they had, the brothers looked at each other before sharing a laugh on the road back to the castle.

Thor’s confidence ended up being for nothing. While the berating Odin gave them was mild upon hearing about their antics, they were forbidden from returning to Asgard for another five months. Frigga sent a letter from home every now and then, asking for how they faired and telling them of whatever happenings occurred in their absence. Because of their galavanting about in what was formally a peaceful tavern, Frey ordered them to remain within the castle walls for the remainder of their stay, mostly due to Odin’s insistence, so the siblings were forced to obey. The five extra months they had to suffer through ended up being surprisingly quiet. It was hard to create a ruckus when they were confined to the palace. That and the endless mentoring and political meetings they had to attend left them drained.

If Odin’s goal as to leave them regretting their ‘unseemly’ behaviour, he had succeeded.

Loki usually relished in time away from Asgard to explore other realms, but he was genuinely happy to be home when their time was up. The embrace that his mother gave him was a comfort that he had surely missed.

Ellie was more than merry upon their return. She even let Thor pick her up and embrace her when she first saw him again. But Loki was not left out when they reunited — a firm hug around his waist was a surprise, but he didn’t push her away.

“You missed my tenth birthday,” she said dryly as they separated.

Loki rolled his eyes.“Namedays have less meaning to those who have roughly five thousand of them in their lifetime.”

Her eyes went wide. “You guys are so old!”

“I am only just passed my thousandth year, little one, so I am not that ancient yet.”

“But you’re a lot older than me. That makes you old.”

“It would seem that your logic is quite flawed.”

Ellie crossed her arms over her chest and gave him her best pout. “You’re just annoyed because I’m not scared of you!”

He shrugged dismissively. “I never claimed that I wanted you to be frightened of me. That you should recognise me as your God and that you are beneath me, maybe, but frightening you was not part of my intention.”

She let out a little laugh and grinned up at him since he first arrived. “You’re funny, Loki! I missed your jokes.”

“I did not make any jokes!”

No one had said that he was amusing before. It was not a common word people used to describe him, but if saying saucy remarks resulted in her laughter, he wouldn’t mind saying them more often. It was far better to see her laughing than cowering from him.

* * *

A few days later, Loki was strolling idly through the gardens of Asgard with Frigga. They had been in the yard together going through their combat training as usual. While she had taught him how to effectively wield daggers and to win a battle through tactical assault many years ago, she still insisted on refreshing his skills once a week. Two handmaidens followed them at a distance, bringing them cups of water or some fruit when asked.

“What is your opinion on Midgardians, Mother?” he asked her after a brief silence.

“Why do you ask?” was her curious reply.

“I have been thinking on what Father said about them during the banquet when he informed Thor and I that we would be sent to Alfheim. He said that they were of no importance, that their lives end so quickly they are a waste of our time as gods. Do you agree?”

As Frigga contemplated her answer, their footfalls began to sync up, their feet landing in step on the stone path below. “Not entirely, no.”

“No?”

“I do not agree that their mortality makes them unworthy of our time. Yes, we are gods and they are mortals with much shorter lives who, in some cases, worship us as being above them, but I would say that their mortality has an entirely different meaning.”

Loki furrowed his brow and turned his gaze on her pensive expression. “And what would you say it means?”

“Your father believes that a human’s mortality makes them unworthy, whereas I feel that their mortality makes their life precious.”

“Precious?” he scoffed. “Mother, I would agree that Father was harsh in what he said, but you cannot honestly tell me that you believe them to be cherished? Surely they are there to worship us and go about their human lives, while we prolong their existence by keeping peace within Yggdrasil?”

Frigga gently rubbed the arm that he had linked around her own. “My son, look at it this way for a moment. Their lives are short — far shorter than our own. That means that they have a lot to do is such a short amount of time. It also means that we will outlive them. Take little Ellie for example. She has now spent half of her own life here on Asgard with us. She looks up to you, likes playing with you and Thor, likes to read her stories and listen to her Midgardian musicians, but you will see her pass from this world before you do. It is an exceptionally harsh reality when you have bonded with a human, but their mortality will inevitably cause you pain. Yes, your position as royalty means that you are above her in status, but her human life does not make her unworthy of your time. If anything, it makes your time with her more precious. Do you understand?”

