Since I started writing FF, every holiday season I would write a frothy, silly, happy story, with John/Thorin and Wren. Since THIS year it's more John (and even a little bit Richard, though I have to decisively declare RPFF is NOT my thing) and has ZERO to do with The Hobbit - it's a parody and just something for all of us to laugh at - I'll be posting it on my Wattpad. My name there is Katya Kolmakov. There are FOUR chapters posted there already, so have a peek if you're curious!

Happy holidays!

Cheers! xx

Katya

FABLES, FESTIVITIES, AND FANGIRLS

"I'm just a few minutes away, Aunt Alice."

John turned the wheel, and his Tesla veered. He was after all a rather mediocre driver. He jerked his neck in irritation. He knew he didn't drive enough, that was the problem. He'd always take the Tube in the city; and now he felt like his car was crawling through the snowy narrow streets like a dog on a frozen lake.

"John, my dear, would you be so kind as to stop for some sweets?" his Aunt's voice rang through the microphone.

She tended to raise her voice when talking to someone in a car. He cringed, but answered softly, "But of course. Any preferences?"

"Oh, The Kettle and Pot, please, I'll give you the address. They have the most marvellous raspberry tarts. And it's a historic place. It used to be a pub, and then this lovely family, some time in the sixties, bought it and..."

His Aunt continued droning at the background, while he tried to maneuver the streets, punch the address into the GPS, and hum to show he was listening. At some point he pulled off his scarf. He should have taken off his coat when getting in a car.

"... and perhaps a few Chelsea buns as well. We could have them for breakfast tomorrow. They do make the most wonderful Chelsea buns."

"Auntie, I'm in front of the shop already," John interrupted her. "I'll hang up right now. So, the last chance then," he said with a laugh. "Tarts, buns - and?"

"Oh, I trust you, my boy," she answered with a chuckle. "Knowing what a sweet tooth you are, you'll buy more than enough."

John laughed again, and promised to be at her place in twenty minutes.

The building indeed looked like a typical pub, perhaps from a Thackeray novel - two floors; windows from the floor to the ceiling; stained-glass; and a fireplace inside. Large heavy armchairs; wooden tables; teapots in cosies - and of course the delicious smells! The tea shop greeted him with vanilla, cardamom, and something fruity and so very tempting. Christmas music murmured at the background; and before he could locate the counter, a cheery 'Welcome to The Pot and Kettle!' made him whirl and look down.

The girl was short. A wide smile decorated her angular freckled face.

"Um... I am here for take away." He returned the smile.

She tilted her head in an odd bird-like gesture, and studied his face. He held his breath. He normally didn't mind being recognized; it'd been happening more in the last few years - but he suddenly didn't want her to ask for an autograph. To think of it, he'd rather have her... phone number.

The thought was funny. Maybe, it was the season. Maybe, he just liked the slanted, green eyes; the bright red lips; and some sort of jolly warmth coming from her cheery expression.

"This way, please!" she invited him to follow her and turned her back to him.

He clenched his jaw to suppress a half groan that was threatening to burst out of him. Firstly, she had an exceptionally perky backside - and the tight black trousers made it quite hard to ignore. He had tried to do the right thing and not to look! But there was a bow! A large, puffy, red bow, on the tight belt of her small, clearly decorative apron. John swallowed with difficulty. Did it count as a fetish if he just really, really, really fancied bows?

He followed her, without allowing himself the second look. He reminded himself that he had participated in the ELLE's That's what a feminist looks like project. Nothing was an invitation to look except an actual invitation to look. The reminder had to be mentally repeated five times by the time they'd arrived to the cake display.

While she was packing his tarts and buns into a cardboard box, he went through his usual list of reasons not to ask her out in his head. Point #5 - the paparazzi - worked. Just the previous week, he was caught hungover - and in the middle of a sneeze. Subjecting this merry little ginger to the same treatment would be just cruel, he joyless joked in his mind.

She was tying yet another bow on the box, and then suddenly looked up.

"Could I ask you a question?"

There was now light blush on her cheekbones. He wondered if the skin was as smooth it looked. Even the small ears were now pink. Something funnily screeched in his head. Most likely his long neglected libido.

