#carved Wooden santa

[liljas-scandinavian-handicraft]

About this item

Hand-carved Gnome with spoon from Liljas Scandinavian Handicraft These mythological figures from the Norse folklore bring the mysticism directly into your home. This mythological Nisse is carved with only a knife from a whole blank of Linden wood. The spoon is also carved from linden wood. All my figures are carefully created and treated with linseed oil so that the natural beauty of the wood will not be lost. The gnomes are approximately 8 cm tall (2.7 inches) and 2.5 cm in diameter 1 (icnhes) After you have ordered, it takes a couple of days for me to carve out your unique "Nisse" Gnome ◼ Genuine craftsmanship Let yourself enjoy this craft that is 100% handmade by me, Carved only with a knife, a tool that has been used by people since ancient times. ◼ Natural material. These figures are carved from a whole piece of linden, linden is a type of wood that is used for a long time for its excellent properties, a type of wood that is beautiful to look at but also hard enough to retain the details and stand the test of time. ◼ Unique All characters are completely unique and there is no one that is exactly like another. So if you are searching for a meaningful gift to give to someone unique in your life, this can be the perfect gift. ◼ Free shipping.  So that you will avoid complicated shipping fees, it is obvious for me to offer free shipping, ◼ Mythological history. A Swedish Nisse [ˈnɪ̂sːə] is a mythological creature from Nordic folklore, today typically associated with the winter solstice and the Christmas season. They are generally described as being short, having a long white beard, and wearing a conical or knit cap in gray, red or some other bright colour. They often have an appearance somewhat similar to that of a garden gnome. According to tradition, the Nisse lives in the houses and barns of the farmstead, and secretly acts as their guardian. If treated well, they protect the family and animals from evil and misfortune, and may also aid the chores and farm work. However, they are known to be short tempered, especially when offended. Every Christmas (and every Thursday) the farmers had to give the Nisse a plate of porridge (or rice pudding on Christmas) to make sure he was kept happy.

[x647]

Sisters at the church ✨✨✨🌸💒💗💗

[runninriot]

Santa's Secret

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles day 23

prompt: hot chocolate | rated G | wc: 998 | tags: Eddie & Wayne Munson, single dad Steve Harrington

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | AO3 (+bonus epilogue)

Eddie can’t wait to get out of the suit that’s been suffocating him for the past three hours. He’s still sweaty and his hair is a mess after wearing the wig and fake beard combo for so long but he feels better once he’s changed back into his regular clothes.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Eddie stops for a moment. He looked so different dressed as Santa, could’ve been fooled by his own reflection wearing that costume. There’s no way Steve actually realised it’s him. Maybe what Eddie thought he saw in Steve’s eyes wasn’t recognition, but confusion.

They haven’t seen each other in years and apart from that, it’s not like they’ve ever been… close. Sure, Steve probably knew of him – they’ve both been somewhat popular in high school, although for very different reasons. But still. It was silly of Eddie to think the smile he gave him was one of familiarity. More realistically, it was just a silent thanks for how he handled the little girl’s nervousness, brought a smile to her face by playing into her childlike wonder.

And that’s okay.

In the end, Eddie did have a great time pretending to be Santa for a while. He’ll never tell Wayne, though, unless he wants to hear his old man tell him ‘I told you so‘.

With his shift done, Eddie strolls around the still brimming main hall of the community centre, looking at a stand with wooden figurines where a beautifully carved dragon caught his eyes.

He’s so fascinated by it, that he doesn’t notice the person coming up to him, until a hand taps his shoulder lightly.

When he spins around, he finds Steve standing next to him.

   “So, what brings you back to this shithole?“ he asks through a laugh, casual, like it’s normal for the former King and King of Freaks to have a conversation.

   “I, uh,“ Eddie stammers, staring at Steve a little star struck and maybe a little more in love because there’s that smile again and it’s blinding like the fucking sun and this time, he doesn’t have the Santa suit to blame for the fucking heat spreading in his face.

    God, grow up Munson. You’re an adult. Behave like one.

   “I’m visiting my uncle.“

   “How is Wayne? I was a bit worried when I realised that-“ Steve leans closer to whisper in his ear and Eddie’s heart stops for a moment. “-Santa sent someone else to cover for him.“

There are a million thoughts running through Eddie’s mind – since when are Steve and Wayne on first name basis? So Steve did recognise him? And why’s it so fucking hot in here?

   “You were great, by the way. I’d have lost it at some of the parents. They can be worse than their spoiled little brats sometimes.“

Eddie chuckles nervously, shrugs his shoulders and waves a hand at Steve who moves back slowly but stays close, so close Eddie catches a hint of his cologne, mingling with the Christmassy smell of oranges, and cinnamon, and apple tea, and it makes him dizzy but not in a bad way.

“Robbie wouldn’t shut up about Santa,“ Steve winks at him, “said he’s the coolest, even cooler than the tooth fairy. And let me tell you, that’s a real compliment.“

They both laugh and it feels so light and freeing; Steve makes it seem so easy to fall into conversation with him.

   “She’s a sweet kid and she loves you a lot, I can tell.“

    Loves you so much she’s wasting her Christmas wish on your happiness, Eddie thinks fondly, biting his tongue not to accidentally spill their little secret.

   “Yeah, well. She doesn’t have much choice. She’s stuck with me, since her mother decided to-“

   “Dad!“ a voice calls from somewhere behind them and when they turn, they see Robbie running up at them.

   “Speaking of the Devil,“ Steve sighs amused before opening his arms to catch her.

   “Who’s your friend?“

   “This is Eddie. We’ve been to school together. He’s grandpa Wayne’s nephew.“

    Grandpa W-hat?

Eddie must be having a stroke. Or maybe something’s wrong with his hearing because… WHAT?

Steve must realise something when he notices Eddie’s confusion, because he suddenly blushes a deep shade of red and smiles awkwardly at him.

   “S-sorry, I thought you knew that, uh-“ Steve takes a deep breath before he continues, “Your uncle has been helping me out a lot when I moved back to Hawkins a few months ago. You know, uh, setting up the house and watching Robbie when I had to go to interviews and couldn’t find a babysitter. He, uh, he’s been a real help. Robbie’s obsessed with him. Aren’t you, baby?“

   “He’s awesome! And he makes the best hot chocolate in the world! With little marshmallows and sprinkles on top!“

Eddie feels like he’s been hit by a truck, feels betrayed by the man he’s been looking up to his whole life.

   Wayne Munson, you son of a potato farmer, are living a secret life where Steve’s daughter calls you grandpa?

    Oh, Eddie’s going to have a field day confronting him with that.

   “Right?! The best hot chocolate ever! I always have mine with whipped cream on top,“ Eddie answers equally enthusiastic, doesn’t even have to pretend despite his inner turmoil because that little girl’s smile is infectious.

While listening to Robbie’s happy babbling, Eddie watches Steve from the corner of his eyes. He still looks a bit like a kid caught stealing cookies, but slowly relaxes, and that’s good, but-

Wayne definitely has some explaining to do. His uncle has always been a fucking saint, can’t not offer his help when he feels like someone’s in need of it. But it being Steve of all people, really messes with Eddie in a weird way he can’t really explain.

He needs to know more.

   “How about we all go to Wayne’s together? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. What do you say?“

[chaoticrockmusic]

X-Men Christmas Scenarios

Scott Summers (Cyclops): Decorating the Tree

The living room was filled with the scent of pine and the soft hum of Christmas music. You were perched on a step stool, reaching to hang a snowflake ornament on one of the higher branches. Scott stood behind you, holding the box of decorations, watching you with an amused but cautious expression.

“You know,” he said, “if you fall, I can’t catch you. I’m holding fragile glass ornaments here.”

“You could try to catch me,” you shot back, placing the snowflake and hopping off the stool. “Besides, I’m nimble.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Nimble enough to handle the tinsel? Because last year, it looked like a five-year-old threw it on the tree.”

“Hey!” You grabbed a handful of the shiny strands. “It’s called artistic expression. Watch and learn.”

He didn’t have to watch long before you gleefully tossed the tinsel into the air, letting it cascade haphazardly onto the branches.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said, smirking as you grabbed more tinsel. “And if you don’t like it—”

You flung another handful, this time deliberately aiming for his head.

Scott sighed dramatically, pulling a stray strand off his visor. “You do this to torment me, don’t you?”

“Absolutely.” You laughed, leaning in to kiss his cheek before grabbing another handful of tinsel and sprinting to the other side of the tree.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler): Christmas Morning Surprise

The soft glow of fairy lights framed the edges of your room as you stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. Before you could properly sit up, a burst of brimstone filled the air, and Kurt appeared at the foot of your bed, arms overflowing with brightly wrapped presents.

“Guten Morgen! Merry Christmas!” he exclaimed, his tail wagging behind him like an overexcited puppy.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Kurt, it’s barely six in the morning.”

“But it’s Christmas!” he insisted, depositing the pile of gifts at the foot of your bed. His golden eyes sparkled with excitement as he plopped down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing slightly. “Come, open them! I cannot wait to see what you think.”

You yawned, smiling at his enthusiasm. “You carried all of these in one trip?”

“Of course! I teleported. Efficient and festive,” he said proudly, his tail curling in contentment.

You reached for the first gift, marveling at the careful wrapping. “You wrapped these yourself?”

His ears turned a deeper blue. “Ja...well, mostly. Jubilee helped me tie the ribbons.”

As you opened the first present—a beautifully carved wooden trinket—you couldn’t help but laugh. “This is amazing, Kurt. Did you make this too?”

He beamed. “Ja, but there’s more! Keep going!”

You shook your head fondly, already knowing this would be the best Christmas morning you’d ever had.

Logan (Wolverine): Building a Fire

You found Logan crouched in front of the fireplace, carefully stacking logs with an intensity that made it look like he was preparing for battle rather than a cozy evening. His plaid flannel shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing his scarred but capable hands.

“Need some help there, lumberjack?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not unless you can make the wood light itself,” he shot back without looking up.

“Matches are a thing, you know.”

“Matches are cheating.” He struck a piece of flint against steel, and sparks flew. After a few more tries, the fire roared to life, casting a warm glow across the room.

“Very impressive,” you said, walking over and sitting cross-legged on the rug. “What’s next? Are you going to chop more wood with your claws?”

He smirked, finally turning to look at you. “If you ask nicely.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a Santa hat and plopped it onto his head. He frowned, his hand immediately going up to pull it off.

“Leave it,” you said, grabbing his wrist. “It’s festive.”

“It’s ridiculous,” he grumbled but didn’t take it off.

You tilted your head, grinning. “You secretly love Christmas, don’t you?”

“Don’t push your luck, kid,” he muttered, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told you otherwise.

Peter Maximoff (Quicksilver): String Lights Disaster

You should’ve known asking Peter to hang the lights would end in chaos.

“Peter, slow down!” you yelled, watching as he zipped back and forth across the room, leaving a blur of glowing string lights in his wake.

“This is efficient,” he called back, draping the lights haphazardly over the furniture. “You said you wanted them up fast, right?”

“I also said I wanted them to look nice!”

He stopped abruptly, standing in the middle of the room with the lights tangled around his torso. “Nice is overrated. Messy is more... artistic.”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. “You’re tangled, aren’t you?”

Peter looked down, as if just noticing the strands wrapped around him. “Uh...no?”

“Uh-huh.”

He sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Fine, maybe a little.”

Laughing, you walked over and started untangling him, trying not to laugh too hard when he pouted like a child.

“You know,” he said as you freed him, “if you’d just let me do my thing, we’d already be done.”

“And if I let you do your thing, the mansion would probably catch fire.”

He shrugged, smirking. “Worth it."

[4only1]

Last Christmas - Secret Santa Part 4 (Final Part)

Featuring: Gun Park, Goo Kim, DG/James Lee, Jibeom + Jihan Kwak & Hudson Ahn Masterlist -----------------------

Gun Park

He called you to his house, well, if you could call it a house. You actually wouldn’t, it’s really more of a shack, but let’s not digress. You were glad you bundled up, the chill of December’s air prickled your skin. Looking over at Gun, you couldn’t figure out how the man was shirtless right now. 

Perhaps it was because he was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t register the temperature. His hand moved carefully, carving away at the wood he held. The only sound heard was the knife scraping, shaving away to make a shape.

It wasn’t until Gun put the knife down, that you even realized he was done. He took a moment, turning the wooden statue around, scanning for imperfections, before handing it towards you.

You grabbed the stature, following Gun’s lead, and admiring the statue. It took a few seconds, but you noticed how familiar the statue looked. Gun watched as the gears turned in your head, happy that you recognized what he was trying to make.

He carved a little statue of you. 

The silence between you two continued as you admired how good the statue looked. No thanks were needed from you, Gun knew you appreciated it. He could tell by the sparkle in your eyes.

----------------------- Goo Kim

“Hey, HEY BE GENTLE! I got that limited edition and I am letting you hold it, be grateful.” Goo’s voice somehow was more high pitched than usual. He was also being more dramatic than usual.

He hadn’t even let you hold the gift he got you before yelling about how you needed to take care of it. His hands held a precious manga, one that you had mentioned you would like to read. 

It was difficult to find the first volume due to the older age of the series. When you did find the manga, it was quite a hefty price. Lucky you that the man in front of you happens to own the first volume and was graciously gifting it to you. 

If he got over his fit though.

Despite saying he was gifting it to you, he refused to even let it go, holding the manga close to his chest like a child would when asked to share their toy. Goo did act like a child.