He paused and mulled it over. It made logical sense — the less time you had with someone, the more it should be cherished, but he knew his father was firm in his stance. As far as Odin was concerned, mortals were beneath the gods and that was that.

“I can understand your logic,” he eventually said, slowing as they walked around a well-decorated fountain. “After all, she is exceedingly less annoying that I thought she would be.”

“And she also seems to have taken after you in some regard,” Frigga laughed gently, giving his arm a little tug. “I have never seen Thor’s hair so well decorated with flowers before.”

“She may be mortal,” Loki murmured with an air of approval. “But I must admit she has a knack for little tricks.”

“It does not surprise me after all the time she has spent in your company.”

“The less she spends in Thor’s, the better.”

That earned him a mild scold, even if Frigga did recognised his playful tone.

* * *

Loki was in the library late one night when he had unexpected company. The large doors opened with a slight creak, and he looked up from his book to see Ellie potter in.

“It’s a little late for you to be wandering these halls, don’t you think?” he said loudly, causing the little one to jump.

“Loki!” she exclaimed before letting out a sigh and visibly relaxing. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought I was caught for a sec.”

Upon questioning her further, she revealed that she had forgotten to get one of her new Harry Potter books from the library earlier and managed to sneak from her shared quarters to come and get it. He remained in his chair, brushing over some seiðr notes his mother had given him as the girl went to fetch said book. Three years after his return from Alfheim, Ellie had reached the age of thirteen. Her interest in Midgard — which had just reached its two thousandth year — only grew stronger the more history and facts she learned. After his discussion with Frigga, Loki saw the importance in her words and refused to let Odin’s insistence prevent him from making Ellie’s life in a foreign realm a little easier. She had remained settled thankfully and continued to slowly adjust. The mental scarring from whatever befell her on Midgard remained, but physically she had looked less weedy of late. As a result, he and Thor settled into their old habit of seeing her when they could and the Allfather said nothing about it. As to whether that had anything to do with the Allmother, Loki did not know, but he still assumed as much. He was so transfixed by the sheets of paper, he barely noticed her return.

“Are you studying seiðr, Prince Loki?” she asked with the book tucked under her arm.

“Yes, little Ellie,” he replied, looking up briefly.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I have not yet attempted it.”

Ellie looked between the prince and the book in her hands. “I wish I could do magic.”

“Like your book?” he asked absentmindedly.

“Maybe… But more like your magic — seiðr.”

He scoffed. “It is not exactly a Midgardian practice. There are even few Asgardians who are very familiar with it. The Vanir would be considered the masters of it, even if they are ridiculously arrogant about the fact.”

“Hogun doesn’t seem that arrogant.”

“That is not exactly the word I would use to describe his personality…”

Perhaps the term pompous ass would better suit him?

“I know it’s not a very Midgardian thing,” Ellie continued on, seemingly unfazed by Loki’s words. “But I wish I was as good at it as you are.”

He looked up from his studies at her statement, lips pouted curiously. “You wish to learn seiðr?”

She shrugged. “If I could.”

Loki remained in his seat, tapping his fingers and watching the young mortal as she read the back of The Goblet of Fire. In his mind, he considered his options (mostly Odin’s disgruntled reaction to said options) before opening his mouth.

“You know,” he began casually. “There are certain Midgardians that are capable of learning the art of seiðr.”

His statement seemed to grab her immediate interest. “Really?”

“Indeed, little one. Certain individuals who trained hard enough and for a long enough time. They dedicated themselves to the art and became shamans with a connection to both good and evil spirits in the world.”

“Would they not practice for a super long time?”

“Well, you could put it that way, yes. It took a lot of practice, a lot of time, and a lot of patience. Much as it was when my mother taught me.”

“Have you ever taught anyone seiðr?”

He shook his head. “Not as of yet. Although I had yet to find someone I thought worthy of learning.”

“So,” she drawled out, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Does that mean you would teach someone? If you thought they were worth it? You would then?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged slightly and gestured to the stack of tomes on the table. “If my student is willing to study as hard as I.”

