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eilidh-eternal · 5 months

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Between @peachesofteal, @ceilidho and @charliemwrites I have been plagued with mind rotting thoughts of manipulative!Johnny and I wrote this in a feverish haze

So uhhhh yeah, here’s 1.8k words of Johnny being an overbearing and possessive menace to reader

This will be part of a larger collection of works The Wild Hunt Masterlist

This is a dark fic, 18+ MDNI, descriptions of kidnapping, coercion and mentions of death below the cut

Snow falls beyond the frosted window panes, flickering like static in shafts of warm-hued lamplight and collecting in powdery, white drifts. The picturesque cityscape and the dissonant overlapping of conversation coming from the gathering of family and friends in a quaint town house decorated for the upcoming holidays feels like something plucked out of a cliché holiday romcom. Except this isn’t a yuletide gathering, and the congregation of familiar faces is one less tonight.

This is a wake. And an odd one at that.

You didn’t believe in the myth that deaths are more frequent around the holidays, and you certainly didn’t believe in a black cat that eats the souls of the recently deceased if you don’t throw a proper party with games and drinking, and enough food to feed a small army, at the wake. But this is Scotland, and the country is teeming with myths and superstitions.

So, here you sit. Curled into the corner of a sofa with a glass of… something. You’ve been told it’s like eggnog, done the Scottish way.

Great aunts, uncles, cousins several times removed and friends of the deceased distant relative all nurse their own glasses of the festive drink, and various recounts of fond memories are shared amongst the group gathered in the living room. There’s one voice that stands out among the others, and you watch with reserved interest as the mohawked man it belongs to tells his story. It’s a little louder, with more bravado than the rest, narrating his memory with a jubilance that belies great fondness.

You’d never met the man everyone was reminiscing about, only came tonight because a cousin on your fathers side—the Scottish side—had cajoled you into going with her to the wake so she’d have someone to talk to besides her mother. You didn’t understand why she’d begged and pleaded as you sat in your corner alone while she flits about here and there, talking to just about everyone there about anything and everything. A trait you had not inherited from your Scottish patronage. You’re so deep in your own thoughts in fact that you don’t immediately register the added weight on the sofa beside you, the way it dips and bows beneath it, until that lilting bravado is crooning in your ear, close enough to feel the whisper of warm air from his breath on the outer shell.

“How’d ya know Captain MacMillan?”

You blink, realize you’d been so entrenched in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even seen the man you’d been watching stand from his seat and take up the empty space next to you, and a flush of embarrassment blooms across your cheeks when you realize he must have seen you staring. When the rest of your body catches up with your brain you turn to face him, finding his face mere inches from yours.

He smells like the earth after it rains, like petrichor, and it mingles with something tangier—something sharp—like the honed edge of a blade. His smile is just as striking, all teeth and curling lips. Feline.

And his eyes—bluer than Loch Lomond on a clear, sunny day, and glittering in the same way the sunlight catches on the cresting ripples at the water's surface. They feel just as deep and endless too, the way his pupils flare and swallow that brilliant blue as he studies your face with a startling intensity, devouring every detail. Something rattles and trills in your mind at the way his gaze seems to drag you down, down, down, where it’s hard to breathe beneath the waves, and you can’t tell if the sound is sweet music or a frantic warning.

The realization that you haven’t yet given him an answer dawns on you and you suck in a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“I uh… I didn’t know him. I knew of him though—a distant relative,” you explain and your fingers curl tighter around the glass in your hands.

He doesn’t lean away, remains firmly inside your little bubble and cocks his head in a manner that reminds you of a cat watching a bird outside a window. Hunting. He’s so close you can see the shadow of a beard, freshly shaved but with new growth already pushing its way to the surface to darken the sharp line of his jaw.

He hums. A low rumbling sound that emanates from deep within his chest. “Didnae ken the Captain comes from such a bonnie family,” he says in that swaggering bravado, and it almost sounds like a purr. “What’s yer name, hen?”

You give him your name, along with an outstretched hand which he takes in his large one, palm and pads of his fingers rough and callous against your own, and his pupils flare wider, causing his eyes to darken a sinful shade. “I’m Johnny MacTavish. Or Soap, if ye like,” he says, and holds onto your hand for just a few seconds longer than he should, the warmth of it branding your skin before he lets go.

“Soap?” you question and quickly pull your hand back into what remains of the personal space he seems intent on crowding, feeling like you’ve reached for a hot pan without a mitt.

“It’s muh callsign,” he says and drapes an arm over the back of the couch behind you, caging you into your little corner.

More bells.

“I’m military. SAS, like the Captain.”

SAS.

Suddenly you’re seeing all of the things that had drawn your interest to him earlier in a new light.

He’s built. Broad shouldered and bulky in the arms and thighs that have been creeping closer ever since he sat down. The scar on his chin that pulls taught when he smiles with all his teeth. The metallic tang that lingers on his skin. How silently he had suddenly appeared on the couch beside you.

Danger.

He places his broad hand on your thigh and your eyes jerk to his. There’s a menacious glint flickering in the dark pools that reels you in and pulls you under, like the kelpies young children are warned about.

Don’t get too close to the water or you’ll drown. Don’t get too close to him.

His hand feels more like a paw, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your leg like a cat sinking its claws into fresh meat.

“They’re choosin’ teams fer quarters,” he says with a nod in the direction of the coffee table where guests have begun to gather around an arrangement of disposable cups, bottles of scotch and a collection of coins, splitting into two groups. “Think ye should be on my team,” he says a shade darker, fingers digging harder into your thigh and lips curling back to reveal his feline grin once more.

You pull your leg away from him, tugging it closer to your chest, and your heart thumps insistently against your ribs, pulse quickening in the way prey that recognizes the hunt does. You feel like a mouse caught between the claws of a kellas cat, half-wild things that roam the highlands.

“I-I actually have to go,” you blurt and shoot to your feet before he can sink his claws in further, discarding your half-empty glass on the end table. “I don’t hold my liquor well, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a lie, but how would he know? You snatch your sweater from the arm of the sofa and shove trembling arms through the sleeves. “It was… nice meeting you though.”

Was it?

“A-and I’m sorry for your loss.” The words come tumbling out like you can’t say them fast enough, tripping over your own tongue as you hurry to extricate yourself from his grasp. You don’t wait for him to return the sentiment, turning on your heel and making a beeline for your cousin.

You tell her you’re tired and heading home, offering a brief hug for her and your aunt before you have to walk back through the living room, right past Johnny, to get to the door. You don’t know if it’s relief or dread that flutters in your stomach when you see Johnny no longer occupies his spot on the couch as you cross the room. Isn’t anywhere in sight.

With your down coat bundled tightly around you, you step out into the cold night, immediately hit with icy wind and stinging particles of snow against your cheeks. Your car is parked just around the corner, less than a minute's walk. And you take hurried steps away from the town house towards the pavement.

You should have been more careful.

One moment you’re turning the corner towards your car and the next your feet are sliding out from under you on ice-slick pavement, sending you to the ground in a bone-shuddering fall.

Your skull cracks off the pavement and it echoes between your ears. You lay stunned on the ground, unable to do more than groan at the pain radiating from the base of your skull down your spine.

And then there’s hands on your shoulders. Large, warm hands that glide up your neck and prod at the tender flesh at the back of your head. You groan at the painful press of calloused fingers and a familiar voice coos to you.

“Took quite a tumble, wee rabbit. Ye really shouldnae have been walkin’ so quick through all this snow,” he says as he retracts his fingers from your head and they settle on your shoulders again.

You groan, trying to open your eyes and see through the flakes of snow that blur your vision as you try and fail to lift your head.

“Dinnae move too much, ye’ll hurt yerself more.” His hands move from your shoulders to snake beneath your knees and under your back to lift you from the ground.

You moan as the motion jostles your head and sends a blinding jolt of pain through your skull, exploding behind your eyes and sending stars dancing wildly across your remaining vision.

“Shhh wee thing, yer awright. I’ll make sure that pretty little heid of yours is tended to.”

You’re being carried, cradled to a broad chest by burly arms. Smells like rain-

No…. No, no, nonono-

You try to force your eyes open, fighting desperately against the tunneling of your vision to see through the hazy edges and blurry focus.

You’re shifted against him and you cry out as pain flares bright behind your eyes again, and he coos, telling you he’s got you now. He’ll take care of you.

Broken whimpers bubble up in your throat as you’re laid down on something soft, and you wince against the rumble of an engine as it purrs to life. Everything sounds like it’s underwater, and somehow amplified to rattle your brain in your skull. You feel heavy, arms and legs turned to lead.

“Was here fer the captain, but when I saw ye, so pretty curled up on that sofa… knew then I was leavin’ with ye instead.”

It’s the last thing you hear before your fading consciousness suddenly gives way to complete and total darkness.

©️Eilidh-Eternal.2024 ~ The intellectual property of Eilidh-Eternal is not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or use with AI technologies.

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lokisgoodgirl · 4 months

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Comfort & Joy: The Lakes [Loki x Reader]

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

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

Charming. You smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loki gaped, darting his gaze between you both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah,” you smiled.

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

“Are you?” you replied.

Loki squeezed once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Please welcome-’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red and blue, not red and green.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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cake-writes · 4 months

Text

Loki x Reader Masterlist

CHAPTER FICS

Wildflower (18+) 🌸🥺️🚫 (TW: Incest.) It’s never bothered you before, sharing such cramped quarters with your brothers amidst a siege. You’ve done it for centuries. While once upon a time it may have even been a comfort, now it’s entirely too suffocating. And it’s all because you’ve been having such vile, wicked thoughts about the one person you absolutely shouldn’t.

A Dutiful Disaster (18+) 🏆🌸🔥 In which you marry Loki, Prince of Asgard, the one person you absolutely cannot stand. (Enemies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Royalty.)

honey & glass (eventually 18+) 🌸 Loki meets an insignificant little peanut during his prison sentence stay in the Tower. (Enemies? to Friends to Lovers, Rags to Riches, Slow Burn.)

The Seven-Year Itch (18+) 🌸🔥 You lose your memory of the last seven years during a filthy romp in the sheets with your Asgardian husband. (Amnesia, Angst.)

TWO-SHOTS

Ostara (18+) 🔥🚫 (TW: soft noncon.) Heat / mating cycles. Pain kink. Fluff afterwards. & Lammas (18+) 🔥🚫 (TW: noncon, psychological.) Reader gets her revenge. Fluff afterwards.