“Goo give me the manga, you said it was my gift, stop hogging” You spoke, lunging forward, hands grabbing onto the manga, tugging it towards you.

Despite this, Goo didn’t let go, leading to a tug of war between the two of you for the manga.

“Let go!”

“No it was mine first, I don’t have to give it to you”

“Are you kidding me, I’m telling Gun!”

“TATTLETALE”

“YAAAA”  “YAAA”

Now you both sounded like children.

----------------------- DG/James Lee

DG had thought long and hard about what to give you. Like with everything he did, he planned out every scenario. How would you react to this or would this feel important enough to you?

For a secret santa, he was taking it very seriously. If he were still James Lee, he would have just thrown you a lollipop before walking away. But no, he was no longer that teenager who went about excelling at everything with little effort. He wasn’t about to half ass your gift.

Which brought him to the current dilemma. He had handed you the gift, the one he had spent much thought on, only to be greeted by disapproval on your face.

Disappointment was a better word to describe the emotions you felt when you opened the gift. This man, who was a successful Kpop idol and owned a company, got you an album. His album. His signed album.

He didn’t even write a special message on it, just his stupid signature.

You look at him, lips pressed thin and eyes squinted, shaking your head back and forth. You were clearly disappointed. 

“You know, a signed album only means something if you actually listen to that person’s music. But thanks, I’ll sell this for lots of money.”

Ah, he should have just got you money. That was the obvious choice.

----------------------- Jibeom & Jihan Kwak

Turns out, the Jibeom & Jihan decided it would be best to team up for secret santa. Afterall, what’s better than getting one gift from two people? Probably getting two gifts from two people but let’s not complain. 

It took the two brother’s a lot of thinking to figure out what to get you. They didn’t even ask Jichang for help!

You wish they did.

They stood, side by side in front of you, hiding something behind their back. Each of them had a smile, well, smirk, on their face.

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands” Jihan tells you, so you do.

“This gift is great to take a bath with. The nutrients soak right into your skin.” Jibeom informs you, as your gift is placed in your hands.

You let out a scream as you opened your eyes to see what they had given you.

A snake. A dead snake, but it was still a snake.

You threw your hands up, launching the snake far away, almost prompting Jibeom to chase after it.

“Are you kidding me! What kind of gift is that?” Your yelling caused Jichang to emerge from the nearby building, quickly piecing together what had transpired. 

Soon, the brother’s were on their knees, hands in the air, taking a scolding from Jichang about how terrible of a gift they got you. He made them promise to get you another, better, gift.

You didn’t trust them.

----------------------- Hudson Ahn

“So, what did you get me?” You eagerly ask, clapping your hands together in anticipation.

You didn’t notice the way Hudson swallowed his nerves. His calm demeanor remained on the outside, not showing a hint of worry. He had dragged you along to his master, Taesoo Ma’s, mountain. You assumed he was about to hand you the gift he got. 

A little bird named Jacky told you Hudson pulled your name in the secret santa. You were excited to see what the gift would be. He didn’t appear to bring anything with him, so perhaps it was something small.

Taesoo read Hudson like a book, noting the boy's slight tells that showed he was worried. Hudson took a deep breath before facing you, attempting to pose cool. Ya know, legs spread, elbow on his knee, strong eye contact, nonchalant expression.

“In Ansan, no one comes close to your level, you are unique and exceptional. I am lucky to know you. I gift you 100 points, making you one of Ansan’s finest.” 

Silence is all that followed as you and Taesoo just stared at the boy. The silence lasted a good minute, before you spoke.

“You forgot to get me anything and didn’t remember until I asked you, didn’t you?”

Again silence, until Hudson spoke again.

“Another 100 points”

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

As you returned home, your eyes gazed over at the pile of gifts you had received for secret santa. The results were…results. You could have done better, maybe next time you will provide clearer rules and a wishlist so people actually get you something you want.

The real question though, is how did all these people manage to pull your name in secret santa?

You didn’t put it in 26 times for nothing.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Welcome to the final part of the secret santa. This was just a fun little series I wanted to do for the holiday's and I am happy with the way it turned out

Fun Facts about the series

I wrote the first three parts before I posted part 1. Part 4 was written while I published each part because I just couldn't figure out Goo or DG.

My favourite part to write was part 2 or 3

Part 4 was originally just going to include just Jihan and not Jibeom, but I decided it made the scenario more fun if I included both.

The very first character's part I wrote was Daniel's and the last was Goo's.

I think the hardest character to write for was DG.

The character I had the most fun writing were Jake, Samuel, Jerry, Gongseob, Jibeom/Jihan & Hudson.

Easiest to write for: Jibeom & Jihan

Hardest to write for: DG (I do not know this man)

[kezdispenser]

Tinsel, Whiskey, and Mistletoe

A Dean Winchester one shot

The bunker always felt a little too cold, a little too big, and a little too much like a military base. Functional, sure, but cozy? Not even close. But this year, you’d decided that was going to change.

It was Christmas Eve, and while Dean, Sam, and Cas were out handling a minor salt-and-burn, you’d spent the entire day turning the bunker into something that vaguely resembled the holidays. You’d raided every thrift store, big-box shop, and craft aisle within a hundred-mile radius, hauling back decorations, lights, and enough tinsel to choke a reindeer.

By the time the guys returned, the bunker looked... different.

Dean was the first to step inside, his boots echoing against the floor before he froze in place. His eyes scanned the room, widening at the sight of garlands strung along the railings, a small but cheerful tree set up in the corner, and stockings hung along the edge of one of the desks.

“What the hell?” he muttered, blinking like he’d walked into an alternate universe.

You popped your head out from behind the tree, holding a string of lights you’d been wrestling with. “Surprise! Merry Christmas, Dean!”

Sam walked in behind him, his eyebrows shooting up. “Whoa. You did all this?”

“Sure did,” you said, grinning as you plugged in the lights. The tree lit up, casting the room in a warm, festive glow. “If we’re gonna spend Christmas in the bunker, we’re doing it right.”

Dean crossed his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You realize this is a secret lair for fighting monsters and saving the world, right? Not Santa’s workshop?”

“Uh-huh. And you realize you’ve spent the last however many years skipping Christmas like it’s the plague?” you shot back. “Not this year, Winchester. You’re having a proper Christmas, and you’re gonna like it.”

Sam chuckled, clearly enjoying Dean’s discomfort. “She’s got a point, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further, which you took as a win.

The evening felt strangely quiet after dinner, the kind of peaceful stillness that settled in your chest when you were alone with people you cared about. You didn’t want to let the night slip away without showing them just how much they meant to you, how much you appreciated everything they did—even if they didn’t always show it.

When it came time for presents, you couldn’t help yourself. You’d spent weeks getting gifts for all three of them, each one hand-picked with the hope it would mean something to them.

First, you turned to Sam. You handed him a large, neatly wrapped package. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate to tear into it. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside: a collection of vintage books, including some rare editions on folklore and hunting techniques, as well as a beautiful leather bookmark with his initials engraved on it.

“Holy—wow. You really went all out,” Sam said, clearly surprised. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” you said with a soft smile. “I know how much you love your research. Thought these might help.”

Next, you handed Castiel his gift, and he unwrapped it carefully, as if savoring the moment. Inside was a rare celestial map, detailing constellations and star formations. You could see the quiet joy in his eyes as he traced the patterns. You had also thrown in a small hand-carved wooden angel figurine for him, something you knew would resonate with him more than anything store-bought.

“This is... beautiful,” he said, his voice soft and full of appreciation. “Thank you, (Y/N).”

You nodded, trying not to let your emotions overwhelm you. You had always known the angels in his life were complex, but this—this was something tangible that he could hold onto.

Finally, you turned to Dean. His gift was a bit more elaborate—a box that was heavier than he expected. As he opened it, he found a set of custom tools, engraved with his name and a few inside jokes about the number of times he'd complained about broken equipment. You’d even thrown in a high-quality flask, knowing he’d appreciate it on long hunts.

“You didn’t have to get me all this stuff,” Dean said, his voice soft, but there was something in his eyes that made your heart flutter. He stared at the flask for a moment before looking back up at you. “This is... amazing, (Y/N). Thank you.”

You smiled at him, trying to mask the overwhelming sense of love you felt for the three of them. “You guys deserve it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “For all the shit you go through, for everything you’ve given. You deserve something nice, even if it’s just for tonight.”

Dean reached across the table, brushing his hand over yours in a rare moment of sincerity. “You didn’t have to do all this. But I’m glad you did,” he said, his words heavy, but sincere.

You took a breath, trying to hold back the tears you could feel welling in your eyes. “I wanted to make it special,” you whispered. “For all of us. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

The smiles on their faces were more than you’d hoped for. It wasn’t about the presents—it was about the fact that you cared enough to show them they weren’t alone, that despite the chaos and violence that had always been a part of their lives, there was still room for peace.

And maybe, just maybe, there was room for love.

Later, when Sam and Cas had gone off to their rooms, you found Dean sitting in the war room, nursing a glass of whiskey. The tree’s lights reflected in the amber liquid, casting a warm glow over his face.

“Hey,” you said softly, walking over and sliding into the chair next to him.

He glanced at you, then back at the tree. “This is... a lot.”

You shrugged, resting your chin in your hand. “You guys deserve it. You never take a break, never let yourselves have any normal shit. I just wanted to give you something good for once.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the tree. Then he smirked, shaking his head. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” you shot back without thinking.

The words hung in the air for a beat too long. You glanced at him, expecting him to laugh or roll his eyes, but instead, his gaze was locked on yours, intense and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Maybe I do.”

Your breath caught as he leaned closer, his whiskey-warmed breath ghosting over your lips. “Mistletoe,” he murmured, his eyes flicking upward.

Your heart flipped when you realized you were sitting directly under the sprig you’d hung earlier. “Cheater,” you whispered, but you were already leaning in.

When his lips met yours, it was soft at first, almost hesitant. But then his hand cupped your jaw, and the kiss deepened, all heat and unspoken feelings pouring out in one perfect moment.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

And just like that, the bunker didn’t feel so cold anymore.

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

A/N: Here's a Dean one for you girlies.

[devildomwriter]

Jolly Old St Nick | Solomon x Reader

1.2K Word Count | GN! Reader | Fluff, Humor | CW: none? Magic shenanigans

You’d never been so relaxed while in such a crowded place. You held Solomon’s hand tightly as he slowly walked from booth to booth at the Christmas market.

When Solomon called you away on business, he’d done so specifically to stop the brothers from following you on what was actually a surprise date.

You like Solomon so you didn’t mind the surprise date but you were shocked at how good of a job he’d done choosing locations.

A world-famous Christmas market hadn’t been your first idea for a holiday-timed date but he was fully prepared to buy you anything that caught your attention so you weren’t complaining about the crowds.

“Look, ___, they’re making candy canes,” he pointed out the booth next to you and you stood on your tip-toes to sneak a look as the sugar was poured into the molds.

“Are they all made like that?” You asked aloud and he proceeded to give you a more in-depth explanation than you were expecting. Even the booth owner looked shocked by his expertise and appeared to quickly be taking notes on his phone.

You pulled Solomon away from the candy canes after he bought a few to a booth with glass blowers who were making custom Christmas ornaments.

“Blowing glass art, it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen anyone do it. It’s still as incredible as it was thousands of years ago,” he sighed nostalgically and got a few curious looks.

You gave him a cautious look and he laughed and patted your back. “Ah, there’s no need to worry now. No one would believe me anyway.” He made a valid point so you decided to have fun with it instead.

“Did you ever meet Saint Nick?” You asked him as you clutched the paper bag with your glass ornaments.

Solomon laughed and stopped walking, “would you believe me if I told you I am him.”

You ran into somebody in Sienese and dropped your delicate bag. “Oh!”

Solomon quickly caught it before it hit the icy stone path. You breathed a sigh of relief and he chose to hold onto it instead. A wise decision from the wise king himself.

“There’s no way. You just snuck into people’s houses and gave them stuff?”

“Well, sort of. I’m certainly not the only one who did something like that but when I came into my power more I experimented with it a little and tried teleporting small things. Every so often if I overheard a family wasn’t doing well, their child especially, I’d place something small and fun in their drying clothes.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “So…you’re a king of ancient times, a sorcerer, and Santa Clause? All in one, huh?”

Solomon laughed it off and shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ancient…”

“That’s the part you disagree with?”

You laughed at Solomon and you both continued through the Christmas market. You found a few cute items for everyone. A hand-stitched angel ornament that reminded you of Luke, a hand-carved wooden cow from a nativity scene (Belphegor didn’t need to know that part), an antique metallic Christmas tree from a fad decades past, and a fancy leather belt you thought would be perfect for Thirteen.

Solomon found a booth with kettle corn and immediately purchased some while you found a free bench. As soon as you sat down a distraught woman sat next to you on the phone while the kid held onto her leg looking like they’d cried for a long time.

You knew it wasn’t your business but as soon as she hung up the phone you had to pry. Just to see if you could help them.

“I’m sorry for intruding but…is something wrong?” You asked.

The mom looked slightly annoyed to be asked as she’d been through enough but the child quickly fessed up. “My doggy,” he trembled and his mother quickly picked him up and sat him in her lap to coddle him.

“Did your doggy go missing?” You asked as Solomon approached you from behind.

“Oh dear, did he?” Solomon asked with a frown.