“I’m willin’!” Ellie blurted out before he could explain any further.

He assessed her expression — a surprisingly earnest one — before he opened his mouth to answer. “Are you now, little Ellie?”

“Yeah, I am. I would love to learn how to do magic, my Lord, and you’re the best one to learn from, instead of maybe the Queen herself!”

“Oh my, you do flatter me.”

Standing abruptly from his chair, Loki strolled over to the section of the library dedicated to the practice of magic. Being so familiar with this section, he easily found one of the first books he read in relation to beginners seiðr and made his way back over to where Ellie was waiting. Upon his return, she straightened her posture and waited to be spoken to, a habit instilled in her by her handmaiden training.

“Relax yourself. There’s no need for formalities at this ungodly hour,” Loki grumbled and held out the book to her. “If you want me to teach you, then go and familiarise yourself with what you will be learning. Once you have completed your duties and lessons each day, read the history of seiðr, what it consists of, and how you can develop your skill over time. Read chapters one through ten and then come back to me when you have done so. After you have done that much, I can start the basics with you if you wish to continue.”

“My Prince—”

“Loki,” he corrected calmly.

“Prince Loki—”

He groaned loudly. “Just Loki is acceptable at this time of night. It’s a bit late for grand titles, wouldn’t you agree?”

“If you insist,” she said with a nod, and took the book he had offered. She gently traced the intricate design on the cover with a finger, wonderment clear in her expression. “Would you really do that? Would you teach me how to wild seiðr like you?”

He snorted slightly. “You have to understand, you will most certainly not be as skilled as I; I do have a thousand year advantage over you.”

 She frowned at the book, brows furrowed at his comments. “If I can’t practice for as long as you can, then why bother teachin’ me? I’ll probably suck at it.”

At first he thought her words were in jest, but it became increasingly clear to Loki as he studied her disheartened expression that she was being perfectly serious. If she could not study seiðr for thousands of years to master it, if she could never amount to the level of skill that he or other sorcerers possessed, then why bother at all?

… human life does not make her unworthy of your time. If anything, it makes your time with her more precious.

Without another thought, Loki placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Whether you can survive one hundred years or one thousand means little to me in terms of learning. After eight years in another realm, you have managed to continue your learnings of Midgardian English and Norse ruins, and have excelled in your responsibilities as a handmaiden. If you want to learn, then I will teach you as much as I can in the time we have. Do not think so little of yourself. You won’t get far with an attitude like that.”

“Sorry,” she replied sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

He waved his hand at her and took his seat once more. “Worry not. Now, get yourself to bed before the Einherjar find you sneaking about. I trust you to get back in one piece.”

“I won’t let you down,” she insisted, gesturing to the books in hand as she made her way to the massive library doors. She opened it, careful not to let it creak, hesitated, and then turned to face him again with a small smile. “Thanks for that. And for the books too.”

He gave her a nod and answered. “You’re welcome, little one.”

With that, Ellie turned on her heels and slipped out the door, leaving Loki alone once more, reading his notes in candle light.

[chasholidays]

All Your Corners Round and Lovely

A Looking For a New Way, Way of Living for @bgonemydear. Merry Christmas, babe <3 

With thanks to @windybirb for the lovely Bravenlarke art!

Raven doesn’t think she can be blamed for not understanding the significance of the Toys for Tots thing at Bellamy’s bar. After all, it’s a fairly standard (albeit slightly unexpected, for a bar) holiday event. All sorts of places do charity drives this time of year, and it’s cool that Bellamy is getting in on it.

Then, she sees the two thermometers.

“Why two?” she asks Clarke. Bellamy’s still working on setup, which is convenient, because she and Clarke can check out his ass while he hangs things.

“Why two what?”

“The thermometers. Do they really think they’re going to get so many they break the first one?”

Clarke’s eyes light up like it’s, well, Christmas. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I guess you weren’t that involved with the bar last year. This is a thing. They have rivals.”

It is, to say the least, not what Raven was expecting. Except this is Bellamy, who could probably develop a rivalry with a rock that looked like it had a face, if he wanted to. “Rivals? What does that even mean?”