ONE-SHOTS

Panacea (18+) 🔥🌸 A drabble about Loki’s love for you.

2:33am (18+) 🔥🌸 Consensual non-consent.

Full (18+) 🔥🌸 Size kink. Pain kink. Jotun!Loki.

Lady Loki drabble (18+) 🔥 WLW. Soft dom. Bisexual reader.

Yuletide Delights (18+) 🔥 Filthy breeding kink smut.

#we are reorganising the blog #pls no reblog

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assortedseaglass · 4 months

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🌟Advent | Yuletide🌟

Billy Washington x fem!Reader

Summary: Billy Washington knocks on his neighbour's door with a case of the wobbles.

Content Warnings: Language, mentions of panic attacks, mild Trigger Point Spoiler, fluff, hurt, comfort.

🎄 Yuletide Masterlist 🎄

Billy hesitated outside the door. He stared at the small wreath attached to the knocker and glanced down the hallway. No-one else had one up.

With a shaking hand and shuddering breath, Billy wiped his eyes. His counsellor was encouraging him to reach out when he had what his mother called “a case of the wobbles”.

It had taken a while. The first time Billy felt his panic creeping in, his terror at picking up the phone and calling his sister had induced another attack. Once, while doing his weekly shop, someone dropped a large box from a top shelf of the supermarket and the noise made him dissolve into violent sobs. A kindly and plump woman in a Tesco uniform took him to the staff room, gave him a cuppa and a long cuddle.

“See,” the counsellor said when Billy told her of this episode. “I know it’s hard after everything that happened, but most people really are good people.”

So here he stood, in the corridor of his new block of flats, hand raised to knock on his neighbour’s door. He cleared his throat a few times, shook out his arms and shuffled his feet.

“Come on, Wash,” he murmured to himself, feeling another knot of nerves tighten in his stomach. Not giving his brain time to betray him, he rapped his knuckle of the door.

“Coming,” the voice on the other side of the door called brightly. The longer he waited, the quicker his heart hammered. Keeping down his lunch was becoming harder with every second that ticked by.

A door to his left opened. A little old lady stuck her head out her front door.

“Hiya,” Billy barely looked at her, focussing on his shoes instead. He didn’t want any more people than necessary to see his tears. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thought you was knocking for me,” she retreated inside with a muffled Merry Christmas of her own.

The door before him opened. Warm light bathed the cold corridor. So too, did the smell of freshly cooked food.

Billy took a step back and rubbed his neck. Still, he looked at the floor, eyes flicking up only when he said hello. You were smiling at him, waiting for to hear whatever he had knocked for.

“Merry Christmas,” you said. Catching sight of his watery eyes you stepped towards him slowly. “Everything ok?”

Billy swallowed hard. His wobbles always made it so hard to breathe, and as though reliving the memory, it felt like he could taste petrol fumes. “Yeah, um. I, erm-” A small, watery sob left him. “Fuck, sorry.”

“It’s ok,” you opened the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes please.” He said quickly. Billy’s relief was instantaneous as he shuffled past you into the flat. Golden fairy lights were strung around the small lounge, and a Christmas tree that was far too large took up most of the space. Beside it, an old sofa was covered in blankets and on the telly, Jimmy Stewart’s face was paused. It’s a Wonderful Life, his mum’s favourite.

“Sit yourself down, kettle’s just boiled.”

“Ta, thanks.” He perched awkwardly on the sofa and grabbed a tissue from the box on the table. An undrunk cup of tea was sat beside a pile of books and abandoned Christmas wrapping.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Please, ta.”

Billy’s leg bobbed as he waited for his cup of tea, thinking over what to tell you.

“You don’t need to tell anyone why, Billy, just that you are having a panic attack and don’t want to be alone.”

The sofa dipped beside him. Silently, you handed him a cup of tea and placed a small bowl of steaming pasta on the table beside you both.

“Just made it, help yourself.” You nodded to the bowl. “Not very Christmassy but comforting, eh?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Without saying anything else, you picked up the tv remote and pressed play.

“Oh, whadda ya mean? Nobody’s trying to steal anybody’s girl. Here, here’s, here’s Mary.”

Jimmy Stewart’s voice filled the little flat and Billy felt liked he’d stepped into another world. Had he had a panic attack? Here was a girl, opening her door to a stranger, giving him food and then pretending he didn’t exist. Frankly, his panic made way for worry about her survival instincts.

As if reading his mind, you spoke. “I get them too. Panic attacks.” Billy didn’t say anything, only looked at you over his cup of tea. You’d tucked your feet up on the sofa and snuggled down beneath the roll neck of your enormous, grey jumper. “Shit, aren’t they?”

Billy laughed awkwardly. “Yeah,”

“Don’t worry, though.” You tore your eyes away from the telly then. “We can just sit here.”

And sit there the two of you did. Right until George Bailey saw Clarence’s copy of Tom Sawyer and little Zuzu said, “each time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings.”

Billy smiled as you whispered it in unison with the film.

“Thanks,” he said tentatively, finally broaching the subject of his panic attack himself. “That was just what I needed.”

“Anytime, Billy,” you said, placing your hand on his comfortingly. Billy stilled.

“H-how do you know my name?” Christ. He’d knocked on the door of the high-rise lunatic.

You smiled gently and raised your eyebrows at him, as though saying don’t be thick. “You were on the news, Billy.”

He mentally slapped himself. Of course she knew who he was.

CAR BOMB CALAMTIY: LOCAL MAN ESCAPES AFTER FAR-RIGHT RECRUITMENT

“I won’t ask about it, and you don’t have to say anything, not if you don’t want to. But you can always knock on the door.”

“Thanks mate,” Billy said with a watery smile. He hastily rubbed his eyes.

“Really,” you said with sincerity. “Anytime.”

With another gentle smile, Billy stood up from the sofa. He loomed over you, and so you stood too.

“I best be off,” he indicated to the door. “I’ve taken up enough of your evening-”

“Anytime, remember.”

“Likewise,” he said, remembering you were also prone to cases of the wobbles.

He bade you goodnight, smiling to himself when you waited in the doorway to see him off, even though it was only too steps across the hall.

“Oooh!” you exclaimed. “Hang on!”

You disappeared from the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Billy stood awkwardly with his hand on the doorhandle. When you reappeared, a little out of breath from dashing around the small flat, you handed him a little chocolate covered in golden foil.

“Mum sends me an Advent calendar every year, but I’ve pigged out enough today.”

Something in this tiny gesture on top of an evening that meant so much bowled Billy over. His worry at anyone seeing his panic dissolved as he did too, slumping onto your shoulder and bursting into tears.

“Ah, mate,” you rubbed his shoulder as this giant man clung onto you. “It’ll be a better year next year, yeah?”

“Myeah,” Billy sniffled, standing straight and rubbing his nose. He laughed in spite of himself and you giggled to. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Billy.”

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

#ewan mitchell #billy washington #billy washington x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #trigger point #hilde's twelve days of christmas

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drarryspecificrecs · 11 months

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2023.05 ~ Top 7 longest fics posted on AO3

1. Demons Run (When A Good Man Goes To War) by @shewhomustnotbenamed [E, 124k]

►I need your help. Ordinarily, I wouldn't inveigle anyone into deciphering life from my contorted perspective, but I desperately need you to understand the entirety of the situation that I've found myself in. It's vital that you comprehend and embrace the events that have led me here- to have the clarity of mind that I lack because I am more lost than I have ever been, and I need saving. I need you to see. I need perspicuity. Help me, because I don't know how I got here, and I need to repair the damage I've done.

2. Symptom of Your Touch by @ghostofnoir [E, 115k]

►St. Mungo's Healer Draco Malfoy is used to being pushed to his limits when providing aide to the ailing, but when an unexpected encounter with an out of character Harry Potter throws his life out of balance one night, he is forced to ask himself how far he's willing to push his own levels of discomfort to be of aid to a man in need of help that only he can provide. And once that need for aid is over, how will he find balance in his life again?

3. Love lies somewhere deeper by DarkWizard [M, 96k]

►Harry cheated on his wife with Draco sodding Malfoy. And then, he didn't remember it.

4. we should just kiss (like real people do) by whenstheweddingcake [T, 75k, series]

►Harry's summer is better than ever before, and he returns to Hogwarts for his fifth year with more power, changing relationships, an army at his back, and another DADA teacher that seems to have it out for him.

5. the world is a garden (and you're my flower) by Rosie321go [T, 52k]

►Draco’s mother always said there was a fine line between love and hate. Apparently, his flowers think so too. /// [...] in which Draco doesn’t know how to deal with feelings, Granger doesn’t know how to help him, and Potter’s just trying to figure out what’s going on.

6. Icarus by @soupy-george [M, 50k]

►[...] 2013 (The Unpleasant Present) - Sent undercover as a Professor at Hogwarts. Note: minding my own business, life ruined by dreadful turn of events. Note: Potter is DADA professor, a job he took out of the blue after I graduated from Auror training. His departure happened to coincide with a momentary lapse in judgement when we may have kissed, drunkenly … (and heatedly) against a wall. One time. Awkward? Yes. Reason to abandon whole career? Apparently.

7. Imperius by Jelliebabie [E, 46k]

►What if there was an eighth horcrux? What if Voldemort just wouldn't die? Draco Malfoy doesn't remember what came before his current existence, where he lives to serve the Death Eaters who control his every move, and through him, his magical inheritance. But when a memory from his past appears in his present, breaking the curse that imprisons him, he finds that he may be the one who holds the key to salvation. If only he isn't too broken to use it.

—

※ Word count: 1k ~ 10k

※ Word count: 10k ~ 40k

the first in line by @oflights [E, 29k]

Harry and Draco's Hogwarts Reunion by DarkPhoenixAscending [E, 13k]

Harry Potter and the Yuletide Potion by Grace_28 [G, 13k]

Just A Couple Of Strays by flowerpotboy [M, 20k]

love-stained hate by a_blur_on_the_highway [T, 18k]

Shades of Passion by CosmicallyFamous [E, 12k]

A Strange Twist of Fate by @shinigami714 [E, 18k]

Turn Back the Clock by @steampunkserpent27 [T, 14k]

—

Ongoing Fest/Exchange

※ Fics would be listed elsewhere.

Basilisks & Staircases - A Game of Drarry Fest | @gameofdrarry

HD Mpreg 2023 | @harrydracompreg

Lights Camera Drarry 2023 | @lcdrarry

#drarry #drarry fanfic #drarry fic rec #harry potter #draco malfoy #monthly review #2023

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agentnatesewell · 4 months

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tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade.