The mother shook her head. “It’s his stuffed animal. I told him not to bring it,” she began but the indication it was his fault brought a wave of tears from the young child so she stopped herself.

You thought about it for a moment and looked at Solomon who nodded with a similar idea. “Do you have a picture?”

The mother shook her head, “It’s okay. Really,” she dismissed but you shook your head.

“I happen to be a private investigator, mam. I’m pretty good at finding things. If you hand a picture, I promise you’ll have that dog back in the hour.”

She looked horrified you’d made such a promise with her son in earshot but Solomon nodded confirming the same thing.

Reluctantly she took out her phone and found a picture. The dog appeared to be handmade and well-loved.

You nodded and took off into the crowd with Solomon to keep an eye on the woman.

After searching for a while using a tracking spell you had no luck so you texted Solomon for help. He sent you a laughing emoji which frustrated you and then sent you a spell you hadn’t tried before and asked you to recite it out of sight.

You slipped away into a dark alley behind some booths and recited the spell with the stuffed animal in mind and it materialized in front of you. You gasped and caught it before it hit the ground.

It was identical to the photo. You weren’t sure if you summoned it or made it but either way, you knew a little boy was about to be very happy.

You quickly rushed back to the bench and the mother’s eyes widened when she saw you.

The little boy sprang free from her arms and ran to you to quickly hug his beloved stuffed dog.

“You actually found it!” The mother gasped and looked teary-eyed. “I can’t thank you enough. What do I owe you?”

You shook your head, “I’m Santa’s helper, Mam, I find kids their toys for free, it’s part of my job.”

Suddenly you heard a laugh from Solomon and gave him a puzzled look.

“Time to go,” he said quickly and you walked his way as a man called out to the mother and son.

“Honey I found the dog, it was by the vending machine still—huh?”

The family looked at the dog in the dad’s hands to the one in the boys and to you and Solomon smiling like nothing weird just happened.

“How did you…this dog was hand-made by my mother…she died last year…” The woman was too shocked to say more and her husband stood there silently bewildered.

“Umm…merry Christmas from Saint Nick!” you said and grabbed Solomon’s hand running away as quickly as you could as he laughed loudly.

“Shut up Solomon! Didn’t that break some kind of rule!?” You exclaimed and he shook his head.

“Who cares? You magically created the exact toy a child wanted. I think that makes you a st nick just like me,” he chucked and you rolled your eyes.

“Give me the scarf. I want to look around more but now I need to hide my face.”

Solomon continued to laugh at you the rest of your date at the Christmas market.

Sure enough, the story of the two stuffed dogs made it to the local news as a Christmas miracle from one of Santa’s mysterious helpers.

[julia-lestrade]

A Soap-y Christmas

Soap x gn! reader

Tw: fluff , romance

Snow fell gently on the Scottish Highlands, blanketing the rolling hills in pristine white. You tightened your scarf as the frosty wind nipped at your cheeks, following the sound of cheerful humming coming from the kitchen. John had been at it all morning, clattering pots and pans, claiming he was preparing a “proper Christmas feast.” You had your doubts.

“Johnny,” you called, stepping into the cozy kitchen, the aroma of something savory mixing with what you suspected was… burnt cookies? “Are you trying to poison me for Christmas or what?”

“Oi, don’t you start with me!” Soap spun around dramatically, a dusting of flour on his cheeks and a candy cane tucked behind one ear. He was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater you’d ever seen—a knitted monstrosity featuring a winking Santa holding a pint of beer. “This is culinary artistry at work!”

You stifled a laugh. “Looks more like culinary chaos.”

He grinned, brandishing a wooden spoon like a soldier ready for battle. “Mock all you like, but I’ve got Gordon Ramsay shaking in his boots.”

Leaning against the counter, you watched him stir a pot of something suspiciously thick. John was the definition of unpredictable, but he wore his heart on his sleeve—especially when it came to holidays. It was his idea to rent the little cottage for Christmas, insisting it was the perfect getaway from the chaos of work. He wanted a “proper” holiday, complete with mistletoe, a roaring fire, and enough food to feed an army.

“Alright, let me help before you burn the place down,” you teased, reaching for a nearby dish.

He held up a hand dramatically. “No way. You’re the guest of honor. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the magic.”

You crossed your arms, quirking a brow. “Magic? Is that what we’re calling this?”

He laughed, and the sound was warm enough to rival the crackling fire in the living room. “Trust me. It’ll be grand.”

Hours later, you sat at the candlelit table, the feast laid out before you. To your astonishment, the food looked… edible. More than that, it looked incredible. A perfectly roasted turkey sat in the center, surrounded by golden potatoes, bright cranberry sauce, and steaming bowls of sides.

“See?” He said proudly, sliding into the chair beside you. “Told ya I could cook.”

“You had me worried with all the smoke earlier,” you joked, raising your glass. “But this is amazing. Merry Christmas, Johnny.”

His grin softened, and for a moment, his usual bravado gave way to something more sincere. “Merry Christmas, bonnie. Here’s to a year full of laughter, chaos, and you putting up with me.”

The two of you clinked glasses, and as the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t imagine a more perfect Christmas.

After dinner, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over both of you. John handed you a small, neatly wrapped gift, his expression surprisingly shy.

“Go on,” he urged, scratching the back of his neck.

Curious, you tore into the paper, revealing a simple wooden ornament carved in the shape of a snowflake. Your name was etched delicately in the center, along with the date.

“Did you make this?” you asked, touched by the thoughtful gesture.

“Aye,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “Figured we’d need somethin’ to remember this by.”

You leaned closer, your heart full. “You’re full of surprises, MacTavish.”

He chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Only the best for you, lass.

And as the fire crackled and the snow glittered under the moonlight, you knew this Christmas would be one you’d cherish forever.

——————————————————————

I hope y’all liked it ❣️ merry Christmas and happy holidays! 😙 💖

[charlesslut16]

-Hoping for You on Christmas-

summary : you meet charles for the first time on a christmas market hoping to see him again...

PAIRINGS : charles leclerc x fem!reader

WARNINGS : none

note : I hope you love this!!!

masterlist ; DECEMBER MASTERLIST 24’ 

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The crisp December air nipped at your skin as you wandered through the Christmas market, a soft blanket of twilight settling over the festive stalls. The glow of fairy lights twinkled against the darkening sky, and the smell of mulled wine, freshly baked pastries, and pine filled the cold air.

There was something almost magical about it—how the bustling market made everything feel warmer, more connected. The distant laughter of children, the soft murmur of conversation, and the cheerful jingling of bells created a world all its own.

It was early December, and already the streets were alive with the spirit of Christmas. People bustled about in scarves and coats, their breath visible in the frosty air as they huddled together, stopping at the brightly decorated stalls.

You couldn't help but smile as you wandered between them, admiring the handcrafted trinkets, the glimmering ornaments, and the small, delicate lights that lit up the night.

But despite the twinkling lights and the festive music, something was missing. It wasn’t the presents or the decorations or the food—though all of that was wonderful. No, what you were searching for was a feeling, a connection.

You had always hoped that Christmas could bring something more—a chance encounter, a spark, something that would remind you that the world was still full of possibility, of wonder.

As you made your way further into the market, the crowds seemed to fade away, replaced by the soothing sounds of carolers singing familiar tunes. Your steps slowed as you approached a stall filled with beautiful wooden ornaments—tiny reindeer, snowflakes, and hand-carved Santa's.

The craftsmanship was exquisite, and you found yourself mesmerized by the intricate details. You reached out to touch one of the ornaments, admiring the way the wood was polished to a soft sheen, when you heard a soft chuckle behind you.

"Careful, you might break it," said a voice, light and teasing.

You turned, startled, to see a man standing just a few feet away. He had dark brown hair tucked beneath a beanie, and his eyes—bright and mischievous—seemed to sparkle in the soft glow of the lights around you. He was tall, dressed casually in a jacket and jeans, his smile friendly and warm.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to," you said quickly, feeling a little embarrassed.

"No need to apologize," he said with a reassuring smile. "I was just kidding."

There was a brief moment of awkward silence as you both stood there, not sure what to say next. His smile was easy and kind, and for some reason, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something familiar about him, though you couldn’t place why.

"I’m Charles, by the way," he said after a moment, extending his hand with a casual, yet inviting gesture.

"Nice to meet you, Charles," you replied, shaking his hand. "I’m—" You hesitated, realizing you didn’t need to offer a full introduction. "I’m just here enjoying the market."

Charles nodded, his eyes glancing around at the lights and decorations. "Yeah, it’s nice, isn’t it? The Christmas markets always feel like stepping into another world for a little while."

You couldn’t help but agree. "It’s one of those places where everything feels a little more magical, even if it’s just for a moment."

His grin widened. "Exactly." He looked back at the stall, eyeing the ornaments. "They’ve got some great stuff here. I love how everything is handmade."

You smiled, glancing at the various wooden figures hanging around. "Yeah, it’s amazing. The craftsmanship is beautiful."

A comfortable silence fell between the two of you as you continued to admire the delicate decorations. The soft crunch of snow underfoot and the hum of the market around you felt peaceful, almost as if the world had slowed down just for a moment. But before you could say anything more, a gust of cold wind blew through the market, making the snowflakes swirl in the air.

"You know," Charles said, his eyes brightening, "this weather is perfect for something warm. How about we grab some mulled wine?"

You were a little taken aback at the suggestion but found yourself nodding without hesitation. "That sounds great."

The two of you made your way to one of the mulled wine stands, the scent of cinnamon and orange drifting in the air. The line wasn’t long, and before you knew it, Charles was handing you a cup of the warm drink, steam rising from it into the frosty air.

"Thank you," you said with a smile, surprised at how natural it felt to be with him.

He shrugged nonchalantly, his smile playful. "It’s nothing. I figured it’s the least I can do when we’re enjoying the market together."

You raised your cup. "To enjoying the market."

"To enjoying the market," Charles echoed, his voice soft but warm, and you both laughed, the sound mingling with the distant chime of Christmas bells.

For the next little while, the two of you wandered through the market, sipping your drinks, talking about everything and nothing. Charles was easy to talk to, and you found yourself drawn to the way he listened, the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke about his hometown in Monaco, or how much he loved getting away from the busyness of the Formula 1 season and soaking in the Christmas spirit somewhere quieter.

Eventually, the cold began to sink into your bones, and you both agreed it was time to head out. As you walked toward the exit, the snow falling lightly around you, Charles turned to you with a hesitant look in his eyes.

"So," he said, voice quieter now. "I’m going to be here for a few more days. Maybe we could meet again before I leave? If you’d like?"

You smiled, the idea of seeing him again sending a pleasant warmth through you. "I’d like that."

"Great," he said, his eyes lighting up. "I’ll be around. Just let me know when you’re free."

You both said your goodbyes and parted ways, each retreating into your separate worlds, but there was a spark, something small but undeniable, that lingered between you—a sense of possibility, the hope that you would see each other again.

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The days passed, and as much as you tried to push it out of your mind, you couldn’t help but think of Charles. You spent hours wandering the market again, hoping to bump into him, but somehow, he was always just out of reach. Y

ou told yourself not to get your hopes up, but that little part of you—the part that believed in fate—held on to the hope that he might appear when you least expected it.

As Christmas Eve approached, the market became even more magical. The lights seemed brighter, the air colder, and the scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts stronger.

But something still felt missing. You had hoped for a little magic, something special this Christmas, a connection that felt like it was meant to be.

It was December 24th, and you were standing by one of the stalls, staring at the lights, when you heard your name.

"Hey," came a familiar voice, and you turned quickly, surprised to see Charles standing just a few feet away, a wide grin spreading across his face. His eyes sparkled, just as they had before, and for a moment, it was like the world around you had paused.

"I didn’t expect to find you here," he said, his voice warm and playful.

You laughed, relief flooding through you. "I’ve been hoping to see you again."

Charles’s grin grew wider, and at that moment, everything else seemed to fall away—the market, the cold, the snow. There was just you and him, standing there, connected in a way that made everything feel a little brighter.

"Looks like the universe decided to give us another chance," he said, stepping closer.

In that instant, you realized that the magic of Christmas didn’t lie in the lights or the gifts—it was in the people we meet, the moments we share, and the connections we make when we least expect it.

"Maybe we could start a tradition," you said softly, your heart fluttering in your chest. "Meeting here every year, at the Christmas market."

Charles looked at you for a long moment, his eyes softening. He nodded slowly, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I’d like that," he said, his voice low but sincere.

And at that moment, Christmas felt a little more complete. The magic of the season was right there in front of you, in the form of a shared smile, a connection, and the promise of something more.

[engeorged]

The Sugarman’s House

A Halloween sequel to Obi’s Place, Santa’s Otto and prequel to Aster’s Maze

As it’s Halloween, I thought I’d tell you the story of one of my near misses in my search for Obi. You’d think by now I’d have learnt my lesson. I mean, if chasing down fae-related clues across multiple countries isn’t a red flag that my life has taken a bizarre turn, I don’t know what is. But there I was, chasing another clue like some kind of enchanted scavenger hunt. This time, it was a tip I’d received in a seedy little café in Strasbourg, where a man with a thick German accent and a glint in his eye mentioned that if I were truly looking for the fae, I should check out a market in Munich. He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, like I’d find the secret to magic between a bratwurst stand and a booth selling antiques.

So, off to Munich I went, because at this point, I was following even the faintest whispers that might lead me to Obi. It wasn’t that I’d given up on finding more practical clues; it was just that nothing else had panned out, and desperation can make even the most ridiculous leads seem plausible. Besides, the idea of magic hiding in plain sight among lederhosen and steins of beer was almost charming.