“You know the bakery across the street?”

She’s aware of the bakery across the street, which feels like a good enough start. “Yeah.”

“Bellamy and the owner don’t get along. Or, you know. Bellamy’s version of not getting along.”

It’s times like this that Raven simultaneously feels like she’s still behind on this relationship, but also like she's probably doing fine catching up. Because while she might not actually know the specifics of what Clarke is talking about, she does get Bellamy well enough that she knows exactly what Clarke means.

“So, they like each other but he won’t admit it?”

“Non-stop barbs and arguing, yeah. I think Roan was kind of disappointed when the three of us started dating, he definitely thought they were doing a flirty sexual tension thing.”

“That’s the primary way Bellamy relates to people,” Raven points out.

“Yeah, it’s a problem.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Anyway, Roan. He owns the place across the street and started doing a fundraiser, and Bellamy decided if he was doing a fundraiser, they needed to do one here too, because otherwise they weren’t contributing to the overall well-being of the community.”

“So, he wanted his own fundraiser so he could raise more money than Roan does.”

“Or get more donations, yeah. And now it’s become this whole thing.”

“For both of them?” Raven asks. “Because I feel like it would be a way easier sell for the bakery.”

“That just makes it a better competition for Bellamy,” Clarke says, fond. “If we win, then he gets to be really smug. But people don’t usually wander into bars with charity donations, so if he loses he just gets to say he was at a disadvantage.”

“I am at a disadvantage,” Bellamy grumbles, coming over to join them. “Did you miss this last year?”

“Somehow.”

“I’m not doing my job right.”

“He gives some pretty stirring speeches about how important it is to make Christmas good for poor kids like he was,” says Clarke. “But everyone’s always drunk for them, so—“

“They still work.”

“They do,” Clarke agrees, and Raven feels a little lost again, until she adds, “Which is why we need a new plan this year.”

“Yeah?” asks Bellamy. “What kind of new plan?”

She grins at Raven. “Not sure yet. But we’ve got three of us now. I bet we can come up with something.”

*

If Raven’s honest, she wasn’t expecting this whole poly thing to make it until Christmas, and she was expecting herself to be the person who got left behind. Not out of anything other than simple logic: Bellamy and Clarke are roommates and had clearly been building to a relationship for a while, and she was the newcomer. She’d expected to help bring them together and then be dumped, in a fairly nice way, when the whole thing got to be too complicated. To say nothing of the fact that, no matter how much she liked them both and how good the sex was, it was still kind of a rebound, and rebounds don’t usually work out, in her experience.

But they’re all still together, and she’s still happy, so here they are, defying the odds.

Which means that she’s now involved in all of Bellamy and Clarke’s weird shit, up to and including infiltrating the bakery for reconnaissance. She’s half-expecting Bellamy to put on a disguise, because that’s the kind of hardcore he is, but instead he just opts to sleep in while Raven and Clarke do his dirty work.

Raven nearly stays with him, but she’ll admit to being a little curious. Of course Bellamy takes this whole thing too seriously, he’s Bellamy. But she has trouble believing that this Roan guy is really as invested.

This is, of course, hopelessly naive of her. It's not hard to get people in on stupid rivalries, especially stupid charity rivalries, and the first thing she sees when they go into Icing is a large banner that reads THINK OF THE CHILDREN over a donation box. Unlike the bar, the bakery offers some merchandise that a reasonable person might consider appropriate to purchase for children, and they're arranged around the display, just asking to be bought and contributed.

The obvious and undeniable advantage makes Raven's hackles rise, which means she is, unfortunately, already invested in this. Bellamy and Clarke are fucking contagious, and she's dating them, so it was only a matter of time before she got infected. It was inevitable.

They get in line, and Raven takes the opportunity to scope out the rest of the place. It's a perfectly unobjectionable little shop, kind of minimalist, with a lot of cool colors and sharp angles. It's not exactly welcoming, but it's chic, and the line is full of people who seem to value looking badass while purchasing their muffins.

Not that Raven doesn't look badass at all times, obviously. But she doesn't let her define her as a person.