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed.

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.”

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil.

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest.

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer.

“Barbie?”

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention.

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.”

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone.

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.”

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.”

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?”

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.”

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost.

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage”

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually.

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle.

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath.

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.”

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up.

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.”

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine.

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers.

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance.

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth.

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.”

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?”

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.”

“Wait! One more!”

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree.

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.”

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart.

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.”

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.”

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition.

It gives her an idea.

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax. A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him.

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home.

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake.

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?”

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him.

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.”

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer.

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.”

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.”

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.”

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition.

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.”

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.”

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.”

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge.

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck.

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything.

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?”

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.”

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #wayhavensecretsanta #nate sewell #twc mason #mar writes twc

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 4 months

Text

Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories

a Stephen Strange x Hope Collins fic

Part One

genre: fluff & Christmas to begin with; angst, catharsis, with healing later...and as always, love❤️💚

characters: Stephen Strange, Hope Collins (OFC), established relationship

word count: approximately 3.1k

moodboard by the very generous @strangelock221b 💙🩵💜

Stephen should have known that he had fallen in love with a Christmas person. Should have been prepared for what was in store for him come late November. Hope's enthusiasm for all things Yuletide was exactly in keeping with her nature--and of course, she had no way of knowing that when it came to Christmastime, his past had shaped him into a bit of a Grinch.

A week or so before Thanksgiving, she'd brought a mysterious shopping bag to the Sanctum and set it discretely in a corner of the living room portion of his suite. When he'd asked what was inside, she'd flashed him a pert smile and smiling eyes as she answered, "Darling, that's for me to know, and you to find out. Eventually." Then sashayed away, humming 'Good King Wenceslas'. Yup, he should've known then that Hope was...was very much a Who.

They had shared a quiet, homey Thanksgiving; Hope had eagerly prepared a little feast for them, along with far too many desserts prepped in a flurry of baking in the 48 hours ahead of time. "There's supposed to be an abundance of leftovers," she had insisted when Stephen groused that they could never finish it all, "And in my family tradition, the freezer was always stuffed with packages of turkey, potatoes, and what have you--enough for a meal a week 'til nearly Christmas." And she'd relished the sight of him digging into those leftovers--along with a healthy serving of her apple-ginger pie--as a midnight snack, looking every bit the adorable 'told ya so' when she grabbed a fork to help him polish off the pie.

When they'd finally settled into bed and snuggled close, Stephen was happy to tell Hope it had been his best Thanksgiving in decades--and that perhaps it could be the start of traditions of their own. "Good," she replied, kissing his neck and then resting her head on his shoulder, "There's more I'd love to share with you. If you don't mind...starting tomorrow."

Stephen's own family traditions always felt like dusty, ancient history now; memories he seldom allowed himself to dwell upon for the heartbreak of the losses of his sister Donna, and later his mother Beverly, who had never fully recovered emotionally from Donna's death. He sighed hard, not wishing to spoil the moment, but feeling he should give his love fair warning. "If it's Christmas related, Hope--I'm really not that guy..."

"Oh, Stephen..." she started to protest.

"I don't wanna disappoint you, honey, but I...I gave up Christmas a loooong time ago..."

"Gave up Christmas?" Hope tutted. "You don't strike me as a Scrooge..."

"I'm not. Of course I'm not," he countered gently, "There's just a lot of...baggage...that I gave up carrying. Decades ago." For my own peace of mind, he thought but didn't add. "I mean, I'll be happy to see how you embrace the season, Hope, but um..."

He felt more than heard her sigh, understanding that she would not be deterred--while well aware that as ever, whatever form her persuasion would take would be gentle. Patient. Quiet. Stephen couldn't help but love that about her.

"Alright," she told him, laying her palm above his heart, which he always found soothing. "I promise to be mindful of your...baggage...if you help me with just one tradition tomorrow."

Stephen's turn to quietly sigh with his intent to cooperate, "Just the one? Seems a fair bargain to make...if you can stick to it."

"Just the one--I promise," Hope laughed softly, "And after that, well...I'll go about my Christmasing without the sort of fuss that might bother you."

Though he could practically feel the wheels in her head turning to come up with a way to change his view of the season, he chuckled, "It's a deal then. So what will we be doing tomorrow?"

"Getting a tree, of course. That's my mom's thing. Tree goes up the day after Thanksgiving...and comes down on New Years Day. Although, since I've been on my own, I keep it up however long I want. It's an excellent remedy for the mid-winter doldrums."

"A tree it'll be, then," he promised, reaching to turn off his bedside lamp, "And then I'm out."

"Like a light", Hope assured him. "Now, do you wanna be the big spoon or little spoon tonight?"

"Big," he replied, flipping onto his side, then sliding his arm around her waist when she turned to fit herself against him. Stephen brushed his lips on her ear, "For what it's worth, honey, I hope you have some sugar plum dreams tonight."

"Thanks, Stephen," she murmured, clearly on her way to sleep, "Love you too."

By the time Hope awoke the next morning, Stephen had already worked out a plan to keep his promise. One which would involve him in as little Christmas fuss as possible. A quick online search had yielded a few spots in the Village itself where they could find fresh cut trees. After breakfast, he discreetly portaled the two of them to a side street off of Hudson Street, where they found a popular Christmas market adjacent to a city park.

Hope had been so delighted by his initiative that he had felt it necessary to remind her that this would be his sole contribution to the Christmas decorating. She had batted her eyes prettily with her reply, "As you wish," but to Stephen, it had felt more like she was saying, "We'll see about that."

They settled on a seven foot Balsam fir, which Stephen had insisted on paying for out of his Sanctum Master's monthly stipend. The warmth of the lingering kiss she pressed to his cheek in thanks was absolutely worth that investment, and Hope's happiness was a gift that thoroughly warmed his heart. Being quite pleased by how swiftly they'd accomplished their chore--and surprised that the task felt far more pleasant than he'd anticipated--Stephen arranged to have the tree delivered to Bleecker Street by mid-afternoon.

Hope had wandered over to a group of stalls featuring hand-crafted Christmas decorations, and by the time he joined her, she had a small brown shopping bag in hand. He offered her his arm, "Shall we?"

"Shall we what," she countered impishly.

"Head back home."

"Oh...well...", she bit her lip, mulling over her answer for a few moments, "You go on ahead, darling. There's just a few more things I'd like to pick up..."

Stephen hummed, studying her face for any sign that this was a coy play to get him to stay after all. Seeing only sincerity, he found himself offering to stick around anyway. "Thanks, but no, Stephen," she assured him, "I shouldn't be too long--and I did promise not to bother you beyond the tree. You won't even have time to miss me; I'm sure I'll get there before the tree even does."

Stephen hadn't expected her to be so easily accommodated. "Are you sure, honey? I can spare a while longer if...if you'd like me to."

Hope moved in close, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed his other cheek. "I appreciate the offer, darling," she husked, "But how about you get a nice fire going in the hearth in your quarters, so they'll be all toasty for when I decorate the tree this afternoon?" She backed away and beamed him a smile, then turned to explore the market further without a further word.

Stephen stood on the sidewalk, the relief at being let off the expected Christmas hook colored with the surprising disappointment that Hope hadn't even tried to ask for more beyond her promise. She's probably got other plans in mind, he decided; bet she's just softening me up for that. Hands tucked deep into his coat pockets against the growing chill in the air--they'd begun to ache in the way that told him snow was on the way--he headed back to the side street, and portaled back home.

The snow arrived before Hope did, with the tree being delivered about a half-hour later. By then, Stephen had a crackling fire going in the hearth and had even used magic to set up a tree stand before one of the front windows of the living room.

Rosy-cheeked from the cold and bearing two Balsam wreaths decked with red ribbons, sprigs of holly & berries, and mini white lights, Hope appeared to be the embodiment of Christmas cheer. "I figured now that it's no secret that a magical building is part of the neighborhood," she explained in answer to the question in his eyes, "You'd at least want the Sanctum to look a little festive..."

Stephen gave a heavy sigh as he conceded that point to her. And though she didn't ask, he cast a spell to keep the wreaths in place on the Sanctum's double doors, with reinforcement to keep them fresh and green for however long they hung there. He would go on to use the same spell for the Christmas tree awaiting decorating in his quarters.

After lunch, Hope practically shooed Stephen from the room when she began to string lights on the fragrant evergreen. With a vintage selection of Christmas carols playing in the background, she was determined to keep her promise to him. "Besides, I'd like to surprise you with the ornaments I've picked. So go keep busy with whatever wizarding stuff is on your agenda, and I'll come get you for the big reveal."

Lazy snowflakes continued to fall well past dusk, looking pretty and perfectly seasonal outside the Sanctum windows, though little stuck to the streets and pavements. Hope had finally popped her head past the door to his study several hours after she'd sent him away and invited Stephen to come check out the product of her efforts. Her excitement felt contagious--and once he spied the tree, Stephen knew she had good reason for her enthusiasm.

She had dimmed the lights for maximum effect, showing off the slow, steady twinkle of the white lights that graced every branch of the tree. The ornaments were a mix of dark blue and gold bells and balls, variously sized, and many of them sprinkled with golden glitter. Featured among them were larger, glassblown ornaments shaped as suns, moons, and stars, as well as other traditional celestial symbols. The total effect was breathtaking--and a telling reminder that Hope was an Artist, deep down to her soul.

Watching him take in the full picture, her eyes sparkled with joyful anticipation of his response. Stephen's jaw had dropped, and he remained speechless as he circled the tree before he came to stand at Hope's side, pulling her to him with one arm around her back. "This is...marvelous, honey. Fantastic. Beautiful...and...and..."

"And nearly perfect for a Master of the Mystic Arts," she replied, a slight tremor in her voice, "Don't you think so, anyway?

Stephen nodded and laid a kiss on top of her head. "I can't imagine anything more perfect, Hope," he agreed, his voice grown thick with emotion. "You were planning this for a while, weren't you?"

"Only since mid-September," she laughed, then pointed to a stained-glass disk depicting the zodiac circling a stylized sun. "I saw that one at a craft fair, and it just sort of...inspired...the whole thing."

"I should've expected something this..." Stephen searched for the perfect word to describe not only the tree, but the sentiment her gift had him feeling, "...grand...from you, honey. Grand. Grand and perfect."

"It's actually a little short of perfect, Stephen," she confessed difidently.

"No, Hope...honey...it's perfect for me," he insisted, "Both as a wizard and as a man."

