#custom lacrosse jackets

[girlygguk]

FIRST CLASS | JJK (Teaser)

summary in which you are just another spoiled, bitchy, annoyingly gorgeous trust-fund baby who has everyone at Yonsei University eating from the palm of your hand. and jeon jungkook, your spoiled, fuck-boy, annoyingly gorgeous trust-fund baby best friend, is always first in line to take a bite.

uni au, rich student!jk x rich student!f.reader

[fluff, angst, smut] childhood bestfriends to lovers, pining, unrequited(?) love, they're likee chaebols okay, tae's sister reader, mega SIMP kook because i literally can't write him any other way, jungkook is a sweet fuckboy (if that exists)

teaser word count: 1.4k (sfw, cursing)

full fic word count: 25k (nsfw)

release date: july-16 @ 2pm (est)

>>> FIRST CLASS IS OUT NOW! <<<

-------

2 years prior ੈ✩‧₊˚ circa. your 19th birthday. . .

"Get fucked, Jeongguk." The words rip from your throat, venomous and sharp as they slap your best friend's face into a furrowed, exasperated expression.

You yank the jacket tighter around your shoulders as the cold night air whips at your skin, storming down the sidewalk. The urge to rip the jacket—his jacket—off your body is strong, but it's so fucking cold. You may be petty and possibly overreacting a little right now... but you're not stupid.

Jungkook's heavy footsteps trail after you, his calls of your name only pushing you to walk faster. He catches up in no time, your hurried steps no match for his long strides. He tries to gently grab your arm, but you shrug off his touch angrily, spinning around to glare at him. You're about to tell him to fuck off again when he speaks first.

"Come back inside. It's like a fucking blizzard out here; you're going to freeze to death," he says evenly, though frustration laces his words.

"Oh, please," you laugh humorlessly, shaking your head in disbelief. "As if you give a shit if I freeze."

"Don't fucking say—"

"I'm going home. You can tell everyone I'm sick and had to leave. Or don't, I don't fucking care." You turn away and start walking again, his footsteps immediately following.

"You're walking home?" You ignore his question, causing him to huff and run a hand through his hair. "Let me drive you home, please."

You ignore him again, knowing that if there's something Jungkook can't stand more than you yelling at him, it's you not speaking to him.

"Stop doing this. It's your birthday; don't let it end like this—"

"Yes, Jeongguk, it's my birthday," you seethe, whipping back around. "And you brought a random chick none of us even know to my birthday dinner. And you didn't even bother to get me a gift. On. My fucking. Birthday."

"Y/N—"

"Limited edition PlayStation, imported Swedish lacrosse stick, custom painted iPad from your favorite local fucking artist," you list the gifts you've gotten him for his birthday over the years angrily. Jungkook shakes his head, trying to step closer to you, but you hold up your hand to keep the distance.

"Do you even know how much effort I put into the things I get and do for you? And for you to sit there with that... that stupid fucking look on your—God, Jeongguk!" Your voice is on the cusp of being a whine, but you don't care. "Oh, but I'm sure you spent a decent chunk of Daddy's money on Winnie tonight, huh?" You don't care that the Daddy's money statement is also very applicable to you… you're angry.

Jungkook's jaw clenches at your words, and he steps forward, slipping his hand into the pocket of the jacket you're wearing. Before you can snap at him again, he pulls out a small velvet box and holds it out to you.

"What is that?" you demand, your voice still trembling with annoyance.

"Your gift," he says softly, opening the box to reveal a white-gold Cartier diamond necklace. "I was planning to give it to you when we were in private."

You stare at the necklace, your anger momentarily overshadowed by surprise. The diamonds of the pendant sparkle under the streetlights, and you almost let out a moan. Diamonds are your weakness.

"You motherfucker," you groan under your breath, glaring at the necklace in hopes it will dissipate into thin air so you can continue being annoyed at him.

Jungkook steps closer, his voice a whisper. "Everyone was coming with their partners, Y/N. I couldn't come alone."

You sigh, knowing that. Your comment was a cheap shot, considering Jungkook doesn't hang with a girl more than once, so it would be impossible for him to bring someone you already knew. But Winnie was getting on your last nerve, and you saw an opportunity to sneak in a jab, so you took it. Not only was the girl clearing glass after glass of the expensive wine your friends had ordered as if it were water, but she was also not shy about ordering the priciest dishes on the menu. Judging by her tiny red Zara mini-dress, you highly doubt she'll be reaching for her purse at the end of the night.

Your gaze is still locked on the necklace as you take a moment to think. Jungkook hasn't moved either, continuing to hold the box open for you while he scans your face, trying to gauge your reaction.

"It's, um, engraved and shit," he mumbles, his hand not holding the box lifting to run over his jaw nervously. "And I got a chain one… for me too."

Your eyes snap to his, and he swears his heart stops beating. God, you think it's stupid. You hate it. That's okay. He'll just wait until you turn around so he can sprint to the nearest homeless guy and give him the stupid neckl—

"Like matching?" Your eyes soften, and he slowly feels the blood flooding into his heart.

"Yeah, only if you like, want to," he shrugs cutely, and you can't stop the grin from spreading across your lips.

You're close enough to slide your arms around his torso but still not near enough for Jungkook as he tugs you closer, melting into the hug. "Thank you, Gukkie. I love it," you murmur into his chest, and he feels his muscles relax at you finally using his nickname again.

You lift your head from his black fitted Givenchy dress shirt, which smells a little too good, to look up at him. "But why did you say you didn't have anything when everyone gave me their gifts?"

He looks down at the slight pout on your lips, his fingers twitching with the urge to wipe it off your mouth. Instead, he flicks the box closed with a thumb and holds it out to you. "Don't think Jaehyun would've been thrilled with me giving you this," he chuckles. "The dude hates me."

You frown up at him, about to chime in and say that isn't true, but his lips tug into a smirk as if to say he couldn't care less about what your boyfriend thought of him. And honestly, if he were Jaehyun, he'd hate him too.

Jungkook had the necklaces made a little over two months ago, and you and Jaehyun have only been official for one. So, Jungkook's intentions behind the gift weren't malicious, he swears.

If you just so happen to wear the necklace and your boyfriend notices his matching one, which then causes a rift in your relationship, resulting in the two of you breaking up… well, that would just be a nice little coincidence.

"Jae knows you and I are close," you explain with a crease in your brow that he wants to massage until it goes away. "I made it very clear to him when he wanted to get serious, and he understood."

Jungkook nods along to your words even if he doesn't fully believe them. Either Jaehyun is a really good and secure guy, or he's full of grade-A horse shit. If you were his and another dude tried to come along and buy you an eleven-thousand-dollar necklace? Fuck, he'd knock the guy out cold.

You untangle yourself from your best friend and lift the lid of the velvet box still in his grasp. You coo at the pretty diamonds before turning to face away from Jungkook. You gather your hair before swiping it over your shoulder and letting his jacket fall slightly to bare your neck. Jungkook reacts immediately, picking up the necklace before shoving the box in his pocket. His cold fingers brush against you as he carefully fastens the jewelry around your neck.

When he pulls away, you let your hair fall back into place and turn around to face him again. Your smile is soft, eyes twinkling as you look down at the necklace. "It's so pretty, Gukkie. I love it."

You're so pretty. I love you, he thinks.

-------

spoiled bratty girl and her simpy best friend who knows how to handle her.....GIVE it..

—the full fic is out now! click here to go read <3

[mysterymirrors]

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[garbathletics]

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[florenceandthemachine]

talk to me about stiles and jackson sharing clothes. jackson, who has never worn anything that isn’t designer, in stiles’ flannel shirts from walmart because they smell like him and they make him feel close to stiles when they’re apart all day at school. and stiles in jackson’s preppy little button-ups and his leather jackets, feeling a little ridiculous at first, but melting every time jackson grins and pulls him in for a hungry, possessive kiss :’)

It starts, like so many big things do, in a small way. 

They didn’t have a lot of opportunity to do something as simple as switching a shirt when they were in high school. They got together in their junior year, around Christmas break (in a way that both romantic and heartfelt and adorable, but that’s a tale for a different time) but all of the regular cute couples things were somewhat out of the question for them.

Date nights weren’t watching movies or going out to eat, they were fighting villains and dodging bullets.

Study breaks were spent scrabbling for any information on the newest mythological beings, not rewarding one another with kisses after mock SAT questions.

And Jackson felt a pang of irritation whenever a normal human couple did anything like wear a matching outfit in his visual range, because when it came to clothing, his concern was finding anything that was free of blood, tears, or other supernatural goop—not being cute with his boyfriend. He was... a little bitter about that particular path of things, honestly.

On a game day, for example, Stiles couldn’t sit in the stands and wear Jackson’s jersey and cheer him on, because he was wearing his own jersey, on the field, getting cheered on himself.

There was no point in giving Stiles his letter jacket to wear, because Jackson had bought him his own (and while he was livid with his own stupidity in missing that opportunity, the low thrum of pride Stiles gave off whenever he wore it, no matter how hard he denied it, would always be worth it to Jackson).

Hell, even after late night sleepovers, they still stuck to their own wardrobe; Jackson was broad while Stiles was stick thin, and Stiles was lanky where Jackson was lean, so it was only comfortable to stick with what they had.

—

The summer before senior year, though, everything changed.

Mostly because Stiles disappeared for two weeks.

(It was way more than that, he insisted, it was closer to six months than two weeks; but when he mentioned that, he could hear Jackson’s heart actually break, and he had long since given up trying to figure out how time worked in different dimensions.)

Once he rejoined the land of the living, the first thing Jackson did (after refusing to let Stiles out of his sight for days and crying, quietly, which wouldn’t have been funny in the best of times) was teach him how to fight. Stiles was already apt with his baseball bat, a lacrosse stick, and a handful of mountain ash, so Jackson took it on himself to teach Stiles all of the dirty tricks he had learned from Derek and Scott—he basically gave Stiles his own werewolf how-to, and wasn't satisfied until even Derek noticed how strong he was getting.

The second thing Jackson did, which he absolutely did not tell anyone about and had every intention on keeping this himself, was steal three or four undershirts from Stiles gym bag and keep them in the back of his closet. It helped him, loathe as he was to admit it, to have a ready-source of Stiles scent on the rare nights they were apart. 

Stiles, the nosy fucker, found out almost immediately. 

Jackson was rendered speechless as Stiles pulled out the undershirts, his face beet read and mouth clamped shut, and his heart sunk as Stiles left the room, his face going from beet red to sheet white, and he stumbled over himself trying to chase Stiles down, worst case scenarios running through his mind, stealing Stiles clothing was weird, he knew it was weird, he was so stupid, why did he—

He was so caught up in his mind that he almost tripped over Stiles, who had not run from the house in disgust (the relief Jackson felt was palpable) but instead was rooting through his backpack.

He was silent as he stood up, one of Jackson’s ridiculously expensive watches in his fingers, and Jackson’s mind was stuck in a reboot until Stiles spoke, taking his turn to go beet red. 

“I get it. I, uh, I stole the heaviest one out of your drawer, the weight is... comforting? I guess? I don’t know, it’s so weird, I’m so sorry,but I know you don’t wear them anyway. It just... I thought that if I got taken again, I would have still had this, from you, so I wouldn’t forget you.”

The old Jackson would have snarked that yeah, it’s the heaviest watch he owns because it’s a fucking platinum built Rolex Daytona, there are custom diamonds in the watch face, it cost more than his Porsche so give it the fuck back right now before you scratch it.

This Jackson didn’t have a chance to say any of that, because he was busy wrapping Stiles in his arms, whispering that no matter what happened, Stiles would never be taken from him ever again. Another truly embarrassing moment, at least it would have been if Stiles wasn’t clinging back to him just as hard. 

—

Things are... better after that. But even Jackson can admit, the bar was fucking low.