They buy coffee and pastries from a somewhat surly teenager, and Clarke selects a table where they can watch the charity display. The seats aren't as uncomfortable as they look, although the metal tabletop is chilly. People coming in definitely notice the display, and Raven sees some of them picking up hats and t-shirts with the Icing logo to donate back into the box. It seems more than a little self-serving, selling merchandise for charity and getting free advertising to boot, but the logo is fairly inoffensive and the shirts are cute, so probably the kids will be happy.

Still, Bellamy's got his work cut out for him.

"Does anyone bring actual toys?" she asks Clarke.

"On occasion," says an unfamiliar voice.

Clarke doesn't look fazed, so Raven doesn't let herself react either. The guy is a few years older than Bellamy, with long hair and what comes across as a perpetual smirk, for all Raven's only seen it for a few seconds.

"We do have specific gift requests on the tree," he adds, taking the seat across from her. "It requires a little more effort, but some people appreciate having a project. You must be the new girlfriend."

Clarke rolls her eyes. "Raven, this is Roan. Roan, Raven. We both became girlfriends at the same time, so--"

"You must be the contemporaneous girlfriend," he corrects, which is a hell of a pretentious word to break out of nowhere.

"You must be the Christmas rival."

Roan smiles. "If anyone is, it's me. And where is the boyfriend? He didn't want to come and exchange pointed holiday barbs?"

"Sleeping in. He decided we could handle it."

"How lucky for him to have allies. He'll need all the help he can get. If I recall correctly, last year was something of a one-sided fight."

Clarke nearly scowls, but Raven can see her catch herself, and she reaches over to squeeze her hand under the table. She recovers and gives him a sweet smile instead. "We'll try to give you more of a challenge this year."

"I certainly hope so."

They really must be contagious, because as soon as they're outside, Raven turns to Clarke and says, "So, we're going to kick his ass, right?"

Clarke grins, leans up for a quick kiss. "That's the plan, yeah."

*

"Okay, first off," Raven says, "you need to have some way for people to just fucking give immediately. None of this bring a toy shit."

"We have a jar but that never worked," says Bellamy, with a sigh. He's making dinner, which is one of those things that Raven will admit is so unexpectedly hot that it never even occurred to her to fantasize about it. But there's something about an incredibly attractive guy preparing meals that really works for her. "They just ignored the jar. It's still there, but we always get more physical donations than monetary ones. People like giving real stuff, apparently."

"Do you think it's about the stuff or about the visible impact?" Clarke asks, thoughtful.

"Visible impact?"

"When you buy and give a toy, you know exactly what you're getting and where your money is going. It feels good, buying a kid a present that they want. Charities can almost always use direct monetary gifts better than they can use product because they know how to use the money better than their donors do, but donors like giving stuff."

"Yeah, that's true. I thought about buying stuff to sell in the store, but we have to have the capital to put down first. Pike doesn't pay a ton of attention, but if we don't make the money back on the stuff we put out, then I'm going to have to pay it out of pocket."

If she's honest, Raven often forgets that the bar has an actual owner. Pike owns a bunch of businesses and mostly lets Bellamy do whatever the hell he wants, and everyone assumes that once Bellamy has enough capital built up, he'll make his de facto ownership official. But until then he is, technically, just the manager, not the big boss.

"Maybe you don't need that much product on the floor," says Clarke. "What if you just got--samples."

"Samples?" he asks.

"Ten bucks buys, I don't know, an action figure? Twenty bucks gets--"

"Stuffed animal," Raven supplies.

"Exactly. So we just get a few things out, and then it's like--give twenty dollars, buy a kid a teddy bear. We could probably get enough example stock in to make a difference for under $100, and the charity would be happier with symbolic toys."

"Couldn't hurt," Bellamy says. He glances over his shoulder at Raven. "So, one meeting with Roan was all it took to get you all-in on this?" he asks. "You're really buying into this rivalry thing?"

"If you guys are invested, I'm invested," she says. "That's how love works. And you guys are basically always about five minutes away from fighting someone for no reason, so I guess this is my life now."