"I don't mean in that way, darling. It's...it's unfinished," she sighed, motioning to the crowning branch. "It's in want of a star."

"Aaaaaaah." Stephen let the moment linger before smirking, "And is that by design, or just something you overlooked?"

"I just can't reach it," came her plaintive, honest reply.

"I see." Stephen could feel how hard she was trying not to ask for his help, in light of her promise to him. How dear that was to him! A simple yet lovely truth about this woman he loved. How could he not offer to help? "You know, I wouldn't mind adding the finishing touch, honey. If you'd allow me to, of course."

"I suppose that'll be alright, darling. If you wouldn't mind too terribly."

"Not at all," he told her, truthfully. "Do you have one, or shall I conjure something to match your theme?"

"Hold on," she replied, making a beeline to a dark pink box perched on the side table by the sofa. Hope removed an object swathed in tissue paper, unwrapping it very gingerly when she returned to his side. "This star is over a hundred years old. It came to America with my great-grandmother when she arrived from Ireland back in 1921. It passes to the eldest daughter in each generation..."

"And you're the lucky winner," Stephen observed in a hushed tone, immediately adopting the same reverence with which Hope handled the fragile antique.

"Yes," she sniffled softly. "Mom was the middle child, but her older sister didn't have any girls, so when she passed, it came to me. That was during The Snap years. Once she came back, my mother never really recovered from finding out her sister had died alone, without the comfort of family near."

Stephen's first thought was of his mother, Beverly, and of the colorless Christmases between Donna's death and her own. In the face of Hope's bittersweet revelation, he couldn't bring himself to express his observation; that grief had been his mother's cause of death as well.

Hope took note of the pain that briefly flickered across his features. "Stephen, are you alright? You looked so sad, all of a sudden."

"Oh, honey, I'm just...just so, so sorry for your loss. I know that grief doesn't take holidays, and there are times it hits so hard, it feels like the one we've lost...that it only happened yesterday." Mindful of the crystal star in his hands, he drew Hope into his arms, then rested his chin atop her head. "But the best comfort, I'm told, is remembering the best of times you shared with them."

The smallest voice in his head gave an ironic retort. Doctor, why don't you take your own advice and heal yourself for a change? Share your story with Hope, and by doing so, maybe you can put your own ghosts to rest.

Maybe so, he told himself. But not now; not tonight. I'm not ready to face that kind of pain just yet. And the small voice answered: of course you aren't. It seems you never are.

Stephen shook off that moment of weakness--as he always did. And with the gentlest charm he could manage, he floated Hope's star to the top of the tree and fixed it safely in place. That drew from Hope her prettiest smile, so that he dared a change of subject. "Well, in light of the heavy lifting I've just done, I think it's time we fix ourselves some turkey and gravy sandwiches and maybe watch 'The Grinch'. It's one of the few Christmas movies I actually enjoy."

"Jim Carey or the DreamWorks one," Hope asked as they headed, arm in arm, toward the closer of the two Sanctum kitchens.

"Jim Carey," he asserted with a grin, "The other is far too sentimental for my liking."

[to be continued🎄]

If you enjoyed this little fic so far, you can read more about how Stephen & Hope met and fell in love in my stories 'Friday in the Park with Stephen' (meet-cute, flirtation & fluff), and 14,000,604 (hurt/comfort, angst, passion/smut, lovers reunited against impossible odds).

In addition, I've written a couple of one-shots/prompt fills as part of their ongoing series, The Wizard and the Artist

tagging: @strangelock221b @mousedetective @icytrickster17 @ironstrange1991 @darsynia @ben-locked @hithertoundreamtof23 @aeterna-auroral-avenger @lorelei-lee @stewardofningishzida @thelostsmiles @mrs-cookie @paperclippedmime @groovyqueer

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cactusspatz · 4 months

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November recs

Yuletide is coming - but this should tide you over until then!

IRIS Log #1548 by deadchannelradio (Batman, gen)

(01:25) Red Hood: (Mild static) (Out of breath, slurred) You motherfuckers. Put some fuckin- (01:25) Batman: (Shaking) Red Hood- (01:25) Red Hood: Shut up. Put some fucking respect. On my name. Start fucking copying me. I just got thrown fucking. Um. 40 feet. Into a fucking uh. What's it. Ditch. I'm still fucking conscious. (01:25) Batman: Red Hood, do not move, we're en route- (01:25) Red Hood: What'll I win if I stand up. (01:25) Batman: (Loud) Do not stand up.

Absolutely hilarious slice-of-patrol-life story, featuring a VERY concussed Jason.

Easy as Pie by Ptelea (Batman, gen)

Five times Jason baked something for or with his siblings, and one time they baked for him. A drabble sequence of triple drabbles written for the Seasons of Drabbles Summer 2023 challenge exchange.

Soft Batsiblings story, with a lot of feels packed into a small space.

Cinema Verite by BoldlyNo (Murderbot, gen)

"Someday, Ratthi hopes, he’s going to run out of things to learn about Secunit that break his heart." Making a documentary in five hours flat is an experience in and of itself, but making a documentary with some of your friend's worst memories as footage is something else altogether.

Will I ever be over them making a documentary FOR GREAT JUSTICE? Definitely not. This is a great Ratthi POV on it.

Reformation by LocalCryptid7 (BNHA, Midoriya/Todoroki/Shinsou)

After a failed suicide attempt, years of bullying, and his mother's death, Izuku Midoriya doesn't think he has any option besides joining the League of Villains. After all, foster care is no place for a quirkless kid like him. Plus, working as a hacker and analyst for the League doesn't sound like it would be too bad. But, after meeting a hurt little girl in Overhaul's headquarters, Toga and Izuku can't just sit back and take orders from Shigaraki anymore. With some careful consideration, Izuku figures a villain reformation program at UA doesn't sound horrible, even if it means having to put up with Bakugou.

Villain!Izuku is usually a hard sell for me, but this works! Mostly because it shows both how Izuku ended up isolated and needing, AND he immediately turns tail once a kid is in danger. And then good followup on the consequences.

The Warlock's Cat by Marchling (Shadowhunters, Magnus/Alec)

Pain raced up his arm. It was a sharp throb that radiated out. More than a broken bone. When Alec went to flex his hand to see how bad it was he couldn’t. His eyes snapped to his own hand and there was no hand. A mission gone wrong leads to Alec being turned into a cat. Alone. Hurt. No one aware of what's happened to him. If only there was a cat-loving warlock nearby to save him.

Hello, I am a sucker for turned-into-a-cat-&-taken-in-by-my-enemy-who-turns-out-to-be-loveable stories - which is a very specific trope, but thankfully people keep writing it! This is a fun exemplar and an interesting AU.

Burgeoning by Owlship (Mad Max, Max/Furiosa)

He smiles a little, an uptick of his mouth, plush lips exposed where he's shaved the mangy beard off in the process of cleaning off the wasteland. "Here," Max says, and nudges into her space, arranges the plant carefully so the roots are properly covered, the leaves brushed free of dirt. Furiosa doesn't realize she's going to move until she does, leaning across the slight distance between them and pressing her lips to his.

Max-returns-to-the-Citadel PWP, featuring poor gardening etiquette and a lovely vulnerable Furiosa.

#monthly recs #fic rec #batman #batfam #dcu #murderbot #bnha #midoriya/todoroki/shinsou #shadowhunters #magnus/alec #malec #mad max #mad max fury road #max/furiosa

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1000punks · 4 months

Text

bonding. //meeting

bonding. //masterlist

pairing: spawn!Astarion x named!Tav (non-binary OC)

warnings: 18+. nsft. mdni. (this chapter is actually sft and fluffy!)

word count: 6,630

summary: two gays remodel a house domestic fluff and some character background building, set in post-game baldur's gate. two people who are weird and traumatized work on their relationship and reclaim their sexuality through a shared kink. lots of gooey romantic smut while these two slowly figure out their future together.

named!Tav is my non-binary tiefling ranger, Festé. i was seeing far too few fics with tiefling!Tav and i thought it was crucial, nay, critical to include them in the headcanons. i hope you all enjoy! ♡

The past month or so had given Festé a lot to think about. Withers had invited them and all the other companions to a party on the Sword Coast, and it had been a joy to see everyone once more. Festé was particularly glad to have seen Karlach and Wyll, and to know that they were safe in Avernus -- relatively, at least. They had their suspicions about the nature of Withers' summons, however, and had pulled both of them aside to tell them of their recent engagement. Both Karlach and Wyll were overjoyed, and their fellow tiefling had even pulled them into a searing and back-breaking hug. Once they had broken apart, Festé had commented sadly that perhaps, with luck, she and Wyll would be able to visit for the wedding the following spring.

"Soldier, there's not a chance in the Hells that I would miss it! Maybe if Wyll and I beg granddad Withers very nicely, he'll strike us another deal like this one!" She had chuckled, and elbowed Wyll firmly in the ribs. He had winced in pain, holding his side gingerly, but his smile remained warm and genuine.

"I wouldn't miss it either, my friend. I'm glad to see that our adventure was fruitful for you both, in more ways than one. And I have to say that I'm proud of you for gentling out our… toothsome companion." Festé had laughed loudly, landing a playful punch on his shoulder.

As for the others, Astarion and Festé had announced that they were going to throw a party for Yuletide, and invited them all to come. Lae'zel, through her projection, looked intrigued at the learning opportunity, and had promised to be there -- provided she could tear free of the throes of the civil war for a few days' time. Shadowheart and Gale had agreed more or less immediately, and Minsc had all but begged Jaheira to come, after boisterously announcing that he and Boo would be there. The elder druid had agreed, albeit reluctantly, and with her face in her hands.

Festé smiled at the happy memories, and looked up surreptitiously when they heard the floorboards creak overhead. They went back to what they were doing, which was making a large pot of stew for the party. They let their mind wander once again as they struck their flint with their dagger, a gesture so familiar to them, it was like second nature. The ranger lit the kitchen's wood stove with ease, and their thoughts drifted to their pale elf.

Astarion had been rather distant lately, engrossed in some sort of project in the spare bedroom upstairs. He had converted it into a workshop of sorts, but Festé didn't have the nerve, nor the gall, to have looked inside. Astarion had also never bothered to lock the door. It was pleasant that they could keep small secrets from one another, but it had nevertheless been an elephant in the room for a number of weeks. They stoked the stove absentmindedly before shutting the small hatch, and went to work peeling and chopping vegetables at the counter. The tiefling shook their head, their eyebrows furrowed, and they wondered for the umpteenth time what it could be. As they removed the top of a carrot, it came to them, and they rolled their eyes with a chuckle. Festé had come to know the elf all too well. With a satisfied smirk, they set the chopped vegetables aside and took up the freshly plucked pheasant, dropping it carefully into the pot of now-boiling water. Nodding at their work, they crossed over to the modest dining table and settled down on one of the benches, resting their chin on their palm and gazing out the window. To their delight, it had finally begun to snow.