Stiles had filled out in his time... away. His shoulders were broader and while he was still built for speed, he was no longer swimming in any of Jackson’s clothes—and even better, Jackson had an easier time getting his scent fix from Stiles when he could actually fit into Stiles shirts (instead of just burying his face in them, late at night when he was alone, rutting into his mattress like a bitch in heat). 

Jackson looked surprised in himself the first time he shrugged on one of Stiles long sleeved, flannel monstrosities, the softness of the fabric a pleasant surprise against his skin. 

Stiles, on the other hand, was a mess. The colors made Jackson just look so... soft, so good, and even as his heart swelled his mouth was going a mile a minute, because how dare Jackson look so good in one of his shirts, the same shirt that even Scott said made him look like a giant dork, the audacity, the fucking nerve—

He shuts up quick when Jackson crowds into his space, hands on his hips.

“Stiles, it only looks good on me because it’s something you love. I look my best when I feel like I’m yours. I look... no, I am my best when I’m with you.”

And, hell, even if Stiles wanted to argue with that, he couldn’t find his voice. 

—

Jackson gains a knack for blending their wardrobes after that, matching up one of Stiles heavy flannels with his own thousand dollar jeans, or walking around his house in one of Stiles jerseys over his boxers. 

Stiles isn’t... as comfortable as Jackson is to start.

He still has Jackson’s watch, and he wears it almost every day. Jackson may have superhuman speed and senses, but there is something about that consistant weight, right on his pulse point, that helps him head off many a panic attack before they arise.

He develops a habit of tapping against the face of the watch with his free hand. Jackson looks concerned at first, but when he brings it up, Stiles just blushes and says “oh, uh. I don’t know, I was just thinking of you is all.”

It’s all Jackson’s fault that their late for fourth period after that, because he basically drags Stiles to the nearest janitor closet to cover himself in Stiles scent in a decidedly sexy way.

Overall, Jackson wants to push—he really, really does—but he knows well enough not to. He knows that Stiles treats his many many layers as a defense in the same way Jackson had hid behind his own glamour and flashy personality, so even though he would give his left leg to see Stiles in one of his well worn jackets or even a jersey, he bides his time.

For once in his life, fate seems to be on his side, because he doesn’t have to wait long. 

—

They make the determination early on to try and experience as much humanity as physically possible in their senior year, and a staple of humanity was Lydias house parties.  Lydia had grown into herself as well (not that anyone other than pack would notice the difference), but her ragers were the social event of the lifetime, and Jackson and Stiles basically had standing invitations. 

This particular party was for something something Fall Homecoming Midterms something, Jackson wasn’t paying attention. Winter had come on a little early, and even though it was plenty warm when they showed up at the lake house, the temperature dipped by the time Lydia kisses them goodbye, and Stiles was shivering by the time they were halfway to the car. 

Jackson doesn’t even roll his eyes before he shrugs out of his jacket, which was more of an accessory than anything—werewolves always ran hot—and draped it over Stiles shoulders. 

Stiles, again, went red, his mouth clamping shut as he felt the leather on his skin, and Jackson finally felt confident enough (or maybe buzzed enough, Lydia was wicked with her wolfsbane punch once she had the ratio down pat) to mention it.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Seriously, Stiles. It’s okay if you don’t like wearing my things.”

Stiles just looked at him like he grew a second head, and Jackson let out a grunt as he shook his head.

“Come on, I’m not an idiot. I know it makes you uncomfortable. I can just start carrying another jacket for you in the car, and,” and he was thankful Stiles wouldn’t hear his heartbeat twitch, “and if it makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll stop wearing your clothes too.”

It would kill him, but he would, if that was what Stiles wanted.

To his credit, Stiles recovered quickly, squawking out his disapproval as he pulled Jackson aside, out of the path of some of the partygoers behind them.

“Baby, no. I love you wearing my clothes.” 

Jackson pretended that his entire body didn’t flood with relief. 

“Then what the fuck, Stiles? You think I wouldn’t love seeing you in my stuff too?”

“Jacks, that’s the fucking problem! I would... I would love it. Too much.”

Steady heartbeat. Jackson resisted the urge to call bullshit and waited for Stiles to continue.

“I... I love it, Jackson. I love wearing your jacket and I love wearing your watch, but it overwhelms me sometimes, even... even with something as simple as your jacket, I feel good. It feels so fucking good because it feels... it feels like I’m yours, but more than that. It literally makes me feel like I belong to you, and it feels so fucked up to love it as much as I do, but I do love it, and I love you, and I feel so guilty because it’s so creepy and I don’t want to be putting you in that position, and it scares me because the last time I felt like someone else had this much power over me I was killing my friends and—“

Jackson’s lips are on his in second, hungry and needing, but also giving Stiles the headspace to come down from his panic and inhale. Jackson has him pinned against the Porsche and Stiles fucking mewls, the blush blooming across his face and neck as Jackson finally comes up for air. His voice is panting, soft, hesitant but so hopeful when he speaks next.

“You don’t... think it’s creepy, or weird? You’re okay with this?”

Jackson growls, low in his throat, eyes flashing blue as he boxes Stiles in with his hips, letting Stiles feel how very okay with it he really is. When he speaks, his words are low, lisped through a mouth full of fangs.

“You. Are. Mine.”

The wave of relief he can smell wash over Stiles is like a tsunami, but stronger still is the deep scent of arousal, and Jackson opens the passenger door of the Porsche and all but throws Stiles inside as he bolts to the drivers side, fully prepared to break several laws on their way home.

At the end of the night, their clothes are strewn all over Jackson’s room, and Stiles is panting, sore and sweating and so, so happy, fingers bouncing along the metal watch band as Jackson pulls him close.

“I’m yours.” he murmurs as Jackson snuffs along his neck, still very much wolfed out, a possessive streak a mile wide taking root in Jackson’s brain as he tugs Stiles even closer. 

“Mine.” he repeats, for the thousandth time that night. “All mine.”

Things are quiet for a moment as Stiles feels a new level of happiness bloom, deep in his gut.

(Three days later, Stiles walks in to school wearing a henley that feels like it’s lighter than air, sitting just right to show off the sharp lines of his collarbone, and the edge of a hickey he wishes would never fade. Jackson joins him easily, wearing a Fantastic Four graphic tee shirt for fucks sake, hand sliding around Stiles’ waist in a possessive way that makes his entire body go fuzzy.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah baby?”

Jackson is grinning at him now, a predators smile that would be terrifying if it were anyone but Jackson.

“I love you too.”)

[dairyfarmboy]

Dairy Farm Fantasy:

I have been seeking an opportunity to live/work on a dairy farm most of my life. I havent been working on a farm since I was a kid, and id like to find a likeminded farming partner.

I would be hired for the summer, and upon completion of a few months of training, i would be taken in fulltime and allowed to move in with the farmer permantely. It would also be a test to show my loyalty and service to the farm.

The farmer is a older man, tall, hairy, and built from a lifetime of farming. Wearing tall black rubber boots, coveralls, and a john deere baseball cap. Sporting a big salt and pepper beard. Never wearing deoderant, and would fill the air with his pungent musk, and hint of cow.

For the summer, Id be ordered to live in a spare room inside the cow barn until training is complete, where then i can move into the farmers home. Simple space with just a bed and a desk and a rubber flooring. The industrial smell of rubber, and strong manure/piss smell constantly overwheling the space.

Before starting, we went to the local farm supply store to get my work clothes. The farmer asked for my clothes and boot size. There wasnt much of a selection, and he handed me a pile of gear to try on. He followed me to the changing area which was just a curtain in the corner of the store. He told me to try on the carhartt bibs, and shirt first. I took off all my clothes and slipped into the bibs. It didnt take long for me to get a hard on. I stared at myself in the mirror admirring my new farmer look. The farmer said it looked like everything fit.

After a few moments, he came back with some boots. A pair of LaCrosse knee high boots, a pair of thigh waders, and a pair of industrial chest waders. I was ordered to try on the chest waders first. The smell of heavy rubber was overwhelming. I slid into the waders and was taken over by the rubber. My dick started to leak and throb. The farmer came by to help adjust the straps, and his musk added to my horniness. He had me in his full control.

After trying on all the boots, the farmer told me to give him my street clothes and put on the coveralls with the knee high boots. He said that we will be going to work right away and theres no sense in changing twice. He also gave me a john deere hat to wear. I walked to the counter in my new farm gear feeling great. A sense of belonging started to come over me. For the first time in my life, i felt myself. I couldnt stop starring at myself in the reflection of the shop window. There were also a few other farmers in their dirty gear walking around the store. I could smell the sweat and manure from one of the other customers.

I walked out with 2 pairs of coveralls, 2 pairs of bibs, 2 flannel shirts, a rubber rain jacket, 2 red union suits, a hat, rubber work gloves, wool socks, knee boots, thigh waders, and chest waders. Because its summer, the farmer told me i will only need the necessities for now. I was instructed to wear the coveralls for work, and the bibs for relaxing/night time. I would then sleep in the union suit at night. No need for undershirts and underwear in this heat and humidity. I was also ordered not to wear deoderant as its just the two of us so no need.

We get back into the truck and i immediatly start getting hard again. The truck was filled with the farmers smell and his manure covered floor mats. My dick was throbbing against the coverall material and leaving a big wet spot of pre cum. I was basically hypnotized by this man and couldnt think straight. We passed by neighboring farms and enjoyed getting whiffs of manure and hay smells.

Upon arriving back to his farm, i was ordered to put the rest of my clothes away and settle into my room. I walked into the cow barn on my way to the room when i saw a green, fresh, steaming huge pile of cow shit on the ground. I couldnt help myself and walked right up to it. I slowly stepped down into the squishing and felt the warm shit surround my booted feet. I could smell the strong warm humid smell. My dick was so hard it almost cut a hole in my coveralls.

I was the horniest Ive ever been in my life. I was under the spell of the farm, and could feel the inner perv coming out. The feeling of humid sweating in the gear, and smelling the manure was taking over my whole body. Without thinking, I pull out my rock hard dick and start jerking hard. Within seconds, i was falling to my knees uncontrollably moaning and shooting load after load. I shot about 10 good bursts, sending my cum 8’ across the hay and shit covered barn floor. My moaning went on and on.

After a few moments, i stood back up and saw the mess I made. I used my boot to push away the cum, and tried to wipe my boots off with a stack of near by hay. I arrive at my room and put all my clothes on the shelves. I realized my bed had a rubber fitted sheet over the mattress, and assumed he just wanted to keep it clean.

I lay down on the bed and felt my coveralls slide against the rubber sheet. I started to get hard again. I lifted my shit covered boots onto the bed and just laid back in my gear. I closed my eyes and took in the strong smell of the barn. I was getting horny again. My dick throbbed against the old pre cum stain i had left from earlier. I lifted my arms over my head and noticed my arm pits were getting ripe already. I just imagined my new life on the farm and knew this was what I wanted.

Seconds later i heard a knock on the door from the farmer. He said, “well i hate to break your new gear in this early but we have an issue with the slurry tank”. “I need you to put on your chest waders and rubber gloves”. “Hope you dont mind smelling like manure for a few days because this is going to be a messy job”. He gave me a long stare into my eyes with a wicked smile.