He leaves the stove to kiss her shoulder. "This is definitely your life. Thanks for helping."

"Yeah, yeah," she says. "Thank me when we win."

*

"So, do we have a code word for when one of us wants to buy something for one of the others?" Bellamy asks. "How does this work?"

"I just got you guys presents online," says Raven. "I hate stores."

"But here you are," says Clarke.

"It's for a good cause."

"Unlike our Christmas presents."

"Yeah, you guys don't need help like needy kids do. You're fine."

"You seriously already got your shopping done?" Bellamy asks. Apparently this is a sticking point for him. "It's like a month until Christmas."

"Two and a half weeks," Clarke corrects.

"I buy stuff when I see it," Raven adds, with a shrug. "Don't be jealous you're not as efficient as I am."

"That's exactly why I'm jealous. It's not that Clarke is impossible to shop for."

"He's bitter because every year, I get him a better Christmas present," Clarke says, with a smirk.

"You get me books," he says, petulant.

"You love books."

"See? Easy to shop for." He glances at Raven. "What about you, what do you want?"

"Cool tech shit."

"Fuck, I can't shop for you either."

"Just ask Monty," says Clarke. "That's what I did."

His eyes narrow. "Fuck, am I the only one who isn't done with my shopping?"

"You have other skills," she says, patting his shoulder.

"Which means if you don't buy us presents, you can always just give the gift of sex," Raven adds.

"I already give the gift of sex. If I see anything I want to get you guys, I'm leaving, and fuck you both."

"That is, again, the gift of sex," Clarke says. "Which you already give us. But sure. If you take off, we'll just leave you behind to die."

"Yeah, that's what I'd expect." He runs his hand through his hair. "Honestly, we're probably all going to die anyway. I know you guys don't buy a lot of stuff for kids in the holiday season, but toy stores are a fucking nightmare."

"You still have traumatic flashbacks to getting your sister the most popular toy every year, huh?" Raven asks.

"You have no idea."

But it's not actually that bad. Honestly, it's kind of fun, which Bellamy would probably deny if anyone said it aloud, but his delight is written all over his face. It feels as if they're living in a montage from a Christmas movie, albeit a surprisingly sexually progressive one.

It also feels--sustainable. She can imagine herself in years to come, shopping for Bellamy's sister's inevitable children, for the bar, maybe even for kids of their own, someday, if that's something they want and can figure out how to do.

It's so shocking a thought that she nearly staggers. Raven's never thought of herself as someone who wanted kids, and it felt like the first fault line in her relationship with Finn, before he cheated and destroyed everything. It was less that he wanted children and she didn't and more that he was so sure she'd change her mind, that her lack of interest in reproduction was a passing whim, something that would go away once she got older and biology kicked in. It didn't seem impossible to Raven, but the way Finn treated it as a matter of course was unnerving.

And now, well. It's not exactly that she wants children; she still feels a little uncomfortable with the idea, and there's no way she wants to be the one to have them. But if Clarke wanted to get pregnant, she'd want to be involved.

She'd still be part of the family.

"You okay?" Bellamy asks, noticing her lagging. If anyone had asked, she would have said they were solid, but she hadn't really thought they were this solid.

It hasn't even been a year. She didn't think she was this attached.

"Yeah. Just thinking about how many more years we've got to do this."

"Rivalries are forever," he agrees, putting his arm around her and squeezing. "Thanks for coming. I know me and Clarke get kind of--stupidly competitive."

She leans against him, grateful to be happier than she is freaked out. "Wouldn't be anywhere else. Someone's got to keep an eye on you two, or you'd buy out the entire store just to beat Roan."

"We probably couldn't afford it," he decides, after a somewhat concerning pause. "But good thing you're here anyway."

"Yeah," she says. "Lucky you."