"My love!" Festé called softly; they knew that Astarion could likely hear their breathing from upstairs, never mind their voice. There was a slow creak, and they heard the doors to his room slide open and closed again. They got up from the table, and moved back to the stove to check on their broth. Momentarily, Astarion's cool palms descended upon their shoulders and his lips brushed against the hollow behind their right ear. He smoothed his hands over their biceps before crossing his arms around their waist, brushing his nose over their neck with a soft sigh.

"What do you need, darling?" he murmured, looking down into the open pot.

"Turn your head to the left and tell me what you see, my love," they answered, pushing the pheasant around in the pot to check its tenderness.

"Hmm?" Astarion did as they asked and rested his chin on their left shoulder with a soft chuckle. "Ah. I suppose you'll want to go and make snow angels before morning hits, won't you? Such a child."

"Look at the lights on the street, my dear." Festé turned and pointed with their spoon this time, beaming. "That's what has me so excited."

The elf did as they asked once more, taking a deep breath and studying the lights this time, with his eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, noticing the way that the snowflakes danced around the lamps, throwing millions of diamond facets against the night sky. They swirled slowly in midair when a gentle wind caught them, seeming to burst around the dim light like a firework in miniature. A smile crept over his lips slowly, and he nodded. "I understand now, darling. Snow can be beautiful, I suppose," he chuckled, squeezing them gently. "It's all about the little things with you, isn't it?"

"That it is. It's that, or I'm just easily amused." They patted Astarion's hand with a laugh, putting the spoon down on the counter and turning in his arms, stretching up to kiss his cheek. "Mm! This broth will take at least two hours, love."

"That's just enough time for me to seduce you on the couch." Astarion smiled, cocking an eyebrow at them questioningly. "It's been so long, love, we've both been so busy…" he reached up to brush his fingers over Festé's cheek. The tiefling hummed appreciatively, their eyelids fluttering, but they bit their lip to resist the temptation.

"Speaking of which, Star: have you been making wedding outfits for us both?" They asked pointedly, resting their hands on his hips and swaying slowly side to side. The elf's mouth gaped in shock, and he scowled.

"You peeked? Are you serious? It was supposed to be a surprise! Gods below, darling, I do one selfless thing, and you have to go and ruin- "

"Oh, relax, Star. I didn't need to look. You haven't exactly been subtle about your project, and I helped you cart all of your sewing supplies up there months ago." Festé patted his cheek gently, before raising their hand as if to swear an oath. "I promise, I haven't looked. I just know you too well." Astarion rolled his eyes in disbelief, and they pinched his cheek. "And you know me, if I had stumbled upon what you've been working on, I would have come to you and very guiltily owned up to it." They kissed his other cheek, and the elf sighed exasperatedly.

"If you know me so well, darling; what's the colour scheme?"

"Oh, my love. You don't want me to start guessing colours, it would just make you more riled up." Festé tilted their head, grimacing a bit.

"You swear you won't go poking around, then?" Astarion mumbled after a moment, biting his lip and breaking away from them. He crossed his arms protectively over his chest.

"One, I don't need to, I trust your stylistic choices. Two, you're entitled to your privacy, and if you wanted me to see, you would have shown me already." They winked at him, reaching forward and gently resting their hands on his elbows.

Their elf sighed deeply. "You're right, darling. I'm sorry for accusing you. I… Well, you know. I just wanted to make you something nice." He cast his eyes to the side, looking down at the floor and shaping his hands around an imaginary figure in the air. "I'm so excited to see you wearing…" His eyes snapped back to theirs, and he smiled sheepishly. "It. You're going to look divine."

"I trust you." Festé repeated, smiling warmly, and Astarion wrapped them into a tight hug, planting his chin on their shoulder. "I do want to talk about the ceremony, though. Is there anything special you would like to do?"

"Besides absolutely stunning you with my wedding vows? Hmm…" He shifted his weight slightly, and drew in a long breath. "There was something I wanted to discuss with you, actually."

"What is it, my love?" Festé swayed gently with him, humming and resting their cheek on his shoulder.

"Well. There is a certain old ritual that was somewhat common in elven clans." His imp nodded against his shoulder, encouraging him to continue. "I would have to research it more closely, but it involves linking one's mind with their spouse's. It's an odd request, to be sure, but I can admit that after the ability to walk in the sun, the next best thing about being infected was being able to hear your beautiful voice in my head every day." Astarion wrapped his arms low on the tiefling's hips, sighing once again.

"You miss that? Are you okay with that potential invasion of your privacy?" Festé lifted their head and leaned back, surveying their elf's features and waiting patiently for his response.

He shrugged. "It was a far different thing for us to share a telepathic connection with all of our companions, not to mention a mindflayer attempting to manipulate us all at every turn. I had to be careful about imagining you in the nude that whole time, darling." He raised one hand dramatically to his forehead and laughed. "If it were just you, I think it would be a damn sight more comforting. And… intimate." His eyes flashed, and he gave his imp a dashing grin.

Festé nodded thoughtfully. "I see your point, and I'm comfortable with the idea, provided we research it together," their voice was soft, soothing. Astarion pursed his lips regardless. "I'm curious about it, love. I'm not saying 'no'."

He suddenly picked them up, spinning around slowly with a soft chuckle, before setting them on the surface of the table. Their elf gave them an adoring smile before leaning down and pressing his lips to theirs. "Thank you for considering it, my darling," he whispered, cool breath ghosting along the tiefling's cheek. "Tell me what you would like to do." Astarion sat at the bench, looking up at Festé, and running his fingers over the tops of their thighs.

They pushed their hands into his hair, cradling his head as they played with his curls. "I would like to say our wedding vows in our native tongues. I would just love to hiss and spit at you romantically in front of all of our friends." They were straight-faced, but a small quiver in their lip made Astarion burst out laughing. Festé joined in with a soft chuckle, and continued, "I've never heard you speak in Elven, but I'm positive that it would be captivating." They stroked down his cheek, their touch light as they bent to kiss their elf's forehead. "And, I want to give you a dagger."

"Darling, you're sweet," Astarion sighed appreciatively, tilting his head up. "However, my days of casual murder are behind me. Well… for the most part."

Another chuckle. "No, no. My father gave my mother a very ornate dagger when they were married, so I was told. He said that it was supposed to symbolize putting his life in another person's hands entirely. I would like to continue that little tradition."

The pale elf's face fell, and he heaved a great sigh, leaning forward and resting his cheek on Festé's thigh. Their fingers wove through his curls and he tilted his head to their touch. He shifted so that a single red eye caught the tiefling's gaze, and they smiled, their fingertips grazing his cheek. "You're too kind to me, darling. And you trust me far too deeply for your own good," he murmured wistfully.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · A soft knock came at the door shortly after darkness fell. Festé's head snapped up from the stew that they had been nursing since they had awakened that afternoon, panic marring their features. Astarion shot them a look, taking the bread gingerly from the oven and setting it on the counter. Silently, he rested his hand at the small of their back, and gave them a soft kiss before leading them to the front door. He leaned close to their ear and murmured, "Relax. They'll love it, it smells delicious."

"It's not just that," Festé paused with their hand on the doorknob, "We haven't had anyone visit yet, and I want to make a good impression."

The elf scoffed, chuckling softly. "I think as long as they see that it's not a blood-stained brothel in here, we'll both survive." Festé rolled their eyes and opened the door to a smiling Gale, an apprehensive Shadowheart, a tired-looking Jaheira, but no Minsc. Lae'zel wasn't present either. Jaheira made eye contact with the tiefling, and shook her head from the back of the crowd, holding up one hand as if to say, "I'll explain later."

"Ah! My friend!" Gale broke the silence, grasping Festé's hand briefly and nodding kindly at Astarion, who nodded back. "I'm so glad to have been invited to your lovely home. May we?"

"Please do, Gale. Shadowheart. Old Lady." Festé winked at Jaheira, who rolled her eyes and laughed. Astarion kept his hand on their back, and both moved aside to let the others in from the cold. They felt his hand drop to their hip when Gale moved close for a hug; and the pale elf tensed at their side when the wizard threw his arms around the tiefling. Shadowheart smirked subtly, shooting a look at Astarion over Gale's shoulder. He released Festé after a moment, and Shadowheart moved in for her turn as Gale began to chatter excitedly.

"This is such a lovely place for the both of you!" He gestured around, taking in the sitting room with a crooked smile. "I'm glad, if I may be so bold to comment, that you're both settling down so well."

Astarion bowed his head politely to Shadowheart, then Gale and Jaheira, before speaking up. "Why, you've got this lovely little imp to thank for- "

"Oh, my love, don't chalk this all up to my doing, you were the one who found the place- " Festé interrupted, but Astarion slid his hand over their mouth and continued with a laugh.

"As I was saying, Festé practically rebuilt this place with little more than their bare hands." He glared directly at Gale with a smirk, standing behind his imp and bending to kiss their temple. "All of the furniture, the floors, the bed; and we're remodelling the back porch in the spring. Not to mention they dug the garden…" Festé waved one hand dismissively, though they had begun to blush.

"Oh, so you've been exploiting their labour then?" Shadowheart quipped, chuckling softly.

"Naturally." The pale elf replied sarcastically, squishing Festé's cheeks when he removed his hand. "Feel free to hang your coats and make yourselves comfortable, we were just finishing up with dinner." Astarion wrapped an arm loosely on their hips and steered the tiefling back into the kitchen, while the others abided his request. "The table is through here," he called as they each began to follow.

"It's funny, Astarion," Jaheira said, sitting on one of the long benches, "This place was set to be condemned before the brain crisis. I had no earthly idea that the city officials had sold it to anyone." She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a grin as she watched Festé freeze in the middle of the kitchen, holding the heavy pot of stew.

"Well…" they began, tilting their head and clicking their tongue, "We didn't buy it. But we did find it." They set the pot in the middle of the table with a dull thud. "It was dirt cheap, you could say. And with all of the confusion with the Upper City restoration, it was a little too easy to move ourselves in."