To be continued:

[seongnamkrp]

      * // MYSNU DATABASE   ——————  STUDENT ID # :  321411

//  LOADING STUDENT INFORMATION  ▪  ▪  ▪

NAME  ›  ratana, margaret ALIAS  ›  margo, the serpentine AGE  ›  14 / 11 /1997, 22 YEAR  ›  junior

//  LOADING STUDENT RECORDS  ▪  ▪  ▪

MAJOR  ›  political science MINOR  ›  econonmics HOUSING  ›  gangjeon complex, fourth floor, 4008 CLUBS  ›  fashion ( vice president ), nerine ( philanthropic chair ) SPORTS  ›  color guard ( co-captain ), lacrosse ( co-captain ), dance, cheerleading

//  LOADING STUDENT ANALYSIS ▪  ▪  ▪

›  ›  ›   the soft tinkling of bells would usually alert the coffee shop’s owner of incoming customers, with the staff and waitresses gleaming up with nothing but friendly smiles. not tonight. not when it’s the weekend, not during a raging mess of a rainstorm that strands the female outside the only place she and her mother could find with a gutter big enough for them to fit. her gaze falls down against her shoes, drenched from mud stains and puddles she’s leaped across from but then she remembers that her mother is stuck with probably has the same dilemma. and before she knows it, there’s loud laughter roaring from her cherry painted lips, eyes twinkling into moon beams and mouth twisting against her cheeks.

her mother is usually keen on weather reports. in fact, she checks her phone rather religiously for changes in it, just so she knows exactly how to dress up for the day or night. of all the possible scenarios though, margo assumes she’s least expected rain. it’s fall, almost winter. surely, rain would be the last to come? wrong. obviously, since they’re helplessly stuck outside with the queen, both of their hair sticking against the back of their jackets, beads of raindrops adorning the sleeves of their handbags. and of all the days that this could happen, it had to be today where both their phone were running low on battery and when margo didn’t have her power bank charged. what’s the point of carrying one when you never charge it, her subconscious questions her, the very same question is asks whenever margo catches a glimpse of it. lesson learned though: always charge your power bank.

her chest heaves from exhaustion and she makes a small attempt to rub at her breast plate, leaning sideways to rest against her mom’s shoulder. “the next time you visit me here in seoul and we go out, let’s check the weather.” in a breathless whisper, she manages to quip, eyes glued to the rather busy street. you’d think catching a cab would be easy but when everything is set in motion during rush hour, it’s almost impossible to catch an empty one.

but as thunder strikes (the younger stumbling behind her mother’s figure rather quickly in fear), she can’t help but say, “this day was so good. things go according to how you want it to when you don’t plan it at all.” nuzzling her nose against her mom’s arm in the msot affectionate way she can, she adds, “you’re the best mom. i love pretending to be a pair of no ones in a place where no one recognizes us. i hope you can visit me again soon.”

[gleekto]

All In the Past 9/13

Prompt: You were the bane of my existence in high school but now we’re going to college together AU

Cheerio!Kurt/ Jock-Football!Blaine

Summary: Kurt Hummel is tolerating his senior year of high school. He’s head cheerio, which affords him some protection from the hamhock bullies who ruined his designer knock offs in his first few years. He can manage his one last year with that new charming transfer student, Blaine Anderson. swooping into his school, rising to popularity, and completely ignoring him. Next year he’ll be free from a world where everyone is afraid of the gay kid.

He just didn’t expect Blaine Anderson to swoop into his college world too.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Part 9 - Lecture

Kurt: You really need to stop pairing me with Blaine.

Kurt texts Matt as he makes his way down to the LBGT Centre for his night shift. He’s wearing his light blue tight skinny jeans that Santana once told him look painted on. She also told him that he must know he has a great ass to dress like that. He’d never admit it to her but he sort of does. At least in these jeans.  And they do look great with his touch too small McQueen skull t-shirt and his purple combat boots. He may have been admiring himself in the mirror before he left his room. Whatever. He always has flare.

Matt: Who knows - maybe there’s a long lost friendship waiting to happen? Can’t let old baggage get in the way ;)

Winky emoji. God, he’s so annoying.

Kurt: Please spare me the lecture. Just remember that you’re responsible if you hear about a fist fight at the otherwise peaceful LGBT centre night shift.

Matt: It’s a risk I’m willing to take. ;)

Kurt clicks his phone shut on Matt’s second winky emoji as he walks into the office. Blaine is already there of course. What a keener. “Hi Blaine.”

“Hey Kurt,” Blaine turns to him, all smiles. “Nice jeans.”

“What?” Blaine nods at him and raises his eyebrows. “Oh, these? Thanks.”  Blaine obviously has good taste. “How was your Lacrosse tryout?” Smooth change of topic. “Rachel told me that’s why you weren’t at Glee club.”

“Oh. Oh yeah. It was good,” Blaine looks like he’s deciding whether to say something. “I made the team.” 

“Of course you did,” Kurt smirks but he knows it doesn’t have the bite it did a week ago.

Blaine rolls his eyes and plops down beside Kurt on the couch. “I do actually try, you know? I just go after what I want.” 

“I noticed.” Cocky bastard. “Football starting line up, Glee club solos?” 

“Glee club solos,” Blaine nods. At least he admits it.

There’s a quiet moment and Kurt feels the potential for an awkward two hour night shift, Matt’s fantasies of long lost friendship firmly dashed. Kurt is trying to figure out whether to take out his homework or to try to make small talk, when, blessedly, they actually get a knock on the office door. A real person who is quietly tapping. They both jump up, eager. And relieved. “You’re our first customer!” Kurt says happily.

Jenny, the customer’s name, is from small town Wyoming. She was waiting for a free night and the courage to come down to the centre to introduce herself. She was a cheerleader in high school, like Kurt, and has known she’s a lesbian since junior year when she realized she had a crush on the junior cheer captain. Who also happened to be her boyfriend’s sister. Blaine tells her that he also had a ‘girlfriend’, with air quotes. They talk about living in a small place with even smaller minds, about wanting to get out and get to a bigger city. About the thrill of getting into NYU, and about finally feeling ordinary in New York.

“But now that I’m here, do you know what I really want?” Kurt and Blaine look at her, enthusiastic active listening of course.  “To meet a girl.” Kurt lets out a deep breath and steals a quick glance at Blaine before nodding.

“I think most gay kids from small town wherever can relate to that. High school isn’t exactly the easiest place to find someone,” Blaine says wistfully and Kurt feels the cognitive dissonance well up inside him again. He knew Kurt was gay. Rachel says he thought he was hot. Kurt was right there - if not for romance then for something - friendship, support? But nothing.

“Well, let me get you some information to help with that very thing,” Kurt shifts to business mode and moves to the desk to look at the schedule with her.  He gives her the details for the queer women’s group meetings, the centre’s wine and cheese meet and greet, as well as the upcoming dance, before sending her off with pamphlets on how to get more involved. And also on safer sex. 

She takes the pamphlet from him and laughs. “A girl can dream, right?”  

Blaine helps her gather her things in a folder as she zips her jacket. “So are you guys like a couple, or something?”

What? Kurt sees Blaine blink back in surprise too. “No. No, I mean-”

“No, not at all,” Kurt affirms. “We’re-”

“We’re just-”

“Colleagues,” Kurt says. “We work together. Here,” He bites his lip awkwardly.

“Ok, no worries,” Jenny shrugs turning to leave. “I don’t know why I thought something. Never mind. Have a good night.”

The door clicks shut and Blaine starts in right away. “I have no idea why she thought-”

“No, I mean, me neither. Just because we’re both gay, doesn’t mean-”

“She obviously knows that but maybe-” Blaine’s voice trails off. “Anyways, it’s not a big deal.”

“No,” Kurt agrees. “It’s not.”

It’s quiet again and Kurt moves from the desk to sit back down on the couch just to have something to do to fill the quiet. The fifteen minutes until the end of their shift may turn out to be painful. Blaine is tapping his foot. It’s irritating.

“Rachel told me she saw you at Glee club,” Blaine starts.

Kurt looks at him, confused. “Yeah, I told you I saw her, remember? Lacrosse tryout?”

“Of course, yeah,” Blaine blushes. “I mean,” Blaine takes a deep breath and Kurt starts to get nervous from the awkwardness. “Rachel told me what she said.” 

“Didn’t we already establish-”

“I mean,” Blaine huffs. “She told you why I didn’t talk to you last year.”

“Ignored me,” Kurt corrects.

Blaine rolls his eyes, “Ignored you, yes. Because-” Blaine stops and looks down. Kurt can feel his cheeks flare red. Why is he doing this now? “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

Kurt can feel his hands start to get clammy. That is so unattractive. What is happening here? “Was it true?”

“What?” Blaine says and now Kurt is exasperated. “That you ignored me all year because you thought I was-” Kurt stops this time.

“Hot,” Blaine looks at Kurt directly. “Yeah.”

Kurt shakes his head over and over again, cheeks burning. “Why on earth-”

Blaine shrugs. “Temptation,” He says like it’s obvious. “I didn’t want to come out - my parents didn’t want me to come out,” He adds. “And I sure didn’t expect to be constantly taunted with the only out gay guy in the school on the cheerleading team and looking like-” Blaine stops again and Kurt looks at him, still shaking his head in disbelief. “You look. And yeah,” Blaine answers casually as if he’d asked, “I still think so.” 

Kurt shivers despite himself. There is a lot of information in those four words. And expectation. Too much. He’s both hot and cold and calm and excited and he feels energy coursing in every direction from his fingertips to his toes. “Can I be really honest with you?” Kurt is on autopilot. “I don’t really have any idea what to do right now.”

Blaine laughs. Why is he so cool about this? That cocky confidence behind his warm hazel eyes, and gelled back perfect hair with his all gayed-up sweater vests and bow ties. He’s wearing mustard jeans, for God’s sake. And they look good. “We can let it marinate, then,” Blaine says and touches him lightly on the knee. Kurt looks down at Blaine’s hand, staying there a second too long. He wants to touch back, but he won’t.

“Definitely marinating,” Kurt agrees as he stands up quickly, ready to leave the now very stuffy room.

“Can I walk you back to your dorm?” Blaine asks, which Kurt thinks is bold but vulnerable. Blaine is trying. 

And though Kurt absolutely does not say it, Blaine is also hot. 

“Okay,” Kurt agrees. “Okay.”

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[ankhlesbian]

FE Rarepair Week: Day 2

Prompt: Longing, for @ferarepair-week

Fandom: FE Fates

Pairing: Velouria/Soleil

AO3 Link: Here

Length: ~2k

Title: Opposites Attract

Soleil, star of her high school's lacrosse team, finds herself head-over-heels for Velouria, someone way out of her normal social circle, and definitely out of her league. But this is high school: anything can happen, and Soleil's unorthodox courting method may just pay off...

(aka I tried to write angsty Soleil and then it lasted for like one scene)

“She’s so perfect,” Soleil sighs, slamming her locker shut and leaning against it mournfully. “She’d never want to talk to me!”

Caeldori switches her sweaty practice shirt for a clean one and wiggles a finger at her, disapproving. “She doesn’t even know you, there’s no way she hates you. You have to actually make a move before you say things like that.”

Soleil crosses her arms. “But what could I do? I’ll probably just embarrass myself. She’s goth, right? I’m just a dumb jock.”

Caeldori rolls her eyes. “Literally only you think like that. As long as you ask her out properly, I’m sure she’d say yes.” Caeldori’s eyes are sparkling, surely thinking about some grand romantic gesture. Soleil’s seen her reading enough of her cliché romance novels to know what Caeldori considers the “proper” way to ask someone out.

“Maybe I’ll leave notes in her locker.” Soleil says, choosing to ignore Caeldori. Caeldori secures her lacrosse stick onto her bookbag and turns to leave the locker rooms. Soleil follows suits.

“You could leave flowers!” Caeldori suggest brightly. Soleil opens her mouth to protest, because what goth girl wants a locker full of flowers, but the flowers she saw on the way home from school recently spring to mind.

“That might not actually be a bad idea.”

Caeldori huffs, swinging around. Soleil has to duck to avoid the handle of her lacrosse stick as she turns. “I’m full of good ideas! Especially on the field. Maybe if you’d listen to me instead of daydreaming about Velouria, we’d—”

Soleil lunges forward, slapping her hand over Caeldori’s mouth, furiously looking back and forth down the hallway to detect any eavesdroppers. It’s empty, thankfully.

“Don’t say her name!” She hisses. Caeldori pushes her hand away with disgust, wiping at her mouth.

“Not even our teammates are around. Don’t interrupt your captain. As I was saying—” Soleil lets the familiar lecture wash over her, focusing instead on her master plan for wooing Velouria.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Soleil watches with bated breath from around the corner as Velouria approaches her locker. She’s wearing her usual combination of black and red, contrasting with her silver hair. She’s truly breathtaking, and Soleil can’t help but swoon just a little.