"Yeah," he croaked.

"Do you ever?.. I bet, you do hear it often actually. But..." She giggled. "You properly look like that actor... Um..." She wrinkled his forehead; and his jaw slacked. "You know, from the Austen miniseries. Richardson. John Richardson."

"I'm aware," he muttered still not sure if she was joshing him.

"He's a tad too... polished to my taste, to be honest. Too sweet." She shrugged.

He blinked slowly. His brain seemed to require a reboot - or maybe he needed to have his hearing checked. Polished?!

"Sort of like those glossy magazines they sell at the tills in the grocery shops. The jawline, the sultry look, the perfect hair..." she drew out, and shook her head. "My Nana loves it; and I watched it with her, but I always thought he must be quite... well, thick." She laughed and looked up at him. "In real life, I mean. And probably full of himself."

John simply continued staring at her. She gave out a small embarrassed laugh.

"I blabber. A lot," she said; and another slow blink felt necessary. She wasn't joking! "Sorry."

The vintage cashier machine dinged, and she looked at him expectantly.

He opened his wallet and looked down at his Visa. John Thomas Crispin Richardson glowed on it in golden letters.

"For the record I think you're much more attractive," she blurted out; and his eyes flew up.

She was now blushing full scale; and the cat like eyes shone; and she had a graceful neck and beautiful long fingers - and something screeched again and then loudly popped in his noggin.

He grabbed a bill out of the wallet and stretched his hand to her. She now bit into her bottom lip; and he found it endearing.

"Thank you," he said firmly. "For the compliment."

She nodded, hiding her eyes, and fidgeted with the change.

"And it's OK to blabber." His line came out daft; but at least she peeked. "I mean, people rarely say what they think these days. So, it's refreshing."

She snorted.

"Well, that is very kind of you. But I do tend to get in trouble for it. I just have no filter, you know?" She gestured around her lips with a circular movement of her index finger. He of course looked at the lips.

"Claire!" someone called from the backroom. "Are you harassing a customer?"

An older woman - the same facial bone structure, snow-white grey hair, also cut in a curly bouncy bob - stepped out of the back room.

"Yes, Aunt Cecilia. This lovely gentleman was buying buns but I don't think he'll ever come back," the girl laughed. So, her name was Claire. And she laughed a lot. He properly fancied it. "I told him he was attractive. I think he'll run any second."

"Well, at least you aren't lying," the woman said, and winked to John. "When you're done, we need you in the kitchen."

The one called Claire nodded, and handed him the change. The older woman disappeared behind the doors again.

"It's a family business," the girl said suddenly; and he met her eyes. "Nana, three Aunts, and me. The Murphy witches."

"Witches?"

He was stalling. Why was he stalling? He needed to thank her and leave. His Aunt was waiting; and the list why he didn't date contained eleven points. He couldn't remember a single one at the moment.

"Just a joke." She shrugged again. She has an exceptionally straight back; and all of her moved fluidly. He fancied the animated face, and the expressive eyes. "They say you need a tad of magic to bake well. And we also fly on brooms."

Now her eyes sparkled! He wondered if it was indeed the season. What else could make him notice, and more so, internally describe her gestures in the terms from some daft romance novels?!

"So, when is your flight?" he asked.

"Flight?" Her eyebrows jumped up.

Congratulations, John! The stupid joke fell flat - and there was no bloody way to weasel out of this!

"Um... Flight on your broom? After work? Home?" That's what the proverbial internal screaming sounded like, he thought. Moron. Clot. Berk. "When are you off?" he muttered in a defeated tone.

She laughed. He thanked all gods and deities for her sense of humour - and her understanding. He wouldn't laugh if he were propositioned that awfully. Maybe, she'd just take pity of him. He was properly pathetic, wasn't he?

"I'm done at seven today. And I don't fly home. I live upstairs." She pointed above her head. "The brooms are only for going out."

"Alright..." Nothing smooth and clever came to mind.

"You can pick me up at seven twenty."

He exhaled and gave her a shaky smile.

"You are a forgiving woman," he said; and she giggled.

"You are a very attractive man," she said; and they both laughed. "In a non-polished, real life way," she added with a wink.

Oh that, he thought. Bugger.