The market itself was sprawling, a maze of colorful stalls and wares that seemed to stretch on forever. It was the kind of place where you could find anything from hand-carved wooden toys to dusty antiques, and probably a cursed amulet or two if you knew where to look. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wandered through the stalls, trying to seem casual while discreetly searching for…well, anything that felt off. As I walked past a bakery the smell of the pastries made my stomach rumble but I didn’t come to have a snack, I had to find something. I didn’t have to look for long.

Amid the piles of yellowing postcards and forgotten family photos, one card stood out seemingly calling to me. I mean literally calling, I’m pretty sure I heard to shout my name! Its edges were crisp, and the colours were strangely vivid for something allegedly old. It depicted a charming little house, tucked away in a forest, with icing-like snow on the roof and a glowing warmth emanating from its windows. The scene looked more like a holiday card than a genuine photograph, which should have been my first clue that it was a little too perfect. It had the title ‘Der Zuckermann’s Haus’ on the bottom in a neat rectangle. But what caught my attention was the writing on the back, penned in elegant, old-fashioned script: Für den, der wirklich sucht—“For the one who truly seeks.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. “For the one who truly seeks,” huh? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear someone was mocking me. But I knew better than to dismiss a clue when it practically fell into my lap. Sure, it sounded ridiculous, but I’d chased stranger leads. What’s one more mad quest in a forest when you’re already balls-deep in fairy tales?

The back of the postcard had a smudged postmark and what looked like a set of coordinates scribbled in the corner. I pulled out my phone, plugged in the numbers, and found that they pointed to the edge of the Black Forest. “Great,” I muttered, “just where I wanted to go—deep into a dark, possibly cursed wood.” Still, there was a tugging in my chest, a feeling that this was the kind of crazy I needed to embrace if I ever hoped to find Obi.

I found myself at the edge of the Black Forest, a strange calm settled over me. There was a stillness in the air, as though the world had paused just beyond the tree line, waiting for me to take the next step. It wasn’t just the chill that ran through the air; it was something deeper, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I couldn’t help but think that if magic existed anywhere, it would be in a place like this—a place that seemed to hold its breath, as if it were keeping secrets.

I took one last glance at the postcard, then tucked it into my pocket. “Here goes nothing,” I whispered to myself, and stepped into the forest.

The deeper I ventured into the forest, the more the air seemed to shift around me. There was a damp chill that crept through the trees, but I could also feel a warmth radiating from somewhere up ahead, like the promise of a fireplace at the end of a long walk. I’d been wandering for what felt like hours, and I could feel every step. My legs ached from navigating the uneven ground, and the extra weight I’d picked up from the last year wasn’t helping. My growing belly had rounded out somewhat and I had noticed that my shirts were starting to feel a bit tighter around the middle. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here I was, searching for the fae that made me fat with a lot of extra fat they had put on me.

As I trudged further into the woods, the scent of something sweet floated on the breeze. It started out faint, just a hint of something spicy, but as I followed the trail, the smell grew stronger, richer—almost decadent. I could practically taste the caramel in the air, the warmth of cinnamon and cloves wrapping around me like a soft blanket. It felt like the woods were trying to lure me in deeper, coaxing me forward with promises of warmth and sweetness.

Then, I saw it.

The house came into view as I rounded a bend in the trail, and for a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. It was beautiful—picturesque, even—like something you’d see on the front of a biscuit tin at Grandma’s. It had steep gabled roofs, tall windows with little wooden shutters, and ivy crawling up the sides in a way that seemed almost too perfect. As I drew closer, however, I noticed the details that weren’t quite right. The walls didn’t look like wood at all, but a dark, rich brown that seemed almost edible. I squinted and stepped closer, peering at the surface. It wasn’t wood—it was fucking gingerbread. The entire house was covered in thick layers of icing, with candy canes lining the corners and massive gumdrops studded along the roof’s edges. I even spotted what looked like strips of marzipan wrapped around the window frames.

This couldn’t be real, could it? Who would build an entire house out of sweets in the middle of the Black Forest? It was absurd, and yet there I was, standing in front of it, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked gingerbread and sugar.

I circled the house, looking for a way inside. The front door was made to look like a giant chocolate bar, with squares that seemed ready to snap off. I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge, and the windows, though invitingly decorated with thick icing, didn’t give me any way to see inside. If there was any sign of magic or fae, it was well hidden. But then again, in stories like this, magic often required a little… participation.

I glanced at the wall next to me and reached out, breaking off a small piece of gingerbread. It crumbled in my hand, still warm to the touch, and as I brought it to my mouth, the flavors hit me in waves. The sweetness of the icing blended with the deep, spiced richness of the gingerbread. It wasn’t just the taste that overwhelmed me; it was the sensation of warmth spreading through my whole body, as if the bite had ignited some kind of inner glow. I hadn’t tasted anything so comforting, so perfect, in a long time.

Encouraged, I broke off another piece, this time from one of the candy canes lining the doorway. It was surprisingly soft, and when I bit into it, the peppermint flavor burst across my tongue, refreshing and invigorating. I couldn’t help but take another bite, and then another, sampling different parts of the house as though I were at a dessert buffet.

But as I continued to eat, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I paused, a piece of chocolate-coated marzipan halfway to my mouth, and glanced around. The clearing was empty, and the only sounds were the wind rustling through the trees and my own heavy breathing. Still, the sense of being observed lingered, like the hairs on the back of my neck were trying to warn me of something I couldn’t see.

I hesitated, then shrugged it off and took another bite. If this was some sort of enchanted test, I figured I’d already thrown myself into it by eating half the front porch.

I was just reaching for another piece of candied fruit embedded in the windowsill when I noticed him—a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a surprisingly muscular frame that looked almost out of place in the delicate light of the forest. His dark hair fell in thick strands, just long enough to brush against his collarbones, framing a face that was both rugged and striking. His eyes, a vivid shade of purple, gave his nature away and they seemed to glow faintly in the fading light. There was an intensity in his gaze, something that made my breath hitch and my pulse quicken, though I couldn’t quite say why.

“Hey,” I said, swallowing the bite I’d just taken. “Do you, uh, live here?”

The man’s expression didn’t change, except for a small, closed-mouth smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. There was a mystery to that smile, as if he knew something I didn’t—a secret that he had no intention of sharing.

“Right,” I continued, trying to fill the silence. “I’m, uh, looking for something. Someone, actually. Maybe you could help?”

Still, he said nothing, just stood there watching me with those strange, captivating eyes. It was unnerving, but I found it hard to look away. There was a power in his gaze, like a magnet drawing me closer, making it difficult to think clearly. I felt a strange flutter in my chest, a mixture of curiosity and… something else.

“Okay, well, if you’re not going to say anything,” I muttered, glancing down at the piece of gingerbread in my hand. “I guess I’ll just—”

“Eat.”

The command hit me like a physical force, reverberating through my whole body. It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a deep, urgent compulsion that I couldn’t resist even if I’d wanted to. The word echoed in my mind, sinking into my bones, filling every crevice of my thoughts. Without thinking, I brought the gingerbread to my mouth and took a bite, then another, and another. I couldn’t stop. It was as though my hands and mouth were no longer mine to control.

The flavors seemed to grow richer with each bite—caramelized sugar, dark chocolate, buttery cake—melding together in a symphony of sweetness that was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. I felt a warmth spreading through my chest, trickling down into my belly, which had already begun to swell slightly from all I had eaten. The sensation was… familiar. Comforting, even. But as the moments passed, I could feel my stomach pushing against the waistband of my jeans, the fabric beginning to strain.

I tore off a piece of peppermint railing, biting into it eagerly. The coolness of the mint mixed with the lingering spice of the gingerbread, and I could feel my body responding, a heaviness settling in my limbs, my movements becoming slower, almost languid. As I continued to eat, my belly pushed out further, pressing against the front of my shirt. I could feel the buttons straining, the fabric pulling tighter and tighter, until finally, one of them popped loose, flying off into the underbrush with a soft ping.

I paused, just for a moment, my hand hovering in front of my mouth with another chunk of gingerbread. “Is this… some kind of test?” I managed to ask, my voice thick and heavy. But the man—whoever or whatever he was—only watched, that same enigmatic smile curving across his lips.

I took another bite, then another, unable to stop myself. The swelling in my stomach grew more pronounced, a deep, full feeling that seemed to fill every inch of my being. My shirt strained and stretched over my expanding middle, and I could feel the seams digging into my skin, cutting across the surface as my belly rounded out further. It wasn’t painful, exactly—more like a slow, relentless pressure that was both unnerving and oddly pleasurable.

The man’s smile deepened, and his eyes gleamed as if lit from within. He took a step closer, his presence somehow filling the clearing, making it feel smaller, more intimate. “Eat,” he repeated, his voice soft and smooth, like velvet sliding over my skin. The word wrapped itself around my thoughts, dissolving any hesitation I had left. I ate for what felt like minutes but must have been hours judging by the size of my gut. This man had to be one of them, and there was only one way I would find out. I took a deep breath and leaned in, tearing off a chunk of chocolate-coated marzipan from the doorframe. As I chewed, I could feel the weight of my belly pressing outward, stretching the skin taut and forcing my waistband to dig deeper into my sides. Another button popped, then another, until the front of my shirt hung open, exposing the round curve of my stomach.

I reached out again, this time for a piece of glazed fruit decorating the roof’s edge. I didn’t even bother to question the absurdity of it anymore. I was lost in the rhythm of eating, the compulsion to keep going, as my belly continued to swell, heavy and distended.

The figure’s voice seemed to deepen as he spoke again, a low murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. “Come inside.” There was no room for resistance in his tone. I obeyed, my legs moving on their own as I followed him through the front door, which swung open as if by magic.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of freshly baked pastries, chocolate, and cream. It was as though I had walked straight into a bakery’s dream. In the center of the room stood a long, wooden table, and it was covered end to end with cakes, tarts, pies, and other treats. Rich chocolate éclairs, fluffy cream puffs, golden-brown strudels glistening with sugar—every imaginable dessert was laid out before me, and the sight of it made my mouth water, even though my stomach was already straining from all the gingerbread I had eaten outside.

“Sit,” the figure commanded, and I found myself dropping into the chair at the head of the table. Without hesitation, my hands reached for the nearest dish—a slice of dark chocolate cake that oozed rich ganache with each bite. I ate greedily, as though I hadn’t eaten in days, and the compulsion that gripped me grew stronger with every mouthful. My belly pressed outward, swelling more with each decadent morsel I consumed, and I could feel my shirt tightening again, though there was hardly anything left of it to hold me in.

As I continued to eat, I felt an odd mix of sensations stirring within me. There was a familiar enjoyment—something about the way my stomach filled and stretched reminded me of those strange, thrilling moments back at Obi’s place, when I’d let myself indulge in ways I never had before. But there was also a creeping dread in the back of my mind, a small voice whispering that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

I swallowed the last bite of a sugar-dusted pastry and reached for another slice of cake, but then I noticed something in the corner of the room—a large, brick oven, its iron door glowing faintly red as if there were a fire raging just behind it. The sight of it pulled me back from the fog of pleasure, and for the first time, I started to question what was happening. Why was this here? Why was I here?

I glanced back at the figure, my hands trembling as I set the plate down. His expression hadn’t changed, but there was something darker in his eyes now, a glint that hadn’t been there before. His smile widened, revealing a set of teeth that were far too sharp, too large to be human.

“What… what is this?” I managed to gasp, my voice weak and unsteady.

The figure took a step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth as velvet. “You are the feast,” he said simply, his words curling around me like smoke. “You are the source of power I need—the nourishment that fuels me.”

I tried to push back from the table, but my body felt heavy, sluggish. My belly was huge now, pushing out over the waistband of my pants, which had long since torn open under the strain. The exposed skin was taut and round, flushed red from the pressure of being so full. I struggled to stand, but the weight of my gut made it difficult, almost impossible to move.

“More,” the figure commanded once more, his tone sharper this time, edged with irritation. The word cut through me, sinking in deep, and I felt the compulsion return, stronger than ever. My hands reached for the nearest pastry, and I stuffed it into my mouth even as my mind screamed at me to stop. Each bite seemed to add more to my already swollen middle, my skin stretching to accommodate the relentless expansion. I could feel my belly pushing against the table’s edge, the wood digging into the taut flesh, and still, I kept eating.

I tried to form a coherent thought, but it was hard with the sensation of fullness drowning out everything else. “Why… why me?” I mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

The figure’s smile was all teeth now. “Because you were willing,” he said. “You sought indulgence, and now you will give me what I need.”

Panic surged through me, and I pushed harder against the chair, the table, anything to get away. My gut was enormous now, ballooned out in front of me, hindering every attempt I made to rise. I felt the sweat prickling on my skin, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I stumbled to my feet, finally managing to break free from the spell enough to back away from the table. The figure’s eyes followed me, his expression calm and almost amused, as though he found my struggle entertaining.

I glanced around wildly, and that’s when I noticed that the walls of the house seemed to shimmer, as if they were not entirely solid. The bricks that I had thought were gingerbread now appeared more like plaster, the sugary decorations fading into ordinary paint. It was then that I realized the true nature of my surroundings. The whole place began to dissolve, fading away into the familiar sights of a bakery. The table of cakes and pastries became rows of bread loaves and buns, and I was standing behind the counter, surrounded by shocked customers who stared at me in disbelief.