The girl wrinkles her nose as she swirls her lock, and when she opens her locker she’ll see a black rose, taped to a note. She’d pulled out her best calligraphy, hoping it would be distinguishable from her usual scrawl in case Velouria decides to do any detective work.

Velouria unfolds the note carefully, and then scowls. Soleil’s heart drops. Then, oddly enough, Velouria holds the note, rose and all, to her nose and sniffs deeply. Her head turns, eerily, in Soleil’s direction. She ducks back behind the corner, palms sweating. There’s no way Velouria suspects her. That would be absurd. But what if she comes this way?

Soleil’s eyes dart around the hallway. School hasn’t started yet, and there’s plenty of people milling around their open lockers.

“Out of the way! Emergency happening here!” She shoves some poor soul aside, and crams herself into their locker, for once thankful for her short stature. She slams the door shut. “Just play along,” she whispers to the bewildered face peering in at her. Her reputation must come in handy, because her accomplice obeys wordlessly.

She peers out through the slits, holding her breath. After a few seconds, she sees distinctive black combat boots passing by. She sighs in relief and bangs on the inside of the locker door.

“Okay, you can let me out now.” The door swings open and she crawls out, dusting herself off casually like she didn’t just do something extremely weird. “Thanks!”

After that close call, she’s careful to not stick around after slipping the note and rose into Velouria’s locker. It’s been a week since she’s started, and she’s pretty satisfied with her progress. Maybe after another week or two she’ll try talking to Velouria, like, in person.

She’s in a good mood after lacrosse practice, humming merrily to herself as she exits the locker room.

“We need to talk.” Says an ominous voice from the shadows.

“Gah!” Soleil jumps, hands going for her lacrosse stick. From the darkness of the hallway steps the last person she expected to see here.

“Velouria? I mean, uh, who are you?” Velouria’s arms are crossed. She’s very clearly unimpressed.

“You know who I am. Unless you’ve been leaving flowers in my locker for the past week on accident.”

“How’d you even know that was me?” She’s never been very good at lying, so she concedes defeat.

“I have my ways,” Velouria declares mysteriously. It’s very goth of her, and extremely cool. “So.”

“So.” repeats Soleil, unsure of what happens next. IS there an expected response to this?

“So,”  Velouria prompts.

“So?” Soleil says again, confused.

“So…” Velouria coughs imploringly. “You must have been leaving those in my locker for a reason.” In the dim lighting, Soleil can just barely make out Velouria’s face. Are her cheeks… pink? She’s blushing? Soleil grins, and attempts to turn up the charm.

“Well, I thought they were an appropriate gift for you. Just as beautiful as you are. I figured I should woo you proper before asking you on a date.”

Velouria nods approvingly, trying to stay calm even though Soleil can tell she’s delighted. If she was a dog, her tail would be wagging. “Very well. I accept your offer.”

Soleil’s bouncing off the walls by the time they exchange phone numbers and arrange a time and place. She bursts back into the locker room, crashing into Caeldori to give her a hug.

“It worked! You’re a genius!”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

That Saturday, Soleil finds herself waiting nervously outside of the mall. She’s in her best outfit, one that goes with her pink hair, and has her hands tucked into the pockets of her letterman jacket so that no one can see them shaking. She’s cool, she’s suave, the ladies love her, she’s the star of the lacrosse team, she’s got this.

“Hey.”

Soleil jolts. She must really be out of it, because Velouria’s staring down at her with a raised eyebrow. Actually, wait a second. She glances down, and yep, Velouria’s wearing a different pair of boots. These ones have a heel, giving her another good two inches on Soleil.

“Hey. Let’s go in! How’s your day been?” She enters chatterbox mode out of habit, but Velouria doesn’t seem to mind. She keeps up gamely, usually offering one word responses or even a sentence or two.

They enter the mall, walking around aimlessly. It’s the only mall in town, so it’s not like there’s anything they’ve never seen before here. Window shopping is always fun, and she discovers that Velouria has a soft spot for dogs when they pass the window of a Build-A-Bear. The other girl trails off in the middle of a sentence as they pass, her gaze lingering on the wolf plushie on display in the window.

“Should we go in?” Soleil teases, though her dad did give her some money for this date, and she’d be more than willingly to spend it on a stuffed animal.

“No. Why would you ask that? I just saw some dust,” Velouria says quickly. Soleil giggles.

“Your tough goth girl image is safe with me.”

“Speaking of that…” Velouria points to an upcoming store. Soleil freezes.

“You want to go in?” It’s a scary place, one Soleil, as a self-proclaimed prep-adjacent jock, has never stepped foot in. The walls are dark, stacked from floor to ceiling with shirts plastered with eerie images and unfamiliar characters. Everything seems to be either black or red. It’s… Hot Topic.

Velouria seems pleased, poking thoughtfully through the merchandise. Soleil may dye her hair, but the man with green hair by the cash register is giving her the creeps. The things she does for love.

“I can get you something. If you want.” It takes all her bravery to ask, doing her best not to look too closely at the sharp accessory Velouria’s holding. To her surprise, Velouria just laughs at her, smiling softly.

“I just wanted to see if you’d agree to come in, I don’t actually need anything. You’re certainly out of place.” The other customers are giving her the stink eye, that’s for sure.

Soleil puffs out her chest. “And you’re certainly devious. I’m making you look at athletic wear next.”

She must have a weak spot for Velouria, though, because instead they end up buying ice cream.

“We should eat outside. It’s a beautiful day!” Soleil declares, scooping up an enthusiastic spoonful of her cup of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

“Hmmmm,” Velouria says, licking at her cone of coffee flavored ice cream thoughtfully. “But it’ll melt.”

“You better eat fast then.” She pulls out her secret weapon. “There’s a dog park out back, you know.” Velouria caves, and outside they go. It’s not actually that warm out, but the sun is shining.

They end up acquiring a frisbee from a dog owner who isn’t paying enough attention to what their pet is doing. Velouria is clearly enamored by the dogs, crouching down to pet them immediately, unconcerned with touching the damp ground. She even makes pathetic, albeit they endearing, attempts at throwing the frisbee for a lively lab.

“I’ve got this. Just watch!” Soleil takes the frisbee from her and winds up. Lacrosse players have excellent arms, and the frisbee goes flying. The dog barks happily as it chases it, jumping over the dogs in its path.

“I suppose sports are good for something, after all.” Soleil holds up her right arm, flexing the bicep proudly. Nothings really visible under the thickness of her jacket, but it’s the principle of the gesture that counts.

“If you want to see what else these guns can do, you could always come cheer me on at a game.”

Velouria rolls her eyes. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself. I’d look terrible in a cheerleader outfit.”

Soleil grins cheekily, giving Velouria a once-over. “I dunno, I think you’d look great in one.” Velouria blushes, turning her attention back to the dogs.

Velouria tires quickly, probably due to her lack of athletic activity and her dark clothing. They settle underneath a tree, and Soleil tentatively takes her hand. It’s damp from sweat and dog slobber, and kind of sticky from the ice cream, but Soleil has no complaints.

Five o’clock comes all too soon, and her dad texts her that he’s in the parking lot.

They stand up, still holding holds, and face each other. Soleil smiles up at her, gripping her hands a little tighter.

“I had fun. A lot of fun! We should do this again.”

“It went surprisingly well.”

“Hey!”

“You’re doing a great job of melting my cold, cold heart.” Velouria amends, a smile tugging on her lips.

“You’re just a big softie.” Soleil scoffs, sticking her tongue out. “You don’t have to act all aloof.”

“Not around you, I guess. You’ve figured out my secret.” She deadpans.

They fall silent, staring at each other. Soleil bites her lip. Should she kiss her? Is a first date too soon for that? Should she let Velouria make the first move? Maybe a kiss on the lips is just too much? The cheek then, maybe. Or…

Soleil raises their joined hands to her lips, gently kissing the back of Velouria’s hand.

“I’ll see you at school on Monday?” She asks hopefully.

Velouria nods, eyes bright.

“I’ll text you.”

And then they part ways. Soleil makes her way back to the car with a goofy grin on her face. Her lips taste faintly like coffee. For once, she can’t wait for Monday to come.

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[cat-sophia]

Happy 27th Captain Swan Day!

Hello My Dear Friends!

This Sunday lets talk about @welllpthisishappening - talented writer, one of this amazing, brilliant people that helped me survive this last few months. Her fics are not only perfect stories about Emma and Killian but also she create this whole verse full of characters that we fall in love to - creates this big, happy families for Emma and Killian.

Tripping Over the Blue Line  (1st chapter on Tumblr) she wrote this year for @captainswanbigbang - is about hockey (you really not need to know anything about this sport to enjoy it - i know almost nothing about it) and love and family. It’s hard not to love everything about it - if by any chance you did not read it - try - i promise it’s perfect. (and we have sequel promised)

Out of the Frying Pan (Tumblr) - Emma, Killian and Food Network all-star cooking competition - wonderful story with food (will make you hungry) and family (including Swan Jones Family) and you should also read two short additions to this verse -  It’s a Funny Old Game (Tumblr) - where Killian plays football and Halloween special  The Anti-Pumpkin Brigade (Tumblr).

Read also You Play Ball Like a Girl  (Tumblr) - her other amazing multichapter Emma, Killian and the New York City journalism world.

And of course her wonderful short stories like Sliding Down the Hill (Tumblr) “A not-quite a Little League World Series AU” (lots, lots of Swan Jones Family feels) and But Consider This…Aliens (Tumblr) - funny and cute not quite alien (new neighbor) story and This World You Must’ve Crossed (Tumblr) about Emma and her new roommate who is not quite ghost (another perfect, perfect story - trust me).

Laura, thank you for all the feels - even the angst - thank you for all the time i spend reading your wonderful stories instead of worrying about stuff, thank you that you filled my mind with love and happiness and perfect families. 

Thank you!

edit: @welllpthisishappening fics i read after i made this post:

All Tripping Over the Blue Line one shots!

The PyeongChang Triple - continuation of Tripping Over the Blue Line - lots of happy perfect family and team moments - perfection! (also read all one shots she wrote for this stories - love, love them all!)

To Make the Season Bright - AU - “It's just one weekend. At Christmas. In New York. With everyone there. With Killian there. It's fine. Emma doesn't mind – he's always there and she wants him to be there and it'll be good. Great, even. Festive. She's looking forward to it.She just hopes she doesn't do something stupid. Like shout feelings in his face. That probably wouldn't be very festive.”

It’s the Thought That Counts - Canon - “Ordering gifts on the internet makes sense. It's just a few clicks and online sales and the presents will be there in plenty of time for Christmas to be perfect.Emma and Killian are positive.Except then the presents don't show up and it's Christmas Eve and plan B isn't so much a plan as it is just a bit of pre-holiday desperation and the entire town knows what they're up to.“

In Case of Emergency, Call... - AU "I'm your emergency contact and best friend and you were in a major accident and I'm trying to act like what happened is no big deal but you nearly died and how are you the one distracting me from it all?" 

To Grandmother's House We Go and  Whistled for Icing  - Canon, future CS 

Playing Man Down - AU Something like She's The Man. It's about lacrosse. Not soccer.

Contact Light - secret dating AU

A Fair, Even-Handed, Noble Adjustment of Things - AU “Emma just wants to do something good. Give back. Maybe get a few bonus points. Metaphorically speaking. Not the last one. That defeats the purpose of all of this. But she can’t really think straight because he keeps humming and using nicknames and stealing all the flour. And she’d give up all the bonus points she’s, maybe, accumulated by, possibly, doing good if she could just remember what his name is. This is not going the way she planned. At all.”