"I like to think of it as a little gift for all of our efforts to save this damned city," Astarion murmured, setting the fresh bread and a few bottles of wine on the table beside the pot. He moved to help Festé with bowls and goblets.

Gale had his face in his hands, and Shadowheart looked sideways at him with a shrug. "I suppose that's logical enough reasoning. Logical enough for the two of you, at least." She began to spoon the stew into bowls, passing one each to the wizard and the druid. "Not to change the subject, but this smells delicious. Chicken?" she asked.

Jaheira drew in a breath, wafting the steam from her bowl toward her with one hand. "Pheasant," she smiled. "I'm glad to see you're keeping your skills sharp, Festé." They returned the warm smile as they sat down next to Gale. Astarion settled closely on their other side, uncorking a bottle and passing out goblets for the wine.

"Hearing you approve of me as your adopted child is so invigorating, Jaheira." The tiefling raised their goblet and everyone else followed suit. "To being alive, and being together," they toasted, and smiles broke out around the table. Everyone clinked and drank deeply; and Festé felt Astarion's free hand close around theirs under the table. He gave them a sidelong glance and smiled behind his goblet.

"Speaking of being together and alive," Gale swallowed another sip of wine before continuing, "Besides the obvious, is there any other reason why Wyll and Karlach haven't joined us tonight? They're not…" he left the last part unsaid, his deep brown eyes widening with worry.

"Oh, no. Well, not that I'm aware of, at least. The last time we saw them both was at the party on the Coast, same as you all," Festé reassured him. "At any rate, I'm sure we'll all seem them again soon." The tiefling beamed and picked up their spoon.

"Indeed," Astarion agreed. "Tuck in everyone. I'll be eating later on." He laughed, earning a withering look from both Gale and Jaheira, and a snort from Shadowheart, who had started slicing bread and passing it out.

"You truly get less funny every time I see you, Astarion. It's a remarkable skill you have," she murmured, sipping a spoonful of stew.

"Well, at least I can tell a joke properly, darling," Astarion tipped his cup at her, and she cracked a rare smile, shaking her head.

"This is delicious, Festé. Your cooking certainly puts mine to shame." Gale dipped his bread in his bowl and chewed thoughtfully. "I would be keen to have this recipe from you, provided you're willing to pass it along."

"I would, Gale. Of course." Festé answered. "I actually found it in an old book that Minsc gave to me."

Jaheira snorted, almost choking into her own bowl. "I find it hard to believe that you got a book from Minsc," she sputtered, starting to laugh quietly.

"On the contrary, he did give me a book a few months back. However, he said, quote: 'I am not sure that I will be able to read this one. Boo has whispered to Minsc that it will be too scary. And Minsc does not like the horror'." Festé mimicked the larger ranger's voice perfectly, breaking into laughter themself. "Why didn't he make it, anyway?"

"The idiot got himself thrown in jail once again," Jaheira spat, a tired look overtaking her features. "And I haven't bailed him out yet because he actually needs to learn his lesson this time." She paused, taking a sip of wine. "Because of that newfound alliance with the Guild, which is one that I can't afford to have him mucking up."

"What did he do?" Shadowheart inquired, her eyebrows knitting.

"He found one of Nine-Fingers' rings when he was supposed to meet with her one day, and the dumb bastard stole it. Nine-Fingers called in her goons, and he got tossed in jail very easily. It's been two weeks and I still haven't quite smoothed things out with her, nor the rest of the Guild." The druid sighed, then she laughed, if somewhat dejectedly. "He can stay in there until I do. I know that he'll survive."

Festé and Astarion exchanged a look, each taking a sip of wine at the same time. "That is… a pity, because we have some rather exciting news to share with you all…" Festé began, feeling Astarion's hand close more tightly around their own, interlacing his fingers with theirs.

"Expecting?" Gale had steepled his fingers, glancing at the couple with the look of a disapproving father, though he seemed to be biting his lip. There was a beat of silence, and then everyone at the table erupted into peals of laughter. "Seriously, though. If there is something important that you feel we must hear, out with it! Are you rounding us up for another adventure?"

"Gods above, no," Astarion spat, drawing Festé's hand up in his own and resting it on the surface of the table. "I've merely tricked our poor leader into agreeing to marry me." He smiled, sincerely, wiggling the tiefling's ring finger so that the bloodstone glinted in the low light. The elf gently retracted his hand, resting it on Festé's thigh when he saw Gale make to grab their hand himself.

"This is absolutely exquisite, if I may say so. Such a beautiful piece of jewellery." He smiled warmly at the couple, and Astarion felt surprise creep up his back when the wizard spoke again. "You both make a fine pair, and I do mean that from the bottom of my heart. I'm happy for you." he patted Festé's hand, setting it down once more.

"Yes, congratulations are in order, clearly." Shadowheart agreed with a dry smile, lifting her goblet slightly before taking her turn examining the ring. "Did you buy it or have it made?"

Festé smirked, jerking their chin in Shadowheart's direction when they looked up at their elf, who looked positively uncomfortable. "Tell them, my love." They turned back to everyone else, chuckling. "I cried when he told me."

Astarion cleared his throat, tilting his head to the side with a sheepish expression. "That much is true. I, well - I…" he faltered, and Festé met his gaze, nodding encouragingly. "Right. I saved that bloodstone when we were all still struggling for our lives on the coast, and when we finally reached the city, I asked Dammon to cut it into a ring for me," the elf recounted, without his usual bravado. "I don't expect you all to understand, but I think, in some ways, Festé's blood changed me, as did our strengthening bond. I wanted to represent that when I finally worked up the courage to propose to them."

Jaheira had been sitting with her arms crossed, silently, and Astarion shot her a furtive glance when he had finished speaking, his hand tightening around the imp's thigh. She reached slowly for her goblet, taking a long drink and not breaking eye contact with the pale elf. Finally, she murmured, "You had better take care of them, Astarion, and don't you dare do anything that will make me have to hunt you down."

"I-!" Astarion all but yelped. "I wouldn't dare hurt them," he snarled.

"Not to worry, my love. I think that's the old witch's way of saying she approves of our union," Festé stage-whispered, and Jaheira smiled subtly. The tiefling got up with a chuckle, gathering the empty bowls and taking them to the washbasin, returning to their seat after a moment and beginning to refill everyone's goblets.

"Have you found anyone to officiate for you yet?" Shadowheart asked, nodding her thanks at the full goblet, and taking a sip.

"Not that I'm aware of, but you'll have to ask the wedding planner. He's been keeping me in the dark about most things, citing the need for 'perfection'." The tiefling looked up at Astarion, who shook his head.

"It's not that, darling, I just…" I don't want you to have to lift a finger. You need only worry about showing up at the right place and time." He finished with a contented sigh.

"It also sounds like you're a bit of a control freak, Astarion." Shadowheart laughed softly, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Oh, very well," Astarion said in clipped tones. "Have a laugh at my expense, you all." He lifted his hands and let out an exasperated scoff. "But when someone rebuilds a house for you, don't you dare give them a perfect wedding in return, or you'll have to answer to me."

Festé chuckled and shook their head. "Why don't you show everyone your little project, my love?" The others seemed to lean in, and Gale had an expression of confusion and curiosity on his face. "He's hand-sewing us outfits for the wedding," they murmured, "and I haven't seen them, it's supposed to be a surprise. However, I know that he's secretly hoping to show them off to someone." Astarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, his free hand moving in the air as if he could wave away their words.

"That sounds excellent!" Gale exclaimed. "I, for one, love knowing life's little secrets; but… if I could choose, of course, it wouldn't be what a vampire is putting together behind closed doors for his lover." He winked at Festé, not hiding his wide smile at the pale elf's discomfort. He stood, straightening his robes, and Astarion stood suddenly as well, glaring at the wizard.

"Fine," he said, acid in his voice as he beckoned Gale to follow. Jaheira got up with a low chuckle, and trailed the two men up the stairs. Shadowheart stayed put with Festé, turning to them, turning to them and shaking her head. She downed her goblet in one and set it aside, drawing in a long breath.

"You've really… softened him, Festé. I don't know how exactly to describe it, but he seems less…" she trailed off, lifting her hands slightly from the table and spreading her fingers.

"Sharp? Feral?" The tiefling chuckled. "He has calmed down a lot since we first met him. I think he feels safer now. It's not my right to decide how he feels, but I think he's beginning to heal, in his own way."

"I suppose we all are, but I've been more worried about him than even myself sometimes," Shadowheart admitted. "I can relate a lot to what he's been through, but even then… I won't ever truly understand him." She smiled. "I'm glad you do, though. And as for you, my friend, I'm glad that you're happy with him."

They both looked up, hearing the floorboards creak above them, and Gale's excited chatter drifted down the stairs. Astarion's voice was velvety, but equally excited. Festé imagined him showing off some fine fabric and commenting with a flourish on his own handiwork, and they smirked. "I am," they said simply. "You'd better go up there, make sure he and Gale don't get in a fight, hmm?"

"I will in a moment, I want to ask you something." She met their eyes, determination colouring her face. "May I officiate? That is, if you haven't found anyone to do so yet. I want to… repay you for all you've done for me, I guess you could say."

"You would do that for me? For us?" Festé was taken aback, and paused, their fingers tracing the grain of the table's surface.

"Well, more for you than Astarion," she chuckled. "But I will say that he was very adept at keeping the daggers from my back during our little adventure; and I can appreciate how much he loves you."

"You're too kind, Shadowheart, I appreciate that. And, of course, I would be overjoyed to have you officiate." Festé smiled, standing and beginning to clear the rest of the table as they heard Gale, Astarion and Jaheira descend the stairs. "You should go look before the man gets edgy." They laughed and winked at her.

Gale and Astarion were trading jabs, but the tone was mostly playful as the two came within earshot. Astarion let out a great sigh and barked, "Of course it's 'old-fashioned,' I'm over two hundred years old."

"Be that as it may, I still think that you could stand to hear a critique or two if you truly wish for it to be a magical day." Gale laughed and clapped his hand on the pale elf's back. "It is a rather exquisite ensemble so far, I must admit. Ah! Festé, let me help you with the washing-up." The wizard strode into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves, and Festé locked eyes with Astarion from across the room. He smirked at them, raking his eyes hungrily over their body before tilting his head and averting his gaze. They shivered, wondering what exactly was transpiring in his mind as he ushered Shadowheart up the stairs ahead of himself.

The tiefling sighed, stoking the wood stove to boil some water for the basin, and rolled up their sleeves as well. Jaheira chuckled in what sounded like disbelief, and took her place back at the table.