I blinked, the haze in my mind clearing just enough for me to take in my surroundings. The gingerbread house was gone. I was standing in the middle of a bakery, surrounded by rows of bread, pastries, and wide-eyed customers who looked at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. My head was still spinning, but I recognised the place almost instantly—it was the same shop I had walked past earlier, back at the market in Munich. Somehow, I had never left.

I glanced down at myself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. My shirt was, hanging open to reveal a round, bloated belly pushing against the waistband of my jeans. It wasn’t as grotesquely swollen as it had been in the enchanted cottage, but it was still painfully full, bulging outward in a way that made each breath feel tight and shallow. The skin of my stomach was flushed red, covered with a light dusting of hair that trailed down from my chest. I could feel the cool air of the bakery against the exposed curve of my belly, the bottom of my shirt riding up to reveal just how far I’d expanded. I must have looked ridiculous.

My hand instinctively reached for my back pocket, where I found the postcard—the very one that had led me to the Black Forest in the first place—crumpled but still intact. I pulled it out, staring at the faded image of the gingerbread house and the cryptic words on the back. It was as if the whole experience had been a waking dream, conjured by nothing more than an old piece of paper and my own curiosity. But the tightness in my gut told me otherwise. I hadn’t imagined any of it.

I scanned the bakery for any sign of the figure—the man with the purple eyes who had commanded me to eat. For a moment, I thought he might be gone, but then I saw him outside the shop, standing just beyond the glass door. He was exactly as I remembered—tall and handsome, with that same closed-mouth smile that seemed to hide far more than it revealed. His eyes glinted with a faint purple hue, and there was a hint of amusement in the way he watched me, as if he found my confusion rather entertaining.

I stumbled toward the door, my belly jostling uncomfortably with each step, but just as I reached the entrance, the figure’s image wavered like a heat mirage and then disappeared altogether, leaving only the reflection of the empty street beyond. I stared out into the marketplace, the postcard clutched in my hand, and felt a strange mixture of relief and dread.

The reality of what had just happened—or what I thought had happened—was slipping away from me, fading like a half-remembered nightmare. But the ache in my belly and the taste of sugar lingering on my tongue were all too real. Whatever magic had been at play, it had left its mark on me. And as I turned away from the door, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over. There were still answers I needed to find, and this time, I would be more careful about what I chose to taste.

For more of my stories click here

[elliespuns]

Christmas in Jackson - the whole ass town would try and trade for some wooden carved toys with Joel because all the kids are obsessed with the stuff he makes. He's their real life Santa ����

That is so sweet. I can see it happening.

As the winter season approaches, Joel notices an unusual change in the town's demeanor. Parents are huddled together, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Kids are running about with wide eyes, their imaginations sparked by some unknown impetus.

"Joel! Joel!" A young boy rushes up to him, his cheeks rosy from the cold. "Have you heard? It's time for the Wishing Season!"

Joel arches an eyebrow. "The Wishing Season?"

The boy nods emphatically. "Yea, every year, when the days are shortest, we make wishes. And this year... this year, we're wishing for your toys!"

[liljas-scandinavian-handicraft]

Hand-carved Gnome from liljas scandinavian handicraft

These mythological figures from the Norse folklore bring the mysticism directly into your home. This mythological Nisse is carved with only a knife from a whole blank of Linden wood. All my figures are carefully created and painted with great care so that the natural beauty of the wood will not be lost. The gnomes are approximately 8 cm tall (2.7 inches) and 2.5 cm in diameter 1 (icnhes)

The rod is carved in one piece from the wood type juniper, ene is a very beautiful wood and has a very good scent as protection it is oiled with linseed oil

◼ Genuine craftsmanship Let yourself enjoy this craft that is 100% handmade by me, Carved only with a knife, a tool that has been used by people since ancient times.

[aluyatoktokbang]

PERSONAL DATA OF "T.ROGERS"

(TICCI-TOBY)

((This is a headcanon I made of Ticci-Toby, a version of mine for my character's story, that's why it has some changes, I hope you like it <3))

Full Name:

-T. (Tobias) Joseph Rogers.

Age:

-25 years old (present)

Height:

-1.85 meters (6'1").

Weight:

-79 kg.

Date of Birth:

-April 23, 1998.

Nationality:

-German (currently residing in Colorado, USA).

Family:

-Angela Sabine Becker, (Mother, Housewife). Current status: deceased.

-Norman Rogers, (Father, Architect). Current status: deceased.

-Lyra Edith Rogers, (Sister, Veterinarian). Current status: deceased.

Current Status:

-Alive (serial killer, thief, kidnapper, with cannibalistic and pyromaniac tendencies, urgently wanted, dead or alive).

Physical Traits:

-Brown, wavy, semi-long, messy hair, beard covering the chin, not very thick, pale and neglected skin, emaciated and tired appearance; prominent dark circles, large dark brown eyes; lack of flesh and tissue on the left cheek, exposing the gums and teeth, with small, healed cuts around it from the car accident with his sister; left-eye blindness due to physical attack, scar across the left eye, bruises and bites due to tics, long, robust arms, large hands, long fingers filled with bites, damaged nails, long athletic legs, sturdy build, highly developed physical condition, and normal body temperature.

Diseases or Conditions:

-Tourette’s syndrome (involuntary vocal, physical, and verbal tics such as whistling, growling, hitting, grimacing, scratching, etc.), schizophrenia, intermittent explosive disorder, metophobia (irrational fear of alcohol, alcoholic drinks, or people who drink alcohol due to trauma with his father), congenital insensitivity to pain (unable to feel physical pain), anosmia (loss of the sense of smell, though he can slightly perceive temperature differences), and obsessive-compulsive disorder (constantly counting, silently repeating phrases or words).

Weapons Used:

-Brutal strength such as legs, arms, and hands in hand-to-hand combat, two axes (one with a wooden handle and the other with an orange rubber handle, both in good condition, sharp and heavy blades), two hunting knives, and a Swiss knife. Any sharp or blunt object is suitable for him.

Skills:

-Very skilled in hand-to-hand combat, very developed body strength, quite fast, agile, and has good aim with axes.

Weaknesses:

-Tends to be clumsy, not good with stealth, not silent due to his tics, which can betray him; tends to be stubborn, obstinate, easily loses patience, and has a bad temper; does not detect any type of hit, pain, or physical wound, whether minor or severe, so he’s at risk of not treating his wounds on time; fixated on his cannibalistic desires, which distracts him too much and makes him unstable; he is a smoker and sensitive to loud sounds.

Extras:

-Constantly checks if he has any severe wounds to prevent hemorrhages that could weaken him or end his life. Carries a pouch with: bandages, stolen money, matches, cigarettes, band-aids, dopamine blockers, antidepressants (helps with tics, he steals them although not always successfully), and a file to sharpen axes. He enjoys carving wood, which helps him control his anxiety and distracts his mind. His favorite food is “Saumagen,” a German dish consisting of pork belly stuffed with various ingredients, almost like a giant sausage. He also grew fond of pozole, thanks to Karen (Santa Cruz). He sometimes acts as a "protective father," to refuse becoming like his father, being overprotective, caring, and emotionally attached. He can’t cook, and many of his attempts end in burning everything, making Cruz end up cooking for him.

Clothing:

-Wears a pair of yellow circular goggles, a black leather muzzle with metal bars and chains hanging from it to cover his identity, prevent himself from biting himself or Cruz; sometimes wears a burlap sack as a "mask" with holes for the eyes, placing the goggles over it, just to feel his identity is protected or because he’s tired of carrying his muzzle. He also wears a grayish-green sweatshirt, sleeves with a tricolor pattern: light gray-green, dark green-brown, and white, with a blue hood; underneath, he wears a black turtleneck shirt with long sleeves, a black denim overall, dark brown military-style boots, leather shoulder holsters to carry his axes on his back, a leather strap on his leg where he carries his hunting knives, and black latex gloves covering his hands, under which he wears bandages and band-aids to cover his wounds.

Modus Operandi:

-He doesn’t have a specific victim, he can kill men, women, elderly people, minors, or anyone who seems a threat or simply to release stress. If he wants to eat human flesh, he becomes selective about his victims, even obsessing over devouring the flesh of someone specific, doing whatever it takes to achieve that goal. He analyzes their health, the quality of the meat, body composition, and vulnerability to attack, being careful to preserve the body in good condition, using preservation techniques similar to those used for pork meat. He doesn’t care about the gender or age, as long as it’s suitable for consumption. He tends to have pyromaniac tendencies and enjoys burning his victims alive just for fun and for the smell of burnt flesh. He doesn’t attack animals because he promised his sister, who was a veterinarian, that he would never harm animals, even if they attacked him. If he did, he would feel guilty. Sometimes, out of necessity, he robs in isolated places at night, like convenience stores, his victims, or places not far from the city.

Personality:

-He has a shy, calm, and nervous personality. His way of speaking is blunt, cold, and reserved, silent (except for the tics), antisocial. With extreme trust in someone, he can be playful, affectionate in his own way, likes to tease, joke, be delicate, courteous, and overprotective. If he feels comfortable or loved by someone, he becomes anxiously attached, even obsessed with that person. He’s somewhat clumsy and careless with things he finds irrelevant. When attacking, he completely loses control of his strength and anger, acting without thinking, blinded by hunger or rage; he’s bloodthirsty. Very rarely does he act like a small, defenseless, innocent child, though it’s unclear whether it’s due to his disorders or as a way to deceive his victims.

Nicknames:

-As his full name is unknown, some call him "The Ax Killer," "The Fireman,", "Ticci-Ticci" or "The Muzzled Lumberjack." Only one person knows his full name but limits herself to calling him "T," his childhood friend (Santa Cruz).

Interpersonal Relationships:

-He had a very close relationship with his sister Lyra before her passing. He also had a good relationship with his mother, who took care of him, helping him with medications, therapy, and home teachings. He had a friendship with Karen Isabella de la Cruz, his best friend and the only one who truly understood, respected, and comprehended him. She never mocked him, even learning about his conditions to better understand him. This caused him to develop intense, anxious attachment to her, treating her as his "partner" despite not formally being one. However, after killing his father and becoming a killer, he never saw her again until later, when he found her changed, having also become a killer. Despite this, due to his anxious attachment, he decided to stay by her side. Their relationship is complicated, at times acting as best friends, at other times like a couple, but without a formal commitment. He likes to overprotect her, causing strong arguments due to differences in thoughts or actions that displeased the other. A toxic relationship developed, to the point of wanting to possess her, to eat her, causing one of the strongest fights that ended in a tragedy leading to his demise.

(It's an old drawing. It's T. Rogers' Headcanon design)

[the-blind-assassin-12]

The Yule Lodge -Part Two

A PEDROSTORIES SECRET SANTA GIFT FIC (yes, still)

A/N: BIG SIGH. I'm so hugely sorry that this took so damn long, everyone. I have nothing to say other than life has been lifeing overtime lately. I hope you don't mind pretending that it's still the holiday season. (My neighbor still has their Christmas tree up, if that counts for anything.) Good news is that part three is well underway, and won't be another month. Other news (you can decide if it's good or not) is that this will now be four parts. Oops.

*This story began as a gift for @covetyou through the @pedrostories Secret Santa exchange. Read Part One here.

Warnings: supernatural shenanigans, cannabis consumption, brief mention of grief/loss of a family member

Word Count: 4,528

Summary: You and Dieter spend your first night at the Yule Lodge, and both of you end up having very strange dreams.

They were dreams, right?

The fireplace in the parlor held just a few glowing embers by the time the grandfather clock struck the barrier between December 23rd and the 24th. 

The parlor itself held no one. 

Both guests had turned in early and were asleep in their beds, tucked beneath thick blankets while outside, the snowfall increased to cover the building in a blanket of its own. The halls and common rooms were silent, save for the sound of the clock, and if the Yule Lodge housed any mice beneath the floorboards, they too were curled up and quiet, leaving the night completely still and unstirred. 

So as the twelfth chime echoed through the old mansion, no one was awake to see the fire rise again, flickering around phantom logs that had long since burned away. No one was there to watch as the forked flames swirled and swelled, escaping the hearth. No one was there as instead of engulfing the rug and igniting the furniture, the fire transformed, taking the shape of a woman. 

Which was probably for the best. Let’s face it, witnessing that might make one lose their marbles. 

The flames in the fireplace shrunk back to embers as she fully materialized, but their glow stayed with her, illuminating her skin and turning her hair into copper-orange coils of light. Her clothing, too - a hooded cloak over a flowing white dress - seemed to still be lit by the fire she stepped out of. As she spun away from the mantle and walked across the parlor, sparks of light trailed in her wake. Lifting both hands up to throw back her hood, the woman smiled, and if anyone had been awake, they might have noticed an increase in warmth at that precise moment. 

“Ahh,” she sighed, luminescent fingers working to untie the closure of her cloak. “It’s good to be home.” 

Shrugging out of the heavy garment, she reached up to hang it on the carved wooden coat rack that stood beside the front desk. As soon as she released her grip on it, the fabric turned to maroon velvet, losing its ethereal glow. The woman from the flames remained unchanged, though, as did the rest of her clothing.

She took a few more steps, pausing in front of the desk to glance at the hooks on the wall that were missing keys. “Two guests this year.” She nodded, her smile growing as she tapped the desktop, glittery sparks straying from her fingertips. “That should be manageable.” 