Heart to Heart and Hand in Hand - AU - perfect proposal

Sharp Corners and Crisp Folds - AU CSJJ’18 “It’s going to take hours. Days. The rest of her goddamn life. Probably not. That last one is a bit dramatic. But, honestly, it’s going to take a ton of time to refold all those shirts and this guy just keeps wandering around the store with, seemingly, no purpose and Emma has no customer service skills at all. Mary Margaret would know what to do. Mary Margaret is not there. It’s just Emma and the t-shirt destroyer. And his goddamn, stupid leather jacket.”

With a Little Bit of Luck - helping their best friends plan an elopement AU

Holding the Edge - Killian Jones does not want the questions. He doesn’t want the interviews or the spotlight or the sky-high expectations. Killian Jones is one heck of a comeback story. With his eyes on gold. And maybe slightly gold'ish hair and green eyes and, yeah, maybe he’s got some questions of his own.

Almost Believing, This One’s Not Pretend - They don’t grow up skating together. They don’t even want to start skating together. But then life happens and they kind of need each other so they keep skating and, sometimes, winning and, always, ignoring the questions. Because how could two people have so much chemistry on the ice when they’re just partners?

A Touch of (March) Madness - AU Emma can’t quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn’t matter.She’s picked her teams and her upsets and she’s got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They’re not playing the game, but they’re playing a game and this one might change everything.

Gone the Way of the Dinosaurs - AU Emma doesn’t entirely understand the town of Storybrooke.It is, apparently, the kind of place with story time at the library and spring festivals on Friday night and unfairly attractive people with blue eyes who know all the words to the dinosaur song her kid is also inexplicably singing.She doesn’t understand the town of Storybrooke yet, but maybe Emma is willing to do a little research.

Caught in Your Light - AU Forever. It’s been forever. Or, possibly, longer.It might honestly be longer. Killian can’t remember a moment when he wasn’t hopelessly, head over heels in love with Emma. And it’s kind of becoming a problem. Because it’s been forever and they’ve always been friends, but now things are changing and traditions are ending and there’s just one more weekend.This is it. So it’s time to do something about it. In Boston. With all their friends watching. It’ll be fine.

When You Want to Escape, Say the Word - Her Royal Highness Princess Emma of Misthaven was exhausted. And bored. And frustrated. And mostly bored.She’d spent her life watching her parents save the kingdom, inspire others and, just generally, become the basis for every love story she’d ever believed. But, now, on her own trip to Arendelle, Emma hadn’t done much of anything.So, she’d left. She was going to see the city and do what she wanted. At least for a day. She just didn’t expect to run into an obstacle as soon as she left the castle – literally.

Beggars and Blighters and Ne'er Do-Well Cads - Emma Swan is just trying to make sure her kid’s birthday goes off without a hitch, but the world doesn’t appear to care. At all.Because she’s got no idea where the cupcakes are, and Mary Margaret is apparently threatening parents, and there’s some kind of pirate standing in front of her with a goddamn hook and a smile that should be illegal.The world is a giant joke. Happy birthday, Henry.

A Royal Proclamation - canon - how Emma and Killian would have done it, like telling Snow and David and all the town about the pregnancy?

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @caffeine-in-an-iv!

Happy Holidays and/or Seasons Greetings to my Secret Santa, caffeine-in-an-iv aka WitchWithWifi! I heard you liked Christmas fluff! Well, have I got some fluff for you! I really hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much for reading!

Read on AO3

*****

Follow the Jelly Beans

Derek can’t believe he’s the last one off the plane.  

It’s partially his fault, he’d been working late and had to rush to the airport.  The dirty looks he’d gotten when he ran down the aisle of the plane in a crumpled suit rivaled what he had gotten from his mother on Skype that morning when he said he’d be catching a later flight.  

It isn’t Derek’s fault that his students had handed in work at the last minute that had to be graded before Christmas break.  He knows he’s been too soft on them, but he’s always been a sucker for personal statements and reading about his students’ holiday traditions made him even more lenient than usual.

He’d shoved himself into the middle seat closest to the rear lavatory with a sheepish look on his face.  It was a six-hour flight from New York to Sacramento and he clutched his worn copy of A Christmas Carol and settled in to read it like he did every winter.  

By the time he deplanes and makes it to baggage claim, his suitcase is the only one left.  The tag is torn off but he’s already missed 8 calls from Cora and just grabs it quickly before rushing outside.

“Get in, loser!” she calls from the window of her Jeep.  “Everyone is waiting for you to decorate the tree!”

“Christmas is in like two days, and you still haven’t decorated?” Derek asks, throwing his ratty rollaway bag into the trunk.  

“Mom wanted us to all be together.  But someone had to go and move halfway across the world.”

“I like my job, Cora,” Derek says, buckling his seatbelt.  “You don’t just turn down Columbia.”

“You sound like such an East Coast snob when you say stuff like that,” she says, weaving through the crazy holiday traffic.

“And you’re my least favorite sister.”

“Ha fucking ha,” she says, narrowing her eyes.  “Your life is in my hands right now, don’t mess with me,” she adds, changing lanes just a hair too close for Derek’s comfort.

It takes a few hours but they make it back to the house in one piece and Derek can already hear the kids screaming as they pull into the drive.  It makes him smile.  He doesn’t get home as often as he should and hopes the small gifts he has packed are enough for him to keep his title as favorite uncle.

”Finally!” he hears from the front porch as he grabs his suitcase.  “I thought you’d walked here.”

His mother is just as striking as ever, just a few streaks of grey in her dark hair betraying her age.  “Sorry, Mom,” he says softly into her hair as he’s pulled into a hug.

“Uncle Derek!” someone screams as they tackle him around the knees.  “It’s pajama time!”

“I can see that!” he says, stooping down to get a hug and a kiss from Laura’s youngest.  “Give me a minute and I’ll go change.”  He waves hello to everyone else who is gathered around a bare tree and hops up the stairs to his childhood bedroom to put on his soft flannel bottoms.  Gracie had picked them out especially for him last Christmas and he made sure to pack them for the traditional pajama decorating party.

Only his pants aren’t in the bag.  In fact, none of his belongings are in the bag.  It’s not his bag at all.  

“Oh no,” he mutters, sifting through the contents.  “Who the fuck packed this?”

The suitcase is utter chaos.  There’s an assortment of wrapped Christmas gifts and scrunched up clothes but there’s also a bunch of half knitted scarves, action figures, baby toys and… are those throwing stars in that carrying case?  To cap it all off, every nook and cranny of the bag is full of loose jelly beans.  

“Oh my God,” Laura snickers from the doorway.  “Did you switch bags with a killer Easter Bunny?”

“I have no idea,” he says, pulling out a noise machine and a copy of Go the Fuck to Sleep .  

“Is that a fishing rod?” she asks, stepping forward to grab an oblong shape out of a long pocket.  “This thing is kind of cool,” she says, snapping the rod together to its full length.  “It’s like stealth fishing.”

“I need to call the airline,” Derek says, reaching for his phone.  “I had all the gifts in there.  And I don’t think I can fit in any of these clothes,” he adds, pulling out a well-worn Batman tee shirt that’s at least two sizes too small for him.  

He’s on hold for twenty minutes with Laura tapping her foot and looking at her watch before the helpline connects.  They are no help at all.  Does he know how many bags get lost during Christmas?  It’s impossible for them to match up every bag with every person and there’s nothing matching his description left at the airport.  Someone else must have taken his bag by mistake.  So sorry, happens all the time, Merry Christmas.

“Fuck!” he groans, ending the call.  “Someone else has my bag and I’ve got this… whatever this junk is.”

“We could just give the kids these and hope they’re not porn,” Laura says, chuckling as she reaches for one of the wrapped presents.  It’s Star Wars wrapping paper.  R2-D2 is wearing a Santa hat and everything.  

“You can’t do that, Laura!” Derek says, snatching the present out of her hand.  “You’re going to ruin someone’s Christmas.”

“You’re such a Tiny Tim,” Laura teases, dropping the present with a huff.  “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.  It’s getting close to bedtime for the kids and we still have to decorate and have hot chocolate.  You know how Dad is about tradition.”

“I’m coming, just…” he trails off, opening a drawer and finding nothing but old clothes from high school  “Can I borrow something from Adam?  I don’t have any pajamas to wear.”

“Sure thing, bro,” she says, leading him out of the room.

It’s wonderfully chaotic as always, and the footie Minion pajamas Derek is forced into only add to the ridiculousness of it all.  Thirteen people under one roof is always a bit crazy, but coming in late without any of his belongings has Derek feeling a bit more overwhelmed than usual.

“I don’t think you’re going to be getting your stuff back, sweetheart,” Talia says hours later as the adults share a much-needed glass of wine.  “We can do some last minute shopping tomorrow if you really want, but the kids are just happy you’re here.”

“I had a 50th Anniversary copy of The Hobbit for West,” Derek groans, rubbing at his beard.  

“And you didn’t carry it on?” Peter asks, swirling his wine with his feet up in his wife’s lap.  “It’s like you were asking for it.”

“I’ll help you see if there are any clues in the bag,” Cora says, tossing a dirty look in Peter’s direction.  

They go through everything in the bag piece by piece, sorting it into piles and collecting the jelly beans in a ziplock bag.  Without opening the presents, there aren’t a lot of clues.  The only identifying item is a ratty old Beacon Hills High Lacrosse tee shirt.  

“This looks at least five years old, maybe ten,” Cora says, holding it up to her chest.  “The underwear tells me it’s a dude, at least.”

“I don’t think I can go to the high school and ask, ‘hey I know this is a long shot but do you know whose boxers these are?  They used to go here ten years ago,’” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Why don’t you just open a present,” she suggests, shaking a box.  It doesn’t make any noise.  “It’s not like the guy can’t re-wrap them.”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, flopping down on his back on his old full bed.  “It feels weird and invasive.”

“Just imagine that he’s probably touching your underwear now, too.  If that makes you feel any better,” she says, poking him in the side as she drops the box back in the suitcase.

“Somehow that’s not comforting,” Derek groans, kicking out at her.  

“Why don’t you just start with one,” she says, holding up another small package.  “If that doesn’t help you can try another one.  That way you won’t ruin everything,  you big baby.”

“Okay,” Derek says, not having any better ideas.  He grabs the gift and reads the tag.  “To Scott:  Finally saw one of these come through the store and nabbed it for you.”  Derek peels back the corner of the paper and finds a Funkopop box.  Sliding through the tape and removing the paper he sees that it’s a glow in the dark White Walker.

“I have no idea,” Cora says, quickly becoming bored.  “Try the comic book store in the morning.  If they’re even open on Christmas Eve.”

Derek does exactly that.  He checks online and is standing out front of Beacon Hills Comics with a cup of coffee exactly when it opens.  

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks, eyebrows high.  Derek must not look like their typical customer in his tweed jacket and slacks.  

“I kind of found this,” he says, putting the box on the table.  “And I was wondering if you could tell me about it.”

“Seriously?” he says, eyes brightening as he carefully lifts the box.  “These are really rare.  You just found it somewhere?”

“It’s a long story,” Derek says, sighing.  “Do you know where someone might have gotten it?”

“Are you looking to sell?  Because I’ll give you $200 for it.”

“Thank you, but no,” Derek says, shaking his head.  He has no idea if that’s a fair price or not, but he’s sure as hell not selling someone else’s Christmas gift.  

“Most of the time people buy and sell these on eBay or at stores like this.  The super rare ones are only sold at like Comicon and stuff.”

“Okay…” Derek says, puzzling through the information.  “So whoever bought this is a nerd?”

“We’re all nerds,” the man says with a huff.  “This guy is a collector.  Someone serious.”

“Okay,” Derek says, reaching for the doll.  “Thanks for your help.”

“$300!” the guy calls as Derek leaves the store.

“No deal,” he says with a small smile on his face, more determined than ever.

He thinks it over while he plays Guess Who with the kids.  The more he thinks about the collection or random stuff in the suitcase, the more he thinks he might like to meet whoever owns it.