"Well," was all she said, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

"What, is he not a good fit, denmother?" Festé murmured.

"On the contrary, you little imp," she nodded with a small smile playing over her lips. "I think you made a very good choice in a life partner. That man would do anything for you, if you asked him to."

"You think so? Shadowheart said something similar just now." Their voice was quiet, and they kept one eye on the kettle as it began to hiss softly.

Jaheira raised her hands, shrugging. "So I am not the only one who sees it."

"Oh, definitely not, Jaheira." Gale cut in, piling bowls into the washbasin. "Astarion… well, he and I are quite similar, if only in the realm of acts of service, that is. If I were in love like he seems to be with you, I would… Oh! I'll wash, as thanks for a delicious meal!" He interrupted himself, stepping back to let Festé pour the hot water. "Anyway, I would show my partner through my actions how much I respect and adore them. I suppose," he tilted his head in a half-nod, waving both hands in the air, "As a very verbose man, I would tell them as well, but- "

"He might not have the words yet, given his history." Festé finished for him, offering the wizard a kind smile as they took up a dish towel.

"Aha! Exactly." Gale smiled as well, pointing at them with the sponge. "He is not yet loquacious; but, given time, I think he could be as adept with his words of affection as he is with a pair of daggers." He shook his head, smile widening as he looked down into the basin and started to scrub out the dinner bowls. "He has put together quite a fine outfit for you. You're going to look dashing on your wedding day, Festé."

The tiefling blushed involuntarily, and let out a nervous chuckle. "Astute as always, Gale." They took the bowls he passed to them, and began to stack them on the counter once they had wiped them dry.

"I have to say, I agree with Gale. You're going to look wonderful." Shadowheart's voice drifted across the room, and Festé's head snapped up for the second time that evening as Astarion's hands rested on their hips. He dodged their horns expertly, dropping pointy ear to shoulder in a split second, and leaning down to press a kiss to their cheek before taking the bowls to put away. "Both of you, I should say," Shadowheart continued, surveying the couple. "He's working in something for himself too, and it matches- "

"Hush." Astarion held up a disapproving hand. "Darling, don't spoil it. I wouldn't be working in secret if I wanted them to be in on the surprise, now would I?" He scowled, but his tone was light.

Gale flicked his hands over the basin and took the dish towel when Festé offered it. "I'm glad to hear it, but I trust Star. Whatever he's making is sure to be good." They smiled at their pale elf.

"Oh, you kids." Jaheira sighed, standing up and putting her palms firmly on the table. "I hate to eat and leave, but I should go and meet my late-night appointment; and try to get Minsc out of jail. I would hate for him to miss the big day." She smiled widely, and made her way to the tiefling to give them a tight hug. When she broke away, she reached out to shake Astarion's hand. He stiffened at the gesture, but returned it regardless. "Congratulations, both of you."

All four of the companions saw Jaheira to the door, hugging and waving their goodbyes before retiring to the living room. Festé busied themself starting a fire while Gale admired the couch. Astarion had disappeared temporarily for more wine, and pillows for himself and his imp. He sat and pulled them into his lap as soon as the fire was crackling. His touch felt anxious and desperate, but he relaxed marginally as he pulled Festé to rest back against his chest and wrapped his arms over their waist.

"…so fortunate that you moved in with a carpenter, isn't it, Astarion?" Gale's voice entered the tiefling's consciousness once again as they focused. Astarion's chest rumbled slightly as he spoke from behind them.

"It is, isn't it? Perhaps that's your calling, darling. Maybe Gale wants you to make him some furniture as well," he murmured, and Festé caught the sharp edge of jealousy in his tone, even if Gale did not.

"Oh, oh. I perish the thought of carting Festé off to Waterdeep just to toil away on some furniture for me. Goodness." Gale waved away the notion with a hearty chuckle.

"Funny… I do as well," Astarion's grip tightened about the tiefling's waist, and Festé shot Shadowheart a pleading look. She merely raised her eyebrows and sipped her wine quietly.

"On another note," she finally spoke up after a tense silence, "I was wondering how adjusting back to nights has been for you, Astarion. Are you doing well?"

He relaxed once more, considering the question as he rested his chin on Festé's shoulder. "It's been much easier as time goes on, I'll admit. No guess as to why that is, hm?"

"Have you considered finding a way to walk in the sun again?" Shadowheart asked in a soft tone, "If… such a thing exists, that is."

"Do you know something, Shadowheart?" Festé asked, studying her face, but they couldn't quite tell if anything was out of the ordinary.

"No, not any more than anyone else, I would imagine," she shrugged.

Astarion waited, humming softly. "I have considered it, but I have no more leads than you do on how to achieve that. If anything, I want to stop being so selfish, and forcing Festé to life my lifestyle."

"Oh, as if you could force me to do anything, my love." Festé said lightly, resting back against him, and they felt his lips brush against their earlobe.

"Well, not here, darling," he whispered almost silently, and felt them shiver in his arms. He spoke aloud again almost immediately, "Like I said, it would be for their sake more than my own. And, well -- I imagine not burning to a crisp when I want to go for a walk would be nice, too."

Gale and Shadowheart exchanged a glance as Festé looked on, studying the complexities of the gesture. The two of them were hiding something, weren't they? The tiefling relaxed further, deciding to push the issue from their mind for the time being. If they wanted to share, they would have, they thought.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · Festé had no idea when they had fallen asleep, but they hung in a half-awakened haze as they heard Astarion hiss softly, "No, I wouldn't consider that. I couldn't ask them to do that for me."

"Astarion, I'm merely speaking in hypotheticals- " Gale's voice was equally as low, but firm in tone.

"And I am speaking from experience, Gale, it would guarantee them immortality; but it would also greatly reduce their safety. I can't have that, I won't lose them, and I won't have any harm that comes to them on my conscience." Astarion's tone was harsh, but his hold on them was gentle, careful not to jostle them. The tiefling opened their eyes halfway, seeing Shadowheart dozing on the couch through their eyelashes in their peripheral vision. Festé considered the tone of the discussion, and kept their breathing even and slow, trying not to arouse suspicion. They closed their eyes as they heard Gale speak again.

"If we had a plan, would you consider it?" he asked, and Festé could almost feel his gaze on the back of their neck.

"I… this isn't just about what I want, you know." Astarion's voice faltered slightly. His hand slid protectively up their back, and Festé took the opportunity to shift slightly in the elf's lap, sighing out as they would in their sleep.

"What if they were okay with it?" Gale asked, and Astarion sighed in disgust.

"It's almost morning, Gale, will you- " he started.

"What if they were- " the wizard countered.

"Drop it." Astarion snarled, louder than before. Festé listened as Shadowheart shifted on the couch. She must have sat up properly, they guessed. It was safe, they decided, to slowly blink their eyes open when she spoke.

"What's wrong, are you two arguing again?" she mumbled, and Festé lifted their head slowly, looking up at Astarion's face. He had composed his features into a blank mask, before smiling at them warmly.

"Gale is just annoying," he said, and the wizard scoffed from his end of the couch.

"Astarion is just inflexible," he retorted, crossing his arms.

"Just like usual, then," Festé remarked calmly, narrowing their eyes at their elf before smiling. Astarion knew that they knew something, it was plain on his face.

"Well, I'm sure that you can pick it up again when we see each other next," Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "Come on, Gale, you and I should probably put those rooms at the tavern to use for a few hours, at least." She stood, casting a cursory glance between the two men, and jerked her chin towards the door. "We'll stop by for a proper goodbye tomorrow, before we leave."

"Okay, that sounds good to me." Festé met her eyes, moving to get up as well, and tugging Astarion along with them. The tiefling helped the two collect their coats, and after a few moments, the wizard and the cleric were making their way up the snowy street, side by side. Festé turned after closing the door, sighing as they all but collapsed in Astarion's arms. "You," they mumbled against his chest, "You have some explaining to do." The elf flinched, and they continued, "But we should get some sleep first."

A sigh. "Okay, darling," he conceded, leading them into the bedroom.

a/n: hey! thank you for waiting for this fic! i know it's been a couple weeks since i've update but to all of you out there: thank you for continuing to support this fic!! you rock! you matter! you're awesome! GIF CREDIT: here!

#.fic #fic: bonding.#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion acunin #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #spawn!astarion x named tav #bg3 astarion #i'm all pointy ears #oc: festé #astarion

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sixth-light · 2 months

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Fic meme

List five of your least-popular fics, as well as when/why you wrote them (tagged by @themardia)

a beginning (TOG/WoT, Andy & Nile, gen) - If I recall correctly this was in response to a 'cross your newest and oldest fandom' challenge, and well before WoT crashed back into my life with the TV show in late 2021! I've got a whole lot more worldbuilding for this tucked away in the back of my head somewhere...

The Waiting Game (RoL, Peter/Beverley, Peter & Thomas) - it's tagged 'ask box fic' and I think I would have written it as part of a whole lot of post-Hanging Tree prompts, but the years have eroded my memory of who prompted me and what exactly they prompted me.

they choose to take you in (Court of Fives, Bettany & OC) - a Yuletide fic for a very small book fandom which features the clash of a matriarchal and a patriarchal culture; I was obsessed with the idea of a longed-for male heir (still in utero at the end of the series) being...whoops, not that.

The Sight of Other Skies (Eternal Skies trilogy, Samarkar & Tsareg Edene) - another Yuletide fic for a book fandom, ft. female friendship, but mostly an excuse to roll around in the series worldbuilding.

The Retirement of Gabriel Argent (Daniel Blackland series, Gabriel/Max) - I am extremely proud that I wrote the first fic on AO3 for this very tiny fandom. It was the unusual-for-me case of finishing a book trilogy and being absolutely unable to move on without getting this post-canon idea out of my head.

Tagging: @emjee, @raedear, @darlingofdots, @highladyluck, @butterflydm, and anybody else who feels like doing this!

#my fanfic #wheel of time #the old guard #rivers of london #court of fives #eternal skies trilogy #daniel blackland trilogy

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mantrabay · 4 months

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Christmas Torch Aloft

Season of dream haze and arctic signpost.

Chill and chap brood whose scattered offspring plummet thermal values as welcome mat for “whiskered” chimney guest awash with bounty.

Thief of sun filled days without a twinge but that universal late December rendezvous can’t be thrust off-course.

Primal raw wind howl dissing summer’s distant memory - spotty and erratic though it was.

Deck chair, seat of toil free bliss now cold front recess blob.