Supernaturality was a plus, of course, but forty-eight hours were forty-eight hours whether she had to help one person or four. Having only two to deal with meant more one-on-one attention for each, and a higher chance of getting through to them. And that, afterall, was her purpose. 

“So let’s get started.” 

Turning back towards the fireplace, she waved her hand, a brand new log appearing on the grate, flames licking up its sides to cast more light around the room. That done, she made for the staircase, trailing sparks that disintegrated as she climbed to the second floor. 

–  –  –  

It was pitch black in Dieter’s room when he fell asleep. 

Two more edibles and a movie he’d seen upwards of thirty times, paired with the fact that the bed was actually far more comfortable than it initially looked, and he didn’t stand much of a chance at making it to the witching hour. Before settling in for the movie, he’d extinguished the candles in the windows and drawn the curtains shut to block out as much light as possible. One of the perks of spending the holiday like he was accustomed to was the ability to sleep in - no schedules, no alarm clocks, no wake up calls. Not even the sunshine would dictate what time he woke up for the next three days. 

So when light inexplicably filled his room to wake him at a few minutes past midnight, he bolted upright, swatting his arms through the air. 

“What the…fuck?” He grumbled, confused and annoyed, his hair sticking out in all directions. Blinking and squinting against the invading brilliance, he waited for his eyes to adjust. 

And when they did he repeated his question, clutching the blankets and sheets and pulling them up to his chest. “What the fuck?!”  

There, standing in his room - in his locked room - was a woman who looked as though she was made of firelight. She wore a long, plain dress with a sash tied around her waist as a belt, and her hair fell about her shoulders in curls and waves that seemed to move even as she remained still. Her features were soft, the natural curve of her lips drawn up into a smile, and there was something in her eyes that felt familiar, as though he knew her. 

No. As though she knew him. 

But she doesn’t. I don’t. What the- How did- 

He stumbled over which question to ask, none of them fully encapsulating the depth of his bewilderment, until he blurted out the first one that came to him fully formed. “Am I dead?” 

The other-worldly intruder let out a small chuckle. “No, Dieter.” She shook her head, taking a step towards him. “I promise you, you’re very much alive.” 

How fucking strong were those cookies? Lars said they were the same ones he got last time but - He eyed the fire lady in his bedroom. But this is… definitely different.  

“Okay, so…” He shook his head, dropping the blankets to run his fingers through his hair, grabbing it in fistfuls. “So I’m dreaming, then.” He nodded, still holding his hair, and stared right at her. “I’m dreaming.” He let his hands fall to his lap and gave a loose shrug. “It’s a lucid dream. I’m still asleep.” 

Granted, his lucid dreams were usually sexier in nature, but it was the only explanation that made any sense. Looking the woman up and down again from that angle, he shrugged to himself. Yeah, I mean… Why not? 

To his horror, she furrowed her brow and put her hands on her hips. “No, you’re not dreaming.” She clicked her tongue. “And even if you were, it wouldn’t be that kind of dream.” 

How the fuck- “How the fuck did you know what I was thinking?” Also, why not? Squeezing his eyes shut and telling his horny-side to shut the fuck up, he willed himself not to think about fucking the glowing angel/ghost/being, and tried instead to focus on getting actual answers. “And why are you in my room?” 

The woman sighed, dropping her arms and walking over to the dresser. “I know a lot more about you than you can imagine, Dieter Bravo.” She pointed to the wreath of holly leaves that lay discarded there with his room key. “And for starters, I’m here because you didn’t follow Laurel’s directions.” 

“What?” Dieter blinked at the wreath, sputtering. “The… The hokey holly thing?” He rose from the bed then, letting the blankets fall as he swung his legs over the side. Shaking his head, he gestured at the dream/hallucination he was talking to. “No way that’s keeping you out.” He crossed his arms over his chest and carefully stepped over the pile of sheets to get closer to the woman. “I mean, you’re like…Well, I don’t know what you are but you’re fucking glowing, for fucksake. I’m supposed to believe some leaves on the door are gonna keep out a glowing, like, deity person?” He scoffed. “I don’t think so. So why are you really here?” 

He still wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t dreaming. Or that this didn’t have something to do with Lars grossly miscalculating the dosage of his edibles. And though he didn’t feel dead he couldn’t rule that out yet either. So interrogating the Christmas cryptid in his bedroom as though he were reprising his role as a hardened murder detective from a show he’d filmed a decade ago seemed like a completely acceptable course of action. 

I fucking hope it is, anyway. 

The woman wore an amused expression, the room warming as her cheeks lifted with her chuckle. “Well, technically, you’re right. Holly won’t keep me out.” She winked and walked over to the windows, Dieter’s eyes glued to the trail of flickering sparks that followed her. “You should really keep at least one of these lit.” 

She waved her hand and the curtain opened enough to reveal the candle that Dieter had snuffed out earlier. Without lifting the glass around it, she curled her fingers in towards her palm and then opened them, a flame jumping from her hand and onto the candle’s wick. 

He let out a huff. “I blew those out on purpose, you know.” 

“Well they were also lit on purpose, Dieter,” the fire woman said, arching one eyebrow. “Those candles, the wreath, the fire in the hearth downstairs? They are all meant to protect you from spirits who would cause you harm.” 

“Spirits, huh?” He cocked his head to the side. “So is that what you are, too? And why would other spirits want to fuck with me?” 

“I’m more of a guardian than a spirit,” she clarified. “Though if it’s easier for you to think of me as a spirit, that’s fine. And the others don’t necessarily want to hurt you. They just…” Her smile faltered, the glow in her cheeks dimming for a second. “The things that they would show you might not be what you need to see.” 

So this is some Ghost of Christmas past, shit, then? 

He swore under his breath as she answered his unspoken question, remembering too late that this glowing guardian being (who he was still at least 65% sure was a dream) could read his mind. 

“The past definitely has a lot to do with it, Dieter.” Her tone sounded almost sad, but lifted again as she continued speaking. “But the good news is, so does everything else.”

Something stirred in his chest then, an amorphous blend of anticipation, hope, and contentment. What is… He blinked, pressing one palm to his sternum and rubbing it over the spot where the unnamable feeling was already dissipating. “I don’t… Am- Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“No,” she responded. “Not yet. But hopefully, with any luck, it will mean quite a bit before you leave here.” 

“Um.” He dropped onto the edge of his bed, bringing the hand on his chest up to scratch at his scalp. “Okay. So, like…” Dieter let out a sigh. “Am I supposed to do something? Can you… I don’t know, give me a hint or..?” 

The woman gave him a soft smile then, her eyes brimming with a kindness that he was unprepared to receive. It was pure, non-transactional. It reminded him of the way his grandma Yolanda - “Yo-yo” - would look at him and his sister. And as the fire-fleshed woman laid a hand to his cheek, Dieter realized that he hadn’t felt that exact form of kindness since he lost his grandma twenty years earlier. The mystery cocktail of feelings swam through his chest again as a rogue tear formed in the corner of his eye. 

Fuck, I miss her. 

She never said that he was too much, or too loud, or that his dreams were too big. She never once tried to steer him away from the things he loved, like drama and the arts, even when his own father did. She had always been his biggest supporter, always encouraged him to take leaps. And he did, because he knew she’d always be there to catch him if he fell, just as quickly as she’d be there to cheer when he stuck the landing. She was the first person to know and accept and love him completely for who he was. 

Things…  Nothing’s been the same since she’s been gone. 

“All you have to do,” the woman said, thumbing the tear away as it rolled down his cheek, “is open your mind.” She withdrew her hand then, clasping it with the opposite one and letting them hang in front of her. “And your heart. I’ll help you as much as I can, but in the end it will be up to you.” 

He shook his head, swallowing to clear his throat. “Help me do what, though? Open to what? What will be up to me?” 

Opening his mind was something that Dieter was well-versed in. His heart, though? That didn’t happen often. After Anika, it had snapped more tightly shut than ever. So what happens if I can’t? 

Despite the fact that he couldn’t explain anything that was happening, from her presence to the uncanny way she invoked the memory of his grandma, the woman’s response still managed to catch him off guard. “Saving your Christmas spirit.” 

Huh? 

Before he could get another word out, she took one step and appeared on the other side of the room. How the fu- “That’s why you’re here, Dieter.” She gave him a serious look, the embers beneath her skin glowing a deeper oranger as she shook her head. “You may not get another chance, so please don’t waste it.” She gestured at the wreath, still laying on his dresser. “Remember what I told you about the spirits. If you follow our instructions while you’re here,” she pointed next at the candle that she had re-lit, “then you can trust whatever they show you. For now, though, you should get back to sleep. Tomorrow is an important day.” 

Dieter blew air through his lips in amusement. “Yeah, sure, like I’ll be able to sleep now.” 

With a twirl of her wrist, she conjured a velvet maroon sleep mask perched amidst his wayward curls. “You will.” 

And though he hadn’t pulled it down over his eyes yet, the woman vanished from sight, with nothing but a few fizzling sparks left in her wake. The room darkened again, with just a small halo of light emanating from the candle in the window. He used it to squint skeptically at the box of cookies on the nightstand. I gotta text Lars tomorrow. 

Reaching up, he grabbed for the sleep mask and yanked it down over his eyes, settling back into the bed. Or I could just do it now, because I’m probably not gonna fall back to- 

But he didn’t finish his thought, because as soon as his head hit the pillow he was out. 

–  –  –  

When you woke up on Christmas Eve, your room was filled with the bright morning sunlight that glistened off the crystalline snow outside the windows. 

Stretching, you took a deep breath in through your nose and blinked a few times to let your eyes adjust. What time is it? Groping blindly for your phone on the nightstand, you felt your fingers grasp the edges of it and pulled it close to your face so that you could see the screen. Oh, damn. The numbers read 10:45 am - well past when you normally had to be up for daily life, and definitely later than you would have gotten to sleep had you gone home for the holidays and stayed with family. Nice. 

It had been good, restful sleep, too, which wasn’t always a guarantee for you, your racing mind sometimes keeping you awake or else waking you up in the middle of the night. The bed in your room at the Yule Lodge was one of the most comfortable ones you’d ever slept in, and the sheets and blankets only seemed to get softer and warmer the longer you were wrapped up in them. You’d even fallen asleep more quickly than you usually did when you stayed in a hotel. 

I can’t even remember trying to fall asleep I just… Must’ve been all the travel. And then the adrenaline crash. 

You’d managed to make it through the first 50 pages of A Christmas Carol before conking out. Glancing over at the nightstand, you saw the folded piece of paper that you’d used as a bookmark sticking out. At least I remembered to mark my spot. It was a quick read, and you’d likely finish the rest of it before noon. So I guess I’ll grab another one from the library when I go down for breakfast and… Your eyes widened as two things hit you at once. 

1) You remembered why you’d ended up blindly choosing that book in the first place - because Dieter Bravo had checked in as the other guest that you would be sharing the Lodge with, and the two of you had made eye contact that left you so flustered you were lucky you didn’t fall down the last three steps on your way to the library. 

And 2) It may have been a solid, restful block of sleep, but man, did you have a weird dream. 

In it, you were nestled into your bed with your book open, reading about Jacob Marley’s visitation to Ebenezer, when suddenly you received a visit of your own. You’d looked up to turn the page only to find that you were not alone, a stunning woman who seemed to be formed of firelight standing near the center of the room. 

I didn’t… I wasn’t afraid of her though. 

She’d welcomed you to the Yule Lodge, mentioning that the place was her home, and then she’d thanked you for abiding by the check-in instructions regarding the little wreath on your door knob and the candles in the windows. You’d asked her who she was and why she was there, and she’d told you that she didn’t have a name so much as a title, but that if you needed something to call her, Holly would suffice. And as for her explanation of why she was in your room? 

“I’m here to guide you through the next few days,” she’d told you, adding in your name even though you hadn’t given it to her. “You’ve been looking for something in your life, haven’t you?” You nodded and the woman smiled, the expression so warm that you felt it. “I am here to help make sure that you find it.” 

That was as much as you could remember, though you could feel at the edges of your mind that there was more to it. Maybe it’ll come to me later. You shrugged to yourself. It was just a dream, and likely influenced by what you were reading before you fell asleep, combined with the thematic nature of the hotel. Besides, you had more pressing things to consider. 

Things like what the heck you were going to say to Dieter. 

You thought about it as you shuffled into the bathroom, hoping that some magical phrase that made you sound effortlessly cool would come to you as you stood beneath the hot shower. But it didn’t happen. Because that would be impossible. Sighing, you dried yourself off and got dressed for the day, choosing a brand new pair of sweatpants, your favorite green cable knit sweater, and thick wool socks. 

It wasn’t a glamorous look, but you hadn’t packed with the intention of spending the holiday with celebrities. You packed for comfort and warmth. You did bring one nice outfit with you, because you had been unsure of what to expect for Christmas dinner, and you wanted the option to dress up if the occasion called for it. Or if I just feel like it. Everything else that you brought with you was along the same lines as what you had on, plus a pair of jeans in case you ventured beyond the library or the parlor. So I guess this is what I’m wearing to meet Dieter Bravo. 

But as you checked your reflection in the mirror, you smiled. You looked put together and cozy. You felt happy. And you remembered why you had gone on the trip in the first place. It’s for me. This is for me. It didn’t matter what kind of impression you made on anyone while you were there, because you were there to unwind, recharge, and indulge in whatever you wanted. Besides, I bet I won’t even see much of him. He’ll probably keep to himself. 