*

As rivalries go, Roan and Bellamy's holiday charity one is somewhat frustrating. It's not that Raven doesn't get it--of course she gets it--and more that they all have so little control over it. They do all they can, obviously; she and Clarke set up an appealing display that looks something like a carnival booth, bright toys arranged next to dollar amounts, tempting patrons into donating just $10, which is still enough to make a kid's holiday, and Bellamy gives the promised inspirational speeches every night about the spirit of Christmas and how much these things make a difference, which, honestly, no matter how often Raven hears them, never get old. Bellamy's a good businessman, but she can't help thinking he's wasted here. If not for his probably disqualifying lifestyle choices, she'd say he should get into politics, but he's just going to have to settle for using his powers to sell drunk people on philanthropy.

Still, aside from sinking all their own funds into the charity drive, they don't really have anything more they can do to tip the balance. She and Clarke stop by Roan's every few days to do some recon, but it's hard to get that much information. He and Bellamy both update their weird thermometers every day, tracking both business's profits, and it's actually pretty close. Which just makes the whole thing worse. If Bellamy was just getting crushed (which was apparently what happened last year), they could just give up on their emotional investment. But since he has a chance, it's incredibly stressful.

The official close of the drive is Christmas Eve, and given how many of their regulars Bellamy and Roan have actually managed to get invested in the whole thing, they have to have an actual ceremony to determine who the winner is. It's actually incredibly complicated, far more than it deserves, because both Bellamy and Roan live for drama, which means they both want a lot of attention and also don't trust the other to not try to pull a fast one.

So Raven and Clarke spend the evening with Roan and his assistant manager Echo, reviewing the non-monetary contributions both businesses amassed. In the interest of fairness, Clarke and Raven verify the amount for Roan's donations while Roan and Echo do Bellamy's, and they check the prices versus Amazon as a master list. It's a lot more precise than their previous calculations, which means that even though Roan was ahead yesterday, there's no way to be sure he won.

Especially because Bellamy is in the bar, hyping everyone who's lonely and drinking on Christmas Eve to believe in the magic of the season and the warm, fuzzy feeling that comes with giving to charity.

His donations close at ten, and the rest of them go down to the bar then, so Raven and Echo can start the recount of the money with a live, appreciative audience. She's never had a group of drunks cheering for her doing math, but it's admittedly kind of fun. Even though some of Roan's friends and regulars showed up, they're very clearly on Bellamy's home turf, and the pressure for him to get a win, after two years without, since Roan actually realized what was happened and started putting some effort in, is as intoxicating as the booze.

Or, well, not quite as intoxicating. But between that and the real booze, everyone is really, really invested in the whole thing.

Roan got more donations of goods and fewer of cash, so Raven finishes her count first and updates the final tally. Roan's number is significantly higher than his estimate from yesterday, and he was already winning, so she can't help a sinking feeling in her stomach. But Echo's still counting, frown going deeper and deeper, until she looks up with at least twenty bills still left in her hands and says, "Bellamy's ahead."

It's much less ceremony than Roan and Bellamy would have liked, something of an anticlimax after all of the careful planning, but once the proclamation has sunk in, there's no room for disappointment, because the bar explodes with applause. It's honestly like nothing Raven has ever heard, and there's probably some kid who lives in the neighborhood who just got woken up from waiting for Santa by the noise, but it's hard to care.

"Holy shit, we won!" says Clarke, and there's the familiar juggling act of the three of them trying to figure out how to position themselves for hugs, Raven finally taking Bellamy's left side while Clarke takes his right, and the three of them trading quick, celebratory kisses before the patrons pull Bellamy's attention away.

The rest of the night passes in a haze of alcohol, affection, and laughter. Roan and Echo stick around, have a drinking contest with Clarke which absolutely no one wins, and even Bellamy gets a little drunk, because it's Christmas Eve and no one cares.

She's had good holidays before, but nothing like this. Nothing even close. She didn't know this was an option, didn't even know to want it.

The three of them stagger home together, fall into bed, Clarke in the middle with Raven curled around her and Bellamy off on his side because he can't actually fall asleep while he's cuddling, most nights, and she barely even remembers it's Christmas the next day. Of course she's looking forward to having the day off tomorrow, to sleeping in and probably getting laid, to finding out what amazing breakfast Bellamy will make, to seeing how much he and Clarke like their presents and finding out what they got her, but it doesn't feel vital, like it sometimes does. It doesn't feel like such a big deal.

After all, she already has everything she wants.