Mirage or wishful thinking from a wet weather veteran.

We live in fear of reruns like Ophelia or

2010’s black ice.

Storm Force Brian, Mount Fuji on an airwave shrapnel carrier.

Dormant Loch Ness shadow’s fervent air mass plugging festive tunes.

To fuel dispatch and chimney sweep alike a sacred windfall.

For those who struggle just another inroad on an ever

shrinking pocket.

Yet this annual curtain closer has its grail and saving grace.

Dark art charmer lacing every patch for knee high boot crunch.

Architect of igloo closet ski cap.

Sleigh ride bell upon that maligned feast around our globe (Noel hark the alpine carol)!

Bizarre but only to us frostbite souls aloof from glacial beauty.

Deep freeze spirit canvass may not surface.

Christmas anthems booming over frolic footfall streets adorned by night owls.

Chaser lights that gee up gutted ghost town black spot.

Urban ice rink dome another fantasy or wonderland.

Toy shop stock n trade whose only trade is stock.

Colour coded gadget clutching every cell of window space.

Fashion fodder wizards magic spark a toddler’s glee at every turn.

Boisterous strains of Santa rousing inner reindeers - the sort beloved by children down the ages.

Yuletide decor gift band holly bush spike.

Log tossed on fire, kindling stick incendiary, leaping flame enshrouds smokeless polish.

Skim milk skyline flaunts its snow fleck jewellery aloft.

Stars of astral compass spread their twinkle dash on human garlands.

Winter’s stepwise edging in a whirl plume of slush.

Christmas well and truly has arrived.

Photographs and piece

all my own work

Dedicated to my wonderful sister Jay Pallen.

Happy Christmas to you and your family/ friends, Jay.

Wishing everyone on tumbrl a very merry Christmas

To those on tumbrl who read, liked, and reblogged my various works, a deep and genuine thanks

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sailtomarina · 5 months

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A New Wreath

Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy & Scorpius Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Scorpius Malfoy | @hp-yuletide-bliss Day 1: Parents/children relationship | WC 1576 | Rating: G

It was a bit of a miracle that Scorpius and Draco could even find a spot along the wall to observe the crowds bustling around Professor Longbottom’s new greenhouse. The holiday season was well underway with magical snow falling from the ceiling and dissipating before touching anybody’s heads, and Mrs Longbottom had somehow convinced some toads to croak along to the Christmas soundtrack she’d charmed to sound throughout all the buildings.

Hermione’s long-standing friendship with his father made her adamant on finding the majority of the Manor’s holiday decor from her favorite Herbologist. Scorpius had tried to convince her to forgo the effort seeing as they had House Elves to do the work for them and he already enjoyed more than enough festivity at Hogwarts.

But there was no steering her once her mind was set. Plus, she said it helped her support Neville’s business, and how could any of them say no to that?

“You’d think 50 wreaths would be enough,” Scorpius grumbled, watching her wave her arms excitedly as she put in an order for 100 more from a very amused-looking Hannah.

“Well, she’s taking into account not just the Manor, but all the outbuildings, too. Where there are windows and doors, there’s bound to be a wreath.” His father simply sounded amused, and he rested an arm across Scorpius’ shoulders as they continued to wait.

“And the trees? It’s not like we’re Hogwarts needing 10 trees in our Ballroom.”

“No, but 10 trees would cover all the important rooms.”

Scorpius snorted at the thought of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of those Evergreens ended up in his bedroom, laden with all of his childhood ornaments.

He waved at the sight of Albus and Lily Potter. They trailed after their mum, who was making her way towards Hermione. They waved back, then disappeared behind a crowd of eager shoppers.

“You’re free to join your friends, if you like,” his father encouraged, squeezing his shoulder just once before letting go.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Scorpius jetted away immediately, winding around trailing ivy and teetering pots. He bumped into more than one witch and wizard along the way as he made his way towards where he last saw the Potters.

“Sorry! So sorry!”

“Scorpius!”

His heart soared at the sound of his name, then he grinned at the flash of red before he was nearly tackled off his feet in a fierce hug.

“Hey, Lily. Hey, Albus.”

Lily let go as her brother approached, and the two boys exchanged their secret handshake.

“Where’s James?” Scorpius asked.

“He stayed at home to help Dad��”

Lily cut off her brother before he could finish, “--set up a huge surprise for mum.”

“Lily! It’s a secret!” Albus swatted at her head, but she ducked at the last minute so he snatched nothing but air.

“It’s just Scorpius!”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” Scorpius assured them.

A part of him, deep down, twinged in pain at the memories of him and his dad once setting up surprises for his mum. She’d laugh uncontrollably every time, long, dark hair spilling forward to hide her face as she clutched her stomach with each giggle.

That was before she got sick. After that, they didn’t want to risk hurting her even more than she already was.

“What are you all doing here, then?” He changed the subject before his face could give his thoughts away.

Lily waved over her shoulder. “Mum wanted to see if Professor Longbottom could teach her how to untangle the garlands we messed up.”

“What’d you lot do?”

Albus’ eyebrows waggled as he grinned, before he leaned forward to loudly whisper, “We built a Christmas nest for Aurora.”

Aurora was Mr Potter’s snowy owl. Scorpius chuckled as he imagined the look on their mum’s face when she discovered her garlands had been twisted and shaped beyond repair.

“Scorpius! Where’s Draco?” Hermione’s question brought his attention away from the siblings and over to where she stood with Mrs Longbottom. Her brow was wrinkled in concern as she scanned the greenhouse in search of his father. She knew, as well as he, that he hated crowds.

“He’s waiting against the wall. Want me to fetch him?”

Warm caramel eyes turned back to look at him, and he couldn’t help but relax in response to her smile. “That’s alright. I won’t be too much longer.”

She returned to her discussion with the heavily pregnant woman at her side, one hand rising far above her head as she tried to describe the heights required for a Malfoy Christmas tree.

“So, it’s going well then?”

“Hm?” He turned a puzzled glance at Albus.

“You and Hermione.” Lily nodded at her brother’s side in agreement. What were they on about?

“I mean, yeah. She’s great. Why wouldn’t we get on?”

The two Potters glanced at each other with what looked like exasperation.

“Aren’t she and your dad, you know, together now?”

Scorpius’ eyes jumped high on his forehead at the question. Hermione and his dad?

“What makes you think that?”

Now they were looking at him like he’d missed an obvious answer in Charm’s Class, his best subject.

“Scorpius,” Lily said carefully, “have you not seen them?”

He jerked back at her tone, his stomach dropping at the implication. He looked over their shoulders back towards where he’d left his dad whose height and unmistakable hair made it easy work. He spotted the grey eyes that matched his own, but they weren’t looking at him.

They looked past him.

At Hermione.

The creases at the corners of his eyes faded somehow, and he looked soft in a way Scorpius hadn’t seen in several years…not since his mum.

“They’re…friends…” he said softly, still at a loss in how he’d missed the signs right in front of him.

“They are…” Lily replied slowly.

“You okay, mate?” Albus asked, but Scorpius didn’t answer him.

He followed his dad’s line of sight until he reached its obvious source. This time, Scorpius really looked.

Hermione turned, sensing the gaze that sought her own, and, as she locked onto his father, Scorpius saw.

He saw the way her eyes sparkled and lips parted. He saw the hitch in her breathing and the inquisitive tilt of her head in an unspoken question. This brilliant, wickedly funny, thoughtful witch liked his dad, and his dad liked her back.

Perhaps even loved.

Scorpius was surprised that he didn’t feel angry, or even sad, at the realization. His father had been lost for so long after his mum’s death, that when he started to come alive Scorpius had thanked whatever gods might or might not exist for not taking him, too. When Hermione started coming around for work, then as a friend, Scorpius had been thankful for her, as well. She brought a levity to the Manor that it desperately needed.

She couldn’t be any more different than his mum, light to dark, snarky to sweet, exuberant to gentle. He hadn’t seen her like a substitute, unaware for so long about what had been undoubtedly growing between the two adults, but he had noticed the way she filled an emptiness he had thought would never go away.

“See you guys after Christmas, yeah?”

He didn’t wait to listen to his friends’ replies, quickly making his way back towards his father. Rather than lean against the wall next to him like he had earlier, he came to a stop in front of him.

“Dad.”

Draco looked down at Scorpius, the gentleness from his exchange with Hermione still present in the muscles of his face. “Son?”

“I’m cool with it, you and Hermione.”

His father blinked once, twice. His mouth hung open for another beat more, before he resumed activity. “There’s no rush to–”

“Dad.”

Draco’s mouth shut at the admonishment.

“I really, really like her. She isn’t Mum, but no one ever will be. She’s Hermione. You should tell her how you feel.”

The eyes looking down at him flashed with emotion, the man taking a staggering breath, and then another. He brought up his hands to rest on Scorpius’ shoulders.

“When did you get to be so wise, hm?”

“I’ve always been wise. You can thank Mum for that.”

Draco snorted, but didn’t disagree. He crushed Scorpius in a hug that radiated exactly how he felt.

“What’d I miss?” Hermione’s chipper voice brought them out of their embrace. Her eyes widened as she took in their faces, the way their eyes shimmered with tears they’d never let fall in public.

“We’ll tell you back at the Manor,” Draco said with a smile.

Scorpius reached out to take her bag, overflowing with mistletoe, and sent her his own reassuring grin, dimples on full display.

“Shall we?” He playfully nudged her elbow, then danced away as she made to jab him back.

“You!” She missed again. He lept back, cackling loudly and retreating towards the exit.

As the distance between them widened and she gave up to walk at his father’s side, Scorpius pocketed a handful of the mistletoe. He could think of several key locations where they’d never suspect them. Maybe he could help kick off their relationship before they could get too caught up in talking and all that dramatic rot. Hermione and his dad both had the nasty habit of overthinking things, then getting all huffy, carrying on in shrieks and jabby fingers.

Mistletoe. Kisses. Bam.

Christmas magic. They could thank him later.

If you’re reading this, welcome to the start of my submissions for the Yuletide Bliss Festival, the first of my Christmas writing festivals! I hope you enjoy as the month brings us closer to one of my favorite days of the year.

I wrote this with Scorpius and Draco fresh on my mind after writing their relationship in another work of mine (still to be revealed). This is a Hermione sans any marriage with Ron, because I didn’t want to have to mess with any complications of Scorpius versus Rose.

#harry potter fanfiction #dramione #draco malfoy x hermione granger #hermione granger #draco malfoy #scorpius malfoy #hp yuletide bliss #christmas hp fest

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