That thought was proven wrong almost immediately upon leaving your room, when you nearly collided with the man as he left his. 

You sucked in a gasp, letting your breath out in the form of a muttered “Oh, fuck!” as Dieter narrowly stepped out of your path with a somewhat exaggerated “Woaahh!” that faded into a chuckle when he realized that you hadn’t actually bumped into each other. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t-” You started to apologize out of habit, but as soon as you looked up and your eyes met his big, beautiful brown ones, you felt every single word that you knew slip from memory. 

The chuckle turned into a crooked smile as he gave a small shake of his head. “Don’t be.” 

He swung his arm towards his room, whole body turning at the waist with the motion, and you used the split second to take him in more fully. He’s dressed just like me. He was wearing a pair of black and dark green plaid pajama pants, a striped gray sweater, and a pair of orange and lavender polka dot socks. He looks so comfortable. He was also taller and more broad than you pictured, and you couldn’t help but think about how fucking nice it would likely be to cuddle up against his chest with those arms wrapped around you, maybe even sitting in front of the fireplace... Stop it! 

“I wasn’t paying attention, didn’t see you.” Turning back to you, he brought his hand up to scratch the side of his head. “But now I do.” He hummed, dropping that hand to his side and extending the other out to you. “I’m Dieter.” 

You fought it, you really fucking did, but the first thing out of your mouth as you let him close his fingers around your hand, was nothing but a “Ha!” followed by four horrifying seconds of silence as you waited for the English language to come back to you. When it did, the best you could do was, “I mean, yes, I mean, hi. Yes, I know who you are.” It took another awkward second before you realized that he was waiting for your name, which you gave to him as he released your hand. Oh that was just great. Good job, me. 

He didn’t let you flounder though, and you were grateful. “And now I know who you are.” He nodded, flashing you another smile from under his disheveled curls. “Are you here through the 26th, too?” 

Finally composing yourself, you swallowed and nodded back. “I am.” But I wonder why you are. 

“Nice.” 

He said it like that was what he was hoping your answer would be, which was confusing, but you chalked it up to the fact that he had likely just woken up and had been caught off guard by bumping into you in the hall and was just trying to be polite. When you didn’t say anything back, he tilted his head slightly and spoke again. 

“Well, I was just heading downstairs to see what the caffeine options are. Maybe grab some food. All I’ve eaten in the last like twelve hours have been edi-” He stopped himself, narrowed his eyes and then continued. “Christmas cookies. So I definitely need some real food.” 

As though on cue, his stomach rumbled and then you were both laughing again. “I was headed down, too,” you said, gesturing to the staircase that led to the first floor. “I could also use a pick me up.” You gave a small shake of your head as you started towards the stairs with Dieter following. “I had a strange dream last night but I can’t remember most of it, so I’m hoping some coffee or something will help jog it.” 

Halfway down, you heard him let out a puff of air through his lips, and you looked over your shoulder to see him staring at you. “I had a kind of fucked up dream, too.” 

“Oh, yeah?” You asked, one eyebrow raised, before turning back around. “Do you remember yours?” You descended the last few steps and waited for him to do the same. 

“Yeah.” He laughed, but the sound was more nervous than humorous. “I was in bed… There was this really beautiful woman, but she-” 

Before you could even have the thought of course he was dreaming of being in bed with a beautiful woman, he probably has two dozen of them on speed-dial, you realized that he’d stopped.

No, he didn’t just stop. He froze. Dropped the sentence like a hot potato. Stuck his socked feet to the floor like it was made of glue, and looked around at the parlor of the Lodge, wearing shock all over his face. 

What? What’s wro- Oh. You looked around the space then, too, and realized immediately why he looked stunned and almost frightened. What the actual fuck? 

Blinking, you spun in a slow circle and shook your head in utter bewilderment. Because everything about the Lodge that made it a hotel was just gone. The front desk where you’d checked in - the built in, carved out of a solid chunk of oak, must have weighed three hundred pounds or more front desk - as well as everything that was behind it when you spoke with Laurel only a few hours previously, had vanished into thin air. All of the decorations were still there, the greenery and bows and candles, the enormous tree. But none of the signs regarding occupancy or check out times or amenities were anywhere to be seen. The antique looking luggage cart that you hadn’t needed to use but definitely took note of was missing. 

And moreover, so was the staff.  

But the fire is still lit. You blinked, eyes shifting next to the deep maroon velvet garment hanging on the coat rack by the door. And there’s a coat there. So someone must be here, right? 

“Uh,” Dieter broke your shared silence and you turned to face him. “So I’m gonna ask you a question that might seem fucking bizarre but I just need you to answer it, okay?” 

It was your turn to make a sound that would have been a laugh had you not felt like your sense of reality was rapidly racing away from you. “I mean, it can’t be more bizarre than-” You waved your hand in the direction of the missing front desk. “Whatever’s going on here.” 

He took a break, chest expanding before he let it out slowly, eyes focused on your face. “I know you said you couldn’t really remember your dream, but…” He swallowed. “Was there a woman like…” He circled his hands over one another like he was searching for a better way to say something that there was only one way to say, then muttered oh, fuck it under his breath. Was there a woman made of fire?” 

Um. Okay, maybe it could be more bizarre.

-- -- --

Dieter tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @tentacruels @alraedesigns @practicalghost

@trickstersp8 @imtryingmybeskar @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns

@pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @noisynightmarepoetry

@haylzcyon @jessthebaker @pedrostories @covetyou

[lokisgoodgirl]

Holy Orders [Avenger!Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A Link to my (new) Masterlist is HERE Summary: (17) Loki is working undercover as a priest in Rome. Ecumenical eroticism ensues. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Heresy. Smuttish. Latin. Priest!Loki. Language. (w/c 3.6k)

The door of your holiday apartment slammed behind you, cursing as you stumbled down a tiny step directly onto the cobbled street. It had been three weeks since the travesty of the Renaissance Faire.

After three days, you had accepted that Loki’s attention denial was not a phase. After five, the absence of his irritating teasing had you feeling an unusually bitter disappointment.

After seven, when he had left for Rome without even a courtesy farewell, you had woken in the night wondering the unthinkable. What if Thor was right?

And after twelve, you had begrudgingly accepted that you loved him.

There was a morning buzz in the air, jostling bicycles ringing lightly as the slap of your sandals sounded lightly on the aged stone beneath your feet. You hurried across the street, trying not to be run over by a moped speeding past, blowing up the back of your sundress. Jesus Christ, you thought; heart pounding before your lips curled in a secret smile. Father Laufeyson wouldn’t like that kind of talk, you laughed to yourself as you rounded the corner and Piazza Navona came into view.

For two weeks, Loki had been working undercover in a small church tucked out of the main bustle of Rome. His home had been the same ancient streets you now walked. And you wondered as you passed the marbled carvings of roman gods hanging against the circular fountains, if he had ever thought about you.

Of course not, he’s been busy, you chided yourself, hoisting the bag strap on your shoulder. When Rogers had assigned him this mission, apparently the laughs of the team could be heard two floors below. But as it turned out, Loki could be as convincing as a priest as he could be as a heartless arsehole. Now that his information gathering was complete, you had been sent to collect the evidence. You volunteered, idiot. A seamless pass-over. In and out, Rogers had said. Fuck, should someone have told him it was me that was coming? What if he’s mad?

You turned another corner, skilfully avoiding a group of tourists buried in a map. And what if he’s not? you thought; a thrill of wild anticipation blossoming in your belly.

“The Church of Santa Maria dell'Anima…” you murmured absent-mindedly, looking up at the flat exterior of the sandy coloured stone building.

As far as Roman churches went, it wasn’t a big draw - favoured more by the faithful local residents than photo-happy tourists. Perfect for a Hydra Vatican infiltration ring, you thought, pursing your lips as the eager congregation filed past you up the short flight of steps to the entrance. Swirling a white shawl around your shoulders, you took a deep breath of heavy, heated air.

Morning mass was about to begin.

You slipped inside the ancient wooden doors, a waft of stale coolness tingling over your skin. The breath seemed to evaporate from your lungs as your gaze drew up, eyes scanning over the high marble pillars and bright frescos painted floor to ceiling. Warm orange and gold infused the air, the sting of spiced incense filling your nostrils. The low hum of foreign conversation echoed around the church from people filing between the wooden pews, facing the altar. And there he was.

Loki Laufeyson stood with a long wooden taper clasped gently between his fingers, re-lighting candles by the far side of the carved stone nave. Strands of waxy hair fell around his cheekbones, illuminated by a hundred flickering flames resting in the metal display.

A thick green vestment embroidered with gold hung over his body down to his calves, making him look even taller than he usually did. Pure white shirt sleeves billowed around his arms, swaying gently as he continued his intricate work unphased.

He looked deep in thought, a calm serenity bathing his sharp profile as he blew out the taper and watched the smoke waft aimlessly through speckles of swirling dust. Loki clasped his hands in front of him, flattening the luxurious fabric of his vestment against the washboard stomach you knew lay beneath.

He turned, bowing lightly towards the crucifix hanging above the altar before ascending the several low steps.

Fuuuuck, you thought; pussy suddenly throbbing. Your hand fumbled to the strap of your bag, lowering it and sliding subtly into the back row. A cold shock of wood pressed against the back of your bare knees, making you wince. When did I get so wet, you frowned; knowing exactly when, as Loki turned towards the congregation.

A bell chimed, summoning another priest from the side of the church. You drew the shawl tighter around your chest, feeling your heart thunder against the clench of your fist. A woman slid in beside you, tucking her hair nervously behind her ears before making a sign of the cross.

“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, Amen.” she murmured, running her wide eyes up and down the ridiculously handsome figure opening the large bible, poised behind the altar. You suddenly wondered if morning mass had always been this popular.

The low tinkle of bells echoed again as the service began. The crowd rose, fifty or so of the faithful bowing their heads as the undercover Avenger took centre stage.

He is loving this, you thought incredulously, seeing his arms rise at his sides. The drape of green and gold vestments shimmered in the light, a warm glow radiating upwards to his pale face bathed in morning bronze from the stained glass. The crowd before you sat down obediently on the lowering of his palms. You fumbled backwards, catching yourself on the edge of the long bench.

Loki’s stare ran over the congregation, covertly scanning every face like only his keen gaze could. It stopped on you, making your breath hitch. You thought you saw the tug of a smirk at the side of his lips, a glint in his eye. Or maybe it was the light.

The next twenty minutes passed in a religiously erotic blur, swathes of ceremonial chants in Italian at Loki’s command making your thighs squeeze together. Heresy, you thought; a shudder rolling down your spine as the god leant forward to kiss the gospel. I’d be burnt in the old days.

The second priest had blessedly taken over to give the sermon, the broken words you could understand not even registering as you watched Loki listen rapturously to the side in feigned interest. He knows I’m watching him, you scowled; realising that every casual smooth of his stomach, every clench of his perfect jaw was for you.

How you wanted to storm up the marbled aisle, grab his stupid fancy poncho in a fist and kiss him violently against the golden tabernacle. Might blow his cover, though; you thought, immediately thinking of what else you could blow as he gripped onto the tall candlesticks by the altar.

The vivid fantasy was broken as the congregation shuffled to a stand. The woman beside you adjusted her cleavage, shaking her hair back. Loki raised his hand. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.” he said, the practised words of prayer a chant - that velvet voice sinking through the heavy air like double cream. Even speaking in Latin, it was irresistible.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name

Your hips shuddered back against the wooden pew, bare skin of your thighs dragging against the grain. You recognised the tempo. How could you not.

“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” Loki spoke slowly, eye-fucking you menacingly from the top of the raised steps behind the lecturn. His lips hovered on ‘tuum’, a fizz of unstoppable need rising in your belly as you recalled its place in the prayer.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in heaven.

Dozens of voices chimed around you, their Italian lilt making the dead language sing. But it was only his earthen tones you heard. Only him.

It had always, only been him.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut, et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris” he rumbled in baritone, tilting his head.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us

You raised your gaze to meet his, knowing it would be waiting as he stood with his large hands encasing the sides of the lectern by the altar. His eyes narrowed briefly, the subtle slant of his brows betraying his utter bemusement at your presence.

“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.” he growled, the timbre of his voice making the woman beside you straighten. You could see her fingertips digging into the soft flesh between her knuckles, hands clasped in prayer.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

How appropriate, you mused. You watched as Loki slid the bible from its place, holding it briefly aloft and placing a kiss against the leather before lowering it to his crotch in a gentle hold.

“Amen.” he murmured, solemnly; lowering his chin.

“Amen.” came the ringing response. “Amen.” you echoed slowly, squinting thoughtfully as Loki turned and sat with a smirk.

You sat back down, questioning everything. Did you think that when he saw you it would have been any different from how it ever was? That he would somehow wordlessly communicate that he was pleased to see you? That he had missed you? That he loves me too, you scoffed painfully; flinching as the organ sprang to life.

The communion procession began with those at the front of the church, each person pausing in front of the priest to receive god’s bounty. Loki and his counterpart held the small, circular host aloft, their lips moving before placing it on the recipients tongue. Kinky, you thought; before realising the woman to your right had risen and joined the slow moving queue. Fuck.

You shuffled behind her, rolling your eyes as she fiddled nervously with her hair, smoothing and re-smoothing the same strands. Your gaze wandered to the ornate figure of Christ hanging on the cross above the altar, his limp form getting closer and closer. Don’t look at me like that, you huffed to the disappointed looking Jesus; immediately switching focus to the floor beneath your feet.