Under the watchful eye of Laura and his mother, he helps Gracie, West, Charlotte, and Milo decorate Christmas cookies, which is more of a test of patience than anything.  By the time they’re done, Derek is covered in frosting and has sprinkles stuck in his beard.  He takes a second shower before choosing another present to open.

This one is much larger than the last, but a completely ridiculous shape.  The tag reads: “To Allison: Your other gift got shipped, but I thought you’d enjoy this.  Might be fun to scare the kids with.”

Derek slips the paper off to find a headband in his hand.  There’s an arrow going through it.  He cracks up.  Who is this guy?  A magician?  An evil mastermind?  An eccentric preschool teacher?

There’s no way the headband is going to help him get anywhere, so he digs another present out of a pile of jelly beans.  This one is squishy and the tag reads: “To Melissa: No more putting it off.  It’s time for your childhood dreams to come true.  Eat your heart out, Tonya Harding.”

Inside is a pair of fur-lined mittens.  Slipped inside one of them is an envelope containing a voucher for ice skating lessons… at the Beacon Hills rink.  Smiling to himself, Derek rounds up the kids and loads them into Laura’s minivan for a fun surprise trip with Uncle Derek.

Gracie and West help the other two on with their skates while Derek speaks to the front office.  Their website is down so they’re unable to trace orders that were placed online, but they tell him that he’s welcome to schedule his first ice skating lesson now if he likes.  Derek politely declines, shaking his head.  Another dead end.

Derek laces up his own skates and steps out onto the ice, smiling as the weightless easy feeling takes over him.  He watches the kids race around the rink, screaming and laughing as they fall all over each other under the twinkling of the arena’s Christmas lights.  

Not for the first time, Derek wonders if he’ll ever have something like this, a loving partner and a couple of kids to bring home to his parents’ for the holidays.  Maybe it’s time to give online dating another try.  If there’s anyone half as interesting as the suitcase man out there, he might want to ask them for a date.

After a few hours, Derek rounds the kids back up and treats them to hot chocolate.  He sits with Milo on his lap and sings along to the Christmas carols being pumped through the tinny arena speakers with a smile on his face.  Even a bit of scalding cocoa spilled on his pants does little to dampen the spirit of the season.  

“What are you thinking about?” Gracie asks him on their way back to the car, already far too perceptive for her age.

“How things are going to be next Christmas,” he says, smiling sweetly down at her as they help the younger kids into their car seats.  “You think you’ll get another sister or brother by then?” he teases.

“I hope not.  I already heard Mom say Milo was an accident,” she stage whispers.

Derek laughs freely, making sure everyone is buckled in tight before heading back to the Hale house.  As they sit beside the fire reading The Night Before Christmas later that evening, Derek thinks about the suitcase man and who he might be spending Christmas with.

Unable to sleep from all the chocolate he’s had in the last two days, Derek stares at the ceiling at 11 p.m.  He’s no closer to finding out where his suitcase is and tomorrow is Christmas.  

One more , he tells himself, getting up and flicking the light back on.  He digs around in the suitcase until he finds the present Cora shook the night before.  

Carefully slitting the tape, Derek reveals a plain white box.  Inside, painstakingly wrapped in white tissue paper is a framed photograph.  It’s old, the colors worn and tinted orange like so many other family photos he’s seen over the years.  

A man stands next to a police cruiser, one hand leaning against the roof while the other holds tight to the leg of the young boy who’s sitting on his shoulders.  It’s shot from behind, so Derek can’t see their faces, but he knows for sure this is a special photograph.  He also knows that the little boy in the photos must be the one who went to Beacon Hills High ten years ago and filled his suitcase with jelly beans.  

He stares at the photo for a long time, tracing the lines of the car with his finger until it clicks.  This boy’s father was a local police officer.  If he was twenty years ago, maybe he still is and if not, at least someone at the station would be able to identify the car.  

Moving quickly, Derek makes sure everything is back in the suitcase before grabbing the photograph and rushing downstairs.  “Hey Peter, can I borrow your car?” he asks quietly.  Peter and his wife Savannah are curled up on the couch, Charlotte asleep between them.

“Keys are in the kitchen,” he says softly, brushing the hair out of Charlotte’s face as Savannah looks on.  Her eyes are sleepy but bright with love, it’s obvious how happy they are together.  

Derek’s heart aches as he stares for a second, caught up in the sight of something he’s not sure he’ll ever experience himself.  Shaking his head slightly, he pushes on, retrieving Peter’s keys and shoving the suitcase in the trunk.  It’s a short ride to the Sheriff’s station and Derek barely even has time to think about what he’s going to say before he’s heading inside.

“Can I help you?” the dispatcher says, barely looking up from the paperwork he’s shuffling through.

“I was wondering if you knew who was in this picture?  I think they might work here,” Derek says, holding out the frame.

The dispatcher laughs.  “That’s a good one,” he says, handing the photo back.  “Hey Sheriff!” he calls behind him.  “Someone here to see you!”

“How many times have I told you to use the intercom,” a man says, poking his head out of an office down the hall.  He’s imposing in his uniform but looks kind, blonde and tan with a coffee mug in his hand.  

“It’s a small office, Sheriff,” the man says, turning back to his paperwork.  

“Don’t I know it,” the Sheriff says, sighing as he leans his hand on the doorframe.  “That’s why we’re all working on Christmas Eve.  What can I do for you, son?” he asks, turning to Derek.

“Uhh…” Derek says, stepping forward when the Sheriff waves him over.  “I think…” he trails off again searching for the words.  “Is this you?” he asks instead, holding out the photograph.

“Wow,” he says, taking it and sitting down heavily in his desk chair.  “Where did you get this?”

“I got the wrong bag at the airport,” Derek says, watching the Sheriff’s face intently as he studies the photograph.  It’s happy, but also wistful.  It makes Derek think that while the suitcase man in the picture is probably still alive, maybe the person who took the photo isn’t.  “It was full of all this completely insane stuff, but also a few presents.  That was one of them.”

“So you’re the one who ended up with Stiles’ bag,” the Sheriff says, a smile spreading across his face as he starts to chuckle.  “He’s an odd one, my son.”

“Do you want the bag?” Derek asks, a little put out.  After all the work he put in to finding the suitcase man, he kind of wants to see it through to the end.

“I’m working the night shift tonight.  Why don’t you go to my house and give it to him?  Just don’t ring the bell or you’ll wake the baby.  If that’s not too much trouble?”

“Sure.  No problem,” Derek says, taking the photo back when it’s offered.  Knowing there’s actually a baby involved at least makes sense of half of the items in the suitcase, the others, not so much.  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Call me John,” the man says, holding out his hand.  “It’s 129 Woodbine Lane,” he adds, walking Derek out.  “And thanks for hunting him down.  Especially on Christmas.  It would have been a shame to lose that photo.”

“You’re welcome,” Derek says, turning toward the door.  “I’m Derek, by the way.”

“I know who you are, son,” John says, clapping him on the shoulder.  “I’ve lived here for years.  Your sister went to school with Stiles.”

“Oh,” Derek says softly.  He’s kind of struck dumb by what a small world it is, that Stiles was on the same flight as him coming home to Beacon Hills for Christmas on the same day with a bag that exactly matched his.  “I’ll get this to him.”

“Make sure he gives you a proper thank you,” John adds, waving before heading back to his office.  

Derek gets back in the car and heads over to Woodbine.  He must have run down this block a hundred times as a kid and never knew the Sheriff or his son.  Retrieving the bag from the trunk, Derek walks slowly up the front steps.  He’s thought of nothing else for the past 36 hours and yet now that he’s here he’s hesitant to knock.  

Taking a deep breath, Derek raises his hand and gives the glass a light rap.  A few seconds later the curtain flies open and a freckled face appears.  Derek waves, mouthing “hi” like Stiles has any idea who he is.  He points down at the suitcase and hopes Stiles will get the idea.

The door opens quietly and the suitcase man invites him inside.  He takes the bag from Derek’s hand and immediately opens it on the coffee table.  “I swear to God, if the Binky Bear isn’t in here, I’m going to lose my shit.”

“What?” Derek says, eyebrows flying up.  

“Binky Bear.  It’s this little stuffed bear with a nipple attached.  Have you seen it?”

“Uhh…” Derek says, getting lost for a second when he looks down to see the waistband of the man’s underwear sticking up out of his pajama bottoms.  “I think in the side pocket maybe?” he walks around the table to the other side of the suitcase and unzips a hidden pocket, revealing the bear.

“Thank fuck,” Stiles says, grabbing the bear and clutching it to his chest.  “I thought I had it in the diaper bag and then it was nowhere and I just… it was touch and go there for a while, I’m not gonna lie.  I thought she was going to eat me.”

“Your... daughter?” Derek asks, not wanting to assume anything further.

“Yeah, she’s two and when they say terrible, they mean terrible, holy fuck,” he says, flopping down on the couch, looking exhausted.  

“Ah,” Derek says, not knowing what he’s supposed to do now.  “Are you supposed to curse this much if you have a two-year-old?”

“She’s sleeping, Suitcase Man,” Stiles says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It doesn’t happen very often so when it does, you have to take full advantage.  You don’t have kids, do you?”

“Uhh no,” Derek says, scratching at his beard awkwardly.  “I have nieces and nephews.”

“Wait a second,” Stiles says, eyes narrowing in Derek’s direction.  “You’re Derek Hale, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.  

“The beard threw me off for a minute but I never forget a face,” Stiles says.  “I went to school with you.  Same year as Cora.”

“She didn’t say…” Derek says, trying to string a coherent sentence together.  “I mean we saw the lacrosse shirt in the bag but we didn’t really know who it was.”

“How did you find me then?” he asks, heading to the fridge and returning with two beers, handing one to Derek.

“This,” Derek says, pulling the framed photo from the inside pocket of his coat.  “I went to the Sheriff’s station.  Met your dad.”

“That’s A+ detective work, Mr. Hale,” Stiles jokes, tipping his beer toward Derek.

“I didn’t want to open the presents, but I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“It’s alright, I’d given it up as a lost cause.  I must have your bag.  Sorry about that, by the way.  I may have rage dumped it looking for the Binky Bear.”

“That’s alright,” Derek says, mind reeling.  Stiles is without a doubt one of the most peculiar people he’s ever met.  “I have to ask though… what’s with the jelly beans?”

“Well, Derek,” Stiles says, propping his feet up on the suitcase.  It slouches him down far enough that a strip of his stomach is showing between his underwear and his Green Arrow tee shirt.  “When your ex-girlfriend shows up on your doorstep with a two-year-old and says she’d like to relinquish custody, you do just about whatever it takes to get that little baby girl potty trained.  The only thing that seems to work is jelly beans.  She inherited my penchant for junk food.  The bag popped while I was packing but I just kind of went with it.  I needed those jelly beans, Derek.”

“Huh,” Derek says, frowning.  “I was thinking magician.”

“What?” Stiles crows, practically folding himself in half as he spasms with laughter.  “What made you say magician?”

“I don’t know… the throwing stars and the scarves and the arrow headband thingy?  It was either that or super villain,” Derek says in a huff.

“I own a comic book store in New York,” Stiles says, still laughing.  “Although I might take up villainy on the side.  Sounds like a sweet gig.”

“I teach English at Columbia,” Derek says.  “Not as fun as a comic book store, I’m sure.”

“What’s your favorite book?” Stiles asks, narrowing his eyes.  “Be warned that our fledgling relationship depends on your answer.”

“Don’t ask me that,” Derek says, groaning.  “That’s not fair.  I can’t pick one book.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Hale,” Stiles says, staring him down.

Derek downs the rest of his beer before saying, “ Don Quixote ,” with a grimace.

“No shit,” Stiles says.  “I bet you’re bilingual too,” he adds rolling his eyes.  

Derek doesn’t even bother answering.  He is bilingual, but he knows Stiles is just trying to embarrass him.

“Try again.  What’s your second favorite book?”

“ Welcome to the Monkey House ,” Derek says immediately.

“Better,” Stiles says, tossing his head back and forth like he’s considering it.