“Corpo di Cristo…” a dark voice murmured. It was tinged with weighty intentions, thick memories of feral moans of unrestrained passion in your ear flooding your mind as you fluttered your lashes upwards. Loki’s eyes betrayed none of your history, his stare glazed; the twitch of one dark eyebrow the only indicator that he ever knew you at all.

“Amen.” you whispered hoarsely, parting your lips.

He placed the host gently on your outstretched tongue. Against your better judgement, you felt your lids flicker shut, the soft graze of his fingertip smoothing against wet muscle that longed for his touch.

It lingered, the melt of the wafer beginning to slide down your throat. His wide fingertip pulled imperceptibly at your bottom lip on its withdrawal, making your eyes shoot open. Loki’s brows raised, a light furrow reminding you that there was an entire congregation at your back. You gave a small nod towards him, scurrying around the front pews and back to your seat.

You could feel the burning heat in your cheeks for the rest of the mass, ten minutes feeling like an endless vat of time. The final blessing was, in reality, swift. A few chimes, swings of incense and murmurs of reverent praise and it was done.

Loki disappeared in procession with the other priest behind a door at the back of the church in a sway of luxurious, billowing green. The stillness of the holy space washed over you as attendees left in their own time. You checked your watch. Forty-five minutes. Had that been all?

The clap of your sandals against the marble floor echoed as you walked slowly around the walls, drawn to the beauty of the figures drawn by those long dead. You traced your fingers over cracks in the face of a rather grim looking Virgin Mary. “I know how you feel…” you whispered to no-one, feeling the plaster catch beneath delicate skin.

“I very much do not think you know how she feels.”

Your hand paused on the fresco, falling to your side as you turned. Loki stood resplendent before you, the folds of his holy garment making him look more achingly irresistible than he ever had before. You felt a frown crease your forehead, pursing your lips to stop a moan. It was worse up close.

Loki leant forward, casting a conspiratorial glance towards a small group of locals loitering by the door. “-due to the fact that for one thing, she is a virgin, while you...Agent...” he smirked. Your frown deepened.

“Keep your voice down.” you hushed, glancing over your shoulder. Satisfied, you looked back to Loki, his obsidian hair curled behind delicate ears revealing the white flash of his clerical collar. The bone structure you knew so well against the curves of your body sang in the mid-morning light through the windows, every iridescent inch of his skin glowing with tantalising radiance.

“I see you still managed to wear green.” you scoffed under your breath, making the priest chuckle lightly. “It’s Ordinary Time in the church calendar, Agent. Did you not read the briefing documents? It is the standard colour for the season” he drawled quietly, giving a reverent nod to his fellow priest heading for the door and the beckon of Rome beyond.

“They really think you’re one of them?” you said, turning towards a row of candles flickering to the side. Each one represented someone loved and lost, a prayer. A hope.

“Of course." he scoffed. "Father John Lockhart on pilgrimage from England. Why would they suspect?”

You ran your eyes down the silk embroidered vestment which hid his intensely muscular body. Just. The bulge of his biceps shifted beneath the billowing sleeves making your gaze hover. “Priests aren’t usually so…”

“Yes?” he goaded, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You dropped a coin in the basket, taking a candle and fingering the wick. “You don’t seem like the type, that’s all. I’m surprised you didn’t shapeshift.”

Loki chuckled. “My dear, you clearly don’t know Catholicism. A web of mysteries and contradictions which go far beyond their lore-bound texts...” he said, shifting so you stood with biceps pressing against each other.

“Are you considering a change of vocation then?” you quipped, playing with the wick between your fingers. He faced the wall of candles, but you could feel the stare of his eyes roaming the sliver of skin beneath the parted shawl. “Not quite.” he muttered absent-mindedly. “The reverence and theatrics are appealing I grant you, but there is far too much celibacy for my liking.”

The ghost of his breath skated across your collarbone, the unbearably small distance between you making every nerve in your body vibrate with desire.

“What are you praying for, mio figlio?” he murmured innocently under his breath as the wick of your candle caught flame from another. My child, you thought with a grimace, recognising the taboo of unmistakeable arousal deep in your pussy.

You watched the tear-dropped fire settle from its first rage, flickering gently as it came to terms with its place in the world. Setting it down amongst the others, you turned your chin to look up at him. The blues of Loki’s irises swam with green in the shadowed alcove, the dance of the candlelight illuminating him like a bygone Saint.

“Salvation.” you whispered quietly, voice catching.

Without knowing why, you bowed your head. The god’s fingers flew gently beneath your chin, tilting it upwards once more. His eyes were wide, lips parted as he inhaled softly. “Darling, I-”

“Padre?” a voice muttered tentatively behind you.

You and Loki both turned, seeing the fidgeting figure of the woman who had been your unknowing lust-buddy all through the service.

“Sì, figlia mia?” Loki replied gently, his hands disappearing back into the draped sleeves of his robes as he clasped them together. You rolled your eyes, pivoting back towards the wall of tealit flames. The thunder of your heart was a solid beat in your ears, pounding. His smooth voice rumbled in Italian, the sweet ministrations of his undercover persona clearly honed over the past two weeks. “Grazie Padre…” you heard the woman say, a tremble in her voice; before quick footsteps echoed away from you.

Loki chuckled, resuming his position by your side. “Impure thoughts about an inappropriate figure, apparently.” he whispered, barely contained glee bursting from the confines of propriety. “Wishes to make a confession to me personally at the next session. Imagine that. I wonder who it could be.”

“You are impossible." you sighed, a wave of jealousy roaring in your belly. "I bet you’ve been very popular here in that regard.” you said through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the wavering light of your candle. Salvation.

“Always so quick to judge.” he chuckled, drawing himself stoically upwards. “My dear, I am a priest.” he said, turning to face you. His nose was inches from your forehead, the empty church feeling stifling as the air settled around you both. “I have been a beacon of chastity...and contrary to popular belief, I do take my assignments seriously.”

Slowly, you met his gaze – the sincerity in his face, unmistakeable. “I didn’t think you took anything seriously, Father.” you said, mockingly; unable to stop yourself as you watched his eyes narrow at the words.

“Don’t you mean Daddy, Agent?” he smouldered, “Or am I nothing but a memory to you now with my brief absence?”

In two quick steps from his impossibly long legs, your back was flush against the nearest wall. The curve of the low archway hung dangerously close to Loki’s full height as he loomed above you. His forearm pressed to the marble cornicing above your head, trapping you like a lamb for slaughter.

A long sleeve of forest green shielded you from the gaze of a dozen judgemental statues, the collar around his neck straining against the weight of a hard vein that bulged ominously. “Why must you always think the worst of me?” he growled, the primal sound rumbling deep in his throat hoarse and wild. Familiar burning lust bubbled uncontrollably to the surface in those beautifully dangerous eyes as his chest heaved, daring you to respond.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you said, flustered as the shawl fell around your shoulders to the floor. Loki stepped closer, fingertips of the hand not affixed above your head squeezing into the flesh of your bare bicep.

“I think you know very well.” he spat, all traces of serenity gone as he blazed beneath a façade of restraint. “Why are you here? To taunt me? To parade yourself in front of me while you tease me with your endless games? Anyone else could have taken your place. Anyone.”

Your frown deepened, a deep ache blossoming in your belly as you tasted the rage on his every word. You shouldn’t have come.

“-Or am I wrong? Have you come to confess to me, darling?” he hummed goadingly, the feeling of his tips running down your aching skin making your shiver.

Sarcasm bit through his words, slicing through the intimacy of the moment. “And what better place? What better persona? Are you ready to admit your undying love for me and put this charade to an end? Or have your attentions wandered...”

A staggered breath surged in your throat as his hand traced down your cleavage, feeling your resistance falter. You could feel the swell of his hard erection through the drape of holy garb, the violence of his lust boiling beneath the shroud of theatrical consecration. The words were on the tip of your tongue- But then the game will be over for him. He will have won, you thought with a chill; And what then?

Loki’s brow furrowed, a jolt of his jaw taking you by surprise – like shaking off a fly. Whatever was in your head, he clearly didn’t want to hear it.

“And what about you…?” you managed to quiver through shaky breaths, your hands sliding tentatively over his shoulders. Loki tilted his head, confusion etched across his brow. In a brief second, you saw his bravado falter, features softening as he processed the possible meanings of your request. His tongue darted out, licking quickly over his cupid’s bow before biting his lip.

He shook his head, a solitary gasp of forced laughter gusting against your parted lips.

“I have just recalled I seem to owe you a certain...something, do I not?” he said casually, skating over his previous barbs as he tried to change the subject. You shuffled against the wall, attempting to pull him closer to you and failing. “More than one, actually.” you muttered, feeling the wet slick between your thighs grow hot. It was embarrassing how much you needed him. Above everything else, it was him.

“More than one?” Loki purred disapprovingly, tsk’ing as he raised an eyebrow. His hips dragged up your pelvis, every forbidden inch of his solid cock making you mad with need. You began to pant, as he thrust once against your torso. Creases had formed at the corner of his eyes; his outburst it seemed...forgotten.

He released the forearm from the wall above your head, a theatrical flourish of his arm making the heavy metal bolt across the doors of the church slam shut with an almighty clang.

“Here?” you gasped, feeling the embroidery of his sacred vestment scratch against your cleavage as he pressed his muscular torso against you. “But what about...you know.” You tilted your chin upwards towards the crucifix in explanation, the majesty of the surroundings somehow making you forget to whom you were pinned against.

“Don’t worry about Him, Agent…” Loki whispered, before his lips wrapped around your earlobe, sucking gently. “Mine are the only Holy Orders you shall be following today. Mine, the only sacrament your body desperately needs.” His dirty whispers hummed against your skin, falling deeper into waves of sin with each dark syllable. "Mine." he rasped quietly, the word melting against your breathy moans unheard, before fastening his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

Continued in Holy Orders: Mercy Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

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[alittlebitofwonk]

The Hall of the Gods was deathly quiet when Martyn eased the door open and stepped inside. It was lit only by the setting sun behind the stained glass, and the candles placed before altars.

He walks slowly down the hall, pausing to look at the portraits of the gods. He recognizes many: The Watchers, a conglomerate of wings and eyes, stand near the front, their altar overflowing with gold and diamonds. The Ocean Queen, hands folded before her, draped in a white robe and pearls, her blue skin covered in glittering scales, each painstakingly hand painted— beautiful, but somehow sinister, too. The Thunder God, tall and strong, lightning crackling behind him, the epitome of power. Santa Perla, in a dress of gold and emerald, a sheath of wheat resting in her arms and blood dripping from her wings.

Finally, Martyn comes to a portrait where he pauses, looking up at the figure. His hands and feet are stained black with soot, great claws marking each digit, webbing stretched across his fingers. Brass scales cover his bare arms and shoulders and calves, glinting like armor. A long, fish like tail extends behind him, complete with wicked sharp spikes. His clothing is deceptively simple— a loose black sleeveless shirt, a green sash around his waist, cut off brown pants, feet left bare. His hair is long, ending a few inches below his shoulders. Leather chords with shells and beads are tied around his arms and waist and ankles, his hair braided back on one side. An eerie wooden mask sits upon his face, carved to resemble a fish, but there’s something far more sinister about it. Everything about the god is primordial and ancient.

The Codfather.

Martyn takes a hesitant step towards the altar when the door to the Hall suddenly opens, making him jump, and he turns just in time to spot Grian swiping some of the offerings from the Watchers’ altar. Technically he’s allowed to do so, being a Watcher himself, but Martyn wouldn’t be surprised if they smited him anyways.

As he passes by the portraits, seeming nonchalant, he drops half of the offerings in his hand onto Santa Perla’s altar and then, as he steps up next to Martyn, he drops the other half onto the Codfather’s altar.

“Hard to believe that’s Jimmy, isn’t it?” Grian says, shoving his hands in his pockets as he gazes up at the portrait.

“Absolutely. Jimmy? Intimidating? Surely not,” Martyn says, but he feels a cold chill down his spine, like claws traced along his back. “Okay, a little intimidating,” Martyn admits. The claws are gone.

Grian snorts. “He wouldn’t have hurt you and you know it. Though, to be fair, he can be brutal when the moment calls for it.”

Martyn can’t disagree— he knows the stories. Rivers drained dry when villages turn on the innocent. Nets coming up full of rotten river fish when the fishermen commit acts of cruelty or violence. Pestilence and disease flowing down the rivers to forcibly end wars by killing both sides slowly.

A god of Justice, to be certain.

But Martyn has heard stories of kindness. Rivers suddenly overflowing with fish in frozen winter months, where a village risks death by starvation. Lakes and ponds once muddied and foul turning clear overnight, the water sweet and cold. Even rumors of mountain springs whose waters could heal any wound or cure any sickness, placed by the Codfather to be found by those who were pure of heart.

“Why doesn’t he utilize his powers in the Death Games?” Martyn asks. “Surely he’d last much longer if he did.”

Grian shrugs, still gazing up at the portrait. “Maybe he thinks it’d be unfair. Maybe he doesn’t like using his powers. Truth be told, I don’t really know. I’ve asked, but he always brushes me off.”

Martyn looks back up at the portrait, and he swears that the Codfather is looking back at him.

You could win, he thinks, tugging an emerald out of his pocket and placing it on the altar. So why don’t you try?

As Martyn turns to leave, Grian still standing before the altar, he swears he feels another brush of claws and hears a whisper in his ear;

Because I don’t have a choice.