“What’s your favorite book then?  If you’re going to be so judgmental about it,” Derek says, eyebrows raised.  

“ Ender’s Game ,” Stiles says.  Before Derek even has time to consider this, he shoots back, “Favorite author?”

“Neruda,” Derek says, flashing Stiles a grin.

“Poetry doesn’t count,” Stiles says.  He’s shaking his head but he’s smiling.  

“My PhD in literature begs to differ,” Derek says as Stiles hops off the couch for more beer.  He’s already feeling loose and comfortable, all awkwardness of their meeting flown out the window.

“Fine,” Stiles says, flopping back on the couch.  “Favorite band, then.”

He’s closer to Derek now, his feet practically in Derek’s lap.  There’s an easy familiarity to the gesture that makes something in Derek relax even further.  

“What is this?  A job interview?” Derek asks, laughing as he watches Stiles’ beer foam over.  

Stiles chases the spill with his tongue, licking his fingers as it drips down his hand.  “I figured it was more like speed dating,” he says once his hand is clean.  “People don’t just hunt you down over some jelly beans.  You must be something special.”

“I was… curious,” Derek says, feeling his face heat under his beard.  “Interested.”

“Well now I’m interested,” Stiles says easily, flashing him a smile.

They end up talking for hours.  Derek asks question after question, eager to find out more about the mysterious man he’s been led to by some sort of twisted Christmas miracle.  Stiles teases him mercilessly, making him laugh and blush harder than he has in years.  

Eventually, a sharp cry rings out through the baby monitor on the end table and Derek startles.  “She’s not going to go back down easy,” Stiles says, peeling himself away from Derek’s side where he’d settled the last time he’d come back from the bathroom.

“I can go,” Derek says, pointing to the door.  He glances at his watch and sees that it’s nearly 3 a.m.  

“Stay,” Stiles says, reaching for his hand.  “I have your clothes anyway.  We can talk more.  You shouldn’t drive this late at night on Christmas Eve.  Too many drunks on the road.”

Derek wants to argue, but all of that sounds perfectly reasonable to him.  “Okay,” he says, following Stiles to a bedroom that’s currently serving double duty as an office and a nursery.  

“Shh, Wonder Woman, it’s alright,” Stiles coos, reaching down into the crib for the baby girl who is standing up, clinging to the bars and screaming.  “I heard you the first time.”

Derek stares.  The girl is wearing Wonder Woman themed footie pajamas, her auburn hair curling around her tiny ears.  She has Stiles’ little upturned nose and matching freckles on her round face.  

“This is Claire,” he says, fitting the crying child against his hip like he’s been doing it for years and not just a few weeks.  “Claire, this is my new friend Derek.”

She immediately hides her face in her father’s neck and quiets down.  Stiles bounces her a few times, exiting the room and leading Derek down the hall to what must be his own childhood bedroom.  There are posters on the walls of some of the bands Stiles had mentioned and superhero paraphernalia everywhere.  

“I believe that is yours,” Stiles says, nodding to the corner where Derek’s suitcase stands.  “Put on some PJs and join us,” he adds, sitting down on the edge of the bed and patting Claire’s butt to check for leaks.  

“Thank you,” Derek says.  All his clothes and gifts are inside, still wrapped and folded the way he left them.  He pulls out his flannel pajama bottoms and ducks into the bathroom to change.

When he gets back, Stiles is lying down on the bed, Claire resting on his chest with the Binky Bear tucked into her mouth.  She’s awake and babbling nonsense around the pacifier.  Stiles speaks softly to her, “Really?  That’s so interesting!” he replies, cupping the little girl’s head.

Derek picks up a picture book off the bedside table and looks at the cover.  

“That’s her favorite, isn’t it Claire-bear?” Stiles coos, rocking her.  “It’s cute.  You should read it.”

So he does.  Derek reads through The Pout-Pout Fish three times before Claire’s eyes fall closed and she starts dozing on Stiles’ chest.  

“Hit the light,” Stiles says, yawning.  “I’m not moving her again.”

“Okay,” Derek says, like staying right now isn’t a completely absurd thing to do.  His entire family will be up in three hours ready to open presents, but right now, Derek doesn’t care. He lays down beside Stiles in the twin sized bed, close enough that he can feel Claire breathing beside him.  

“Thanks for bringing the gifts back,” Stiles says, reaching his pinky out to snag Derek’s, linking them together.

“It was a really nice picture of you and your dad,” Derek says softly, turning in toward Stiles, placing his free hand on Claire’s back to feel her breathing.  It’s just like when he first babysat Gracie except entirely different.  Being here with Stiles is like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

“My mom took it,” Stiles mutters, eyes blinking slowly.  “I found it in the attic last Christmas but it took me a while to be able to look at it.”

“She’s been gone a long time?” Derek asks, inching closer to Stiles.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, smiling sadly.  “Thanks for bringing her back to me.”

“I’m glad I found you,” Derek says, answering his smile.

“I’m glad you did, too,” Stiles says, leaning in to press his lips against Derek’s.  It’s dry and over too quick, but Derek doesn’t ask for anything more.  They fall asleep like that, curled in toward each other, pinkies linked, with Claire a solid warmth between them.

It’s 8 a.m. when a soft knock on the door wakes Derek.  When he peels his eyes open he sees the Sheriff standing in the doorway, eyes flicking between him and Claire.  He gives a small nod and leaves them be.

As quietly as he can, Derek pulls himself out of bed and grabs the handle of his suitcase.  His family is probably waiting on him to open presents.  Just as he’s thinking about whether or not it would be creepy to kiss Stiles’ cheek goodbye, the man’s eyes flash open.

“Leaving already?” Stiles asks, lips curving into a warm smile.  “I thought you might stay forever.”

Derek smiles back, reaching for Stiles’ hand.  “I might,” he says softly, knowing Stiles needs the sleep and he’ll only get it as long as Claire is still quiet.  “I know you guys probably have plans, but what would you say to dessert at my parents’ house tonight?”

“We’ll be there,” Stiles says, giving Derek a wink.  “My dad knows where you live.”

“That’s not terrifying at all,” Derek says with a small laugh, leaning in to kiss Stiles once on the mouth before grabbing his suitcase and heading back downstairs.  

“Must have been some thank you,” the Sheriff says from his seat on the couch when Derek passes him.

“Yeah,” Derek says with a sheepish smile.  He knows he didn’t do anything wrong but he still feels like a teenager getting caught with his pants down.  “I’ll see you all later for dessert,” he says, giving a quick wave and practically running from the house.  

Driving quickly, Derek gets home in a matter of minutes and throws Peter’s car in park.  He fetches his suitcase and goes around back in an attempt to sneak into the kitchen.  

“Really Derek?” Laura asks, looking up from her cup of coffee when he pads into the kitchen.  “You do a walk of shame on Christmas morning and you can’t even be bothered to come in wearing last night’s clothes like a normal person?”

“It’s not a walk of shame,” he says quickly, feeling the blush rise to his cheeks as he looks down at his flannel pajama pants.  

“Because you’re not feeling ashamed, or because nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened!” he blurts out, burying his head in a cabinet to search for a coffee mug.

“Holy shit,” he hears, seeing Cora appear in the kitchen doorway when he looks up.  “You fucked suitcase man!”

“I did not!” Derek shouts, turning his back on both his sisters as he busies himself with fixing his coffee.  “And his name is Stiles.”

“Stiles Stilinski?  That weird kid from high school who used to do bad magic tricks in the cafeteria?” Cora asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“I knew it!  I knew he did magic!” Derek exclaims.  “I’m going to kiss that smug look off his face when he gets here.”

“He’s coming for Christmas?” Laura says, eyes lighting up.  “Ohh, Derek’s got it baaaaad,” she calls.  “Do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet already?  You want to have his babies?”

“Well, actually,” Derek says, a smile crossing his face as he thinks about Claire and her Binky Bear.

“No shit,” Cora says, deadpan.  “I don’t believe it.  You and Stiles and a baby makes three?”

“Her name is Claire and they’re coming over with the Sheriff after dinner,” Derek says, taking a sip of his coffee.

“What’s this I hear about more grandchildren?” his mother calls, her steps heavy on the stairs.  

Derek groans while Laura and Cora laugh and throw mini marshmallows at him, but he can’t stop smiling.  

Hours later, when dessert is long since gone and Stiles and Derek are kissing under the mistletoe as Claire plays pet hospital with Milo, Derek thinks that maybe following the jelly beans was the smartest dumb thing he’s ever done.

[dadvans]

guess it’s just another night alone

part two in the frat!ABO series for @kevystel (part one here)

The summer between Junior and Senior years Victor Nikiforov becomes completely unavoidable.

Victor is on principle, Yuuri suspects, an unavoidable person.  Last year he became the first Junior to run and be elected student body president.  He’s the lacrosse team’s star midfielder, leading the team in three undefeated seasons since Freshman year.  He’s president for Alpha Chi, one of three pre-eminent alpha-exclusive fraternities on campus.  His best friend is Christophe Giacometti, which means he’s always present at crew parties, usually hovering in the corner of Yuuri’s eye.  He’s the kind of unavoidable where he’s always catching his sleeve on Yuuri’s as they reach for the same cup.  Their elbows smell like the same chalk, their fingers smell like the same brand of tobacco.  It’s a sign of spending three years on the same campus together and developing habits, Yuuri is absolutely sure.  

But then Victor becomes a different type of unavoidable.

  The spring of their Junior year, Yuuri suffers a series of bad circumstances; his dog dies, his test scores suffer, he stress eats enough pasta from the school’s Italian station that Coach Cialdini notices and gives a very embarrassing lecture about how his weight effects the boat.  In the midst of everything, he forgets to check the expiration date on his hormone patches, and when they expire three months early, he hits an unexpected heat during the spring regatta quarter finals.  To use technical language, his boat comprised mostly of alpha males, “loses their shit.”

They come in last place.

Yuuri loses his status, and he loses the team, and he loses his scholarship.  There are a few conversations with the academic board, and then student life committee, but they only guarantee he’ll be able to finish his degree with minimal harassment.

Yuuri doesn’t want to finish anything in the wake of it; he doesn’t want to finish the year, the summer, the conversations he’s having with the student life committee, the meals he’s having alone suddenly on the second floor of the student academic building all by himself, the degree he promised he would always get his family (first omega to ever graduate!).  Yuuri only moves forward, because it is the only way to go.  

Victor, along with several dozen alpha suitors, decides this is the time to act.  

“Wait, why is this bad?  I thought you liked Victor,” Phichit says.  Best Boy, Beautiful Boy, Wonderful Boy Phichit, hot-blooded beta since 1997 who could give a fuck what Yuuri is; he’s run a few old jars of spaghetti sauce through the dishwasher and repurposed them for the only glassware in their apartment, refilled them with vodka and soda.  

“I’ve liked the idea of Victor,” Yuuri complains, already drunk.  “I don’t actually know him.  I’ve never talked to him.  Just-- just looked at him a lot.”

“He is very easy to look at,” Phichit agrees, taking a drink.  They’re on a couch they rescued from a street corner last year that gave Yuuri a rash for at least two weeks.  

“And he’s everywhere,” Yuuri complains, downing his fair share of the mason jar Phichit has provided.  “And it was like, before he was always everywhere, but he wasn’t calling my name or fighting his way through crowds to get to me, just like-- just like everyone else is.”

“Yeah,” Phichit says.  He strokes back Yuuri’s bangs from his forehead and crosses his feet on their coffee table.  

“I hate that this is what makes him care,” Yuuri says.  “I hate that he’s just like everyone else.”

“Yeah,” Phichit says again.

The summer is long and weird.  Yuuri, scholarship-less, ends up getting a job at a gym far away from campus.  It’s a sterile environment and he doesn’t know anyone coming through the doors, and the staff there is nice enough.  He still gets customers who come in though, lean a little too much over the counter or hang around afterwards asking too many personal questions, and Yuuri always wonders, do they know?   Can they smell it on me?  The part of himself that he still masks with hormone patches and desperately tries to hide, despite the fact that the people who mattered already found him out.  

He lives in an off-campus house with Phichit, and two beta sophomores from Phichit’s spring forensics course, Leo and Guang-Hong who are subletting after their original roommates bailed on the lease immediately following Yuuri’s hormone scandal.

(“Almost everyone in my family is an omega, except me and my dad,” Guang-Hong had offered the day they moved in, in lieu of nothing.  Yuuri had just been walking past to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Yeah, if you ever need someone’s ass kicked,” Leo had said suggestively.  They were both carrying in a bed frame and not only struggling with it, but also Yuuri noted, they were both at least four inches shorter than him.

“Thank you,” he’d replied.  “Please don’t kick anyone’s ass for me.  I’m okay.”)

It’s the quietest start to a summer he’s had in years.  He avoids the near-nightly parties at the crew house and the family of friends he’s recently divorced from.  He ignores the invitations to go out that he does get, because they’re all desperate alphas who want to court him out of want for someone they think is an equally desperate omega.  Even Victor Nikiforov.  Especially Victor Nikiforov. 

“He’s asking about you,” Phichit says, who has an internship down at City Hall that sounds like it is mostly licking envelopes with Christophe Giacometti.  “Christophe won’t shut up about it.  He says he’s never seen Victor like this.”

“Probably because no one’s ever told Victor ‘no’ before,” Yuuri replies, because why would they?  Under different circumstances, Yuuri thinks, for the right reasons.  How many times in the past three years had he stared at Victor’s back across the kitchen of a party, from the opposite end of a beer pong table and thought, please, please, look at me.

Phichit is quiet, which is terrible, because Phichit is mostly only quiet in conversation when he’s considering his language very carefully, AKA scheming.  Yuuri looks over at him on the couch and does not like the slow circles that Phichit is stirring his cheerios in like they’ll spell out answers for a question he’s not asking out loud.

“Phichit, no,” Yuuri says, because he does know.  He’s lived with Phichit and shared an eight-seat boat with Christophe Giacometti for too long to not know the exact pitch of both of their siren songs.  

“Look, it’s just like, Chris and I have been talking a lot--”

“Chris, huh.”

“Yeah, Chris.  Chris and I have been talking a lot.  According to him, Victor’s thing for you isn’t recent,” Phichit says, spoon swirling clockwise in the macaroni orange-stained tupperware he’s repurposed as a bowl.  He finally takes a small bite and chews thoughtfully.

“Before May 25th of this year, Victor had said two things to me: ‘is there a line for the bathroom? Whatever, I’ll just pee outside,’ at the crew Cinco de Mayo kegger Freshman year, and then ‘is anyone sitting here?’ one time in the dining hall last fall when I was sitting by myself, but when I said ‘no,’ he took the chair at my table and went and sat with other people.”

“Wow, Yuuri,” Phichit says. “Wow.”

“What?” Yuuri asks.

“Nothing,” Phichit replies.  “I have absolutely nothing to say to that.”

The next night, while Yuuri is working graveyard shift at the gym reception desk, Victor Nikiforov shows up and asks to register as a new member.  

“No,” Yuuri says automatically.  “I mean, what?”

“I’m sorry,” Victor says.  He’s draped over one elbow on the counter in his stupid Lacrosse team jacket that has his name stretched too tight across his broad shoulders, not that Yuuri would know, not that Yuuri is staring at the reflection of his back in the windows.  “Do I need to come back at a different time to register?  I realize it’s late.”

It’s two in the morning.  

“Did Phichit tell you I work here?  Or, or did Phichit tell Chris?”  Yuuri asks point blank.  

“I mean,” Victor says, “I was looking for a new gym, and--”

“Yuuri, problem?” Yuuri’s night supervisor asks, wheeling out a fresh bin of towels to the half-moon desk he’s seated at.  

“N-no, just a new, new customer, just getting him started filling out registration,” Yuuri says a little too loud over his shoulder, hand fumbling for a clipboard under the counter with registration information and a pen already clipped in.  He slides it toward Victor while smiling at her. “Friend from school.”  

“Okay, well,” she says, pauses.  “No socializing or anything.”

He doesn’t mention, again, it’s two in the morning, and keeps smiling at her back as she walks back down the hallway to her office.  

As soon as her door clicks shut, Victor says, “I wanted to see you.”

“Jesus,” Yuuri says.

“So yes, I asked around,” Victor says.  He slides the pen out from under the clip and starts filling out his personal information.  “People are worried about you, by the way.  No one has heard from you since the end of the semester.”

Yuuri doesn’t know why anyone would want to hear from him.  

“But also, I do have to stay in shape through the summer,” Victor says, “and I don’t think the school gym has been renovated since the eighties.”

That does actually shock a laugh out of Yuuri, who spent three years in the basement rowing room where condensation collected on the white brick and the small slit windows were permanently fogged up.  “That sounds like a job for the student body president,” he says, biting his lip to keep himself from smiling too wide.

“Excuse you,” Victor says, and he taps his pen against the clipboard and leans forward on his elbows, shaking his head.  “Do you know how many hand jobs I had to give the alumni association just to get the funding for compostable coffee sleeves?  So many.  The gym is a lost cause.”  

“Oh my God,” Yuuri says.  He’s trying to keep Victor from speaking directly to his soul and failing miserably.  And Victor smells so good this close, just the two of them in the dead of night.  He hates his instinct to curl up and into it, to crawl across the counter and lean forward on his palms to nose into Victor’s neck.  

“Someday someone is going to get tetanus from the weight room and I will not let myself be held accountable, because I tried,” Victor continues, and he’s so fucking earnest that Yuuri wants to die. “Anyway.  Do you need anything else from me?”

He slides the clipboard back over to Yuuri, and Yuuri curses himself internally that it takes him multiple seconds to get it together.

“Uh,” he says stupidly, “just first and last month’s payment, and, uh.  Driver’s license.���

“Of course,” Victor replies, fishing his wallet out of the duffel slung over his shoulder and thumbing out a credit card and ID.  

Yuuri completes his registration in silence, and Victor has the decency to also pull out his phone and pretend to look at something instead of continue conversation.  Yuuri hates how much he can’t hate Victor, couldn’t dislike him if he tried.  

“And I just need to take your photo,” he says, tapping a small camera on top of his computer that Victor smiles into so radiantly that Yuuri is sure he nearly breaks it.  Even after Victor moves on, fully intending to work out at ass o’clock, Yuuri keeps his picture up and tries to untangle all of the stupid things that Victor’s poorly-lit, pixelated smile makes him feel for twenty minutes.

When Victor comes back around the counter to leave, it’s almost four.  He hasn’t showered.  Instead his musk wafts out like an invitation, his jacket now off and shirt stuck to his skin suggestively, the smell of spruce and basalt from the sauna pronouncing the Come Fuck Me salty sweat that’s glistening down the back of his neck.  

“Yuuri,” he says, and he slicks his bangs back like he’s nervous and vulnerable somehow, and God, Yuuri aches just staring at him.  He leans into the counter and stares at the door.  “Would you please go out with me?”

Yuuri, despite himself, nods dumbly.  

“Okay,” he says.

Victor fucking beams.

The summer is long and weird and begins with a date with Victor Nikiforov.

The date is him and Victor against an entire first-grader’s birthday party at laser tag, and it is wonderful.  Victor is exactly the kind of person that Yuuri would want to share a foxhole with; gorgeous, hilarious, and willing to do some pretty acrobatic shoulder rolls through smoke and styrofoam tubing to shoot some six and seven-year-olds with a laser pistol to ensure a high score.  

“My hero,” Yuuri says, laughing and nearly losing himself to the heat of Victor’s shallow breaths under the ultraviolet, neon glow, before ultimately sacrificing himself to a squad of children, so Victor can safely make it to the bonus target near their base.  

Victor kisses him on the temple as they announce the new high score, belonging to Yuuri Katsuki.  

“I love how you surprise me,” he says, even though Yuuri is also surprised but more confused than anything else.  “Do you want to go eat some terrible pizza?”

“Please,” Yuuri says.  He tries to ignore the heat of his pulse that melts down his spine.  

The eat terrible pizza with cardboard crust and too-sweet marinara sauce.  Victor’s toes touch Yuuri’s through their sneakers on the 90’s rainbow squiggle carpet.  It isn’t like so many routine courting dates where an alpha takes an omega for an expensive dinner or shopping, lavishing them in expensive decadence.  Victor does not press chocolate ganache filled truffles to his lips, does not present him with an engraved watch or a small, silver lock to wear around his neck that would match a leather-bound key around Victor’s.  It’s charming.  Victor is charming.  

“Do you always, uh--” Yuuri doesn’t know how to ask the question he wants to ask.  How do you normally wine and dine your omegas?  Have there been omegas before that Victor has taken out for lobster tail, dressed up in smart suits and then fucked them out of?  Has Victor ever pressed his mouth hot and wet and ready against an omega’s bonding gland?  Has he shared a heat with someone?  

“Always?” Victor asks, smiling.  He’s got grease on his chin and his hair is a disaster from rolling around on the ground.  He looks beautiful.  

“Is this how you always treat an omega you’re trying to court?”

Victor’s face falls.  “I thought we were having fun.”

“We are,” Yuuri insists.  “I am.  I just.  You’re really good at this.”

“Laser tag?” Victor asks.  He had, suspiciously, used what looked like a member card when buying their rounds.  

“No, dating!  Courting,” Yuuri says.  “I didn’t think I would like this so much.  But this is fun and you’re fun.”

“Did you not want to have fun?” Victor asks, absently dabbing at his chin with a napkin, eyes wide.

“No!” Yuuri says.  “I didn’t.  Because then I could go home and say I tried but it wasn’t for me, dating and courting and being--being someone’s kept thing.”

“I don’t want to keep anyone that doesn’t want to be kept,” Victor says.  “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to--”

“I do want to,” Yuuri says, so, so frustrated.  

“You’re giving me mixed messages, Yuuri,” Victor says softly.  “Do you not want to date?  Or be courted?”

“I didn’t,” Yuuri replies.  

“Oh,” says Victor.  He sounds disappointed, a kind of hitch in his voice like running a finger round a crystal glass with a chip in its mouth.  

“But I really like you,” Yuuri says.  “And now I’m just worried--God, this sounds stupid--do you like me?  Or is this just because I’m a free omega?”

“Are you serious,” Victor replies.  It’s not a question.  “Yuuri.”

“What?”

“I’ve been waiting for you since Freshman year,” Victor says.  He reaches across the table and puts a tentative hand around Yuuri’s, fingers curled together, thumb finding the soft pad of Yuuri’s palm.  Yuuri doesn’t pull away.  

“What?” He’s still startled.  “Wait-- you knew?”

“It was hard to miss,” Victor says.  His nails are manicured, Yuuri notices, or at least cleanly clipped.  Yuuri bites his own nails, has dead skin that runs down to meet all the calluses on his hands from rowing.  “That night when we went back to your dorm room I saw your patch.”

“What!” Yuuri says, a little too loud.  A few parents supervising the birthday party three tables over look on suspiciously.  “We did-- what?”

“You fell asleep,” Victor says.  “So I left before, uh.  Well.  I left my number.”

“A lot of people left their numbers on my door,” Yuuri replies, and Victor freezes.  “No!  No, not like that, just as a joke.  Things like ‘call me,’ invitations to go spend a heat with someone in the third floor heat rooms.”

“I don’t think those were jokes,” Victor says.

Yuuri looks at him questionably, cheek sucked in between his teeth with frustration.  “I don’t know what else they would be.”

“People wanting to date you!  People like me,” Victor says.  “We kissed at the halloween crew party!  When you passed out and didn’t call, I just figured you wanted to focus on things that weren’t courting, but I figured when you did announce your status, you would, we would, I don’t know.  Go steady.”

“We kissed at the halloween party?” Yuuri repeats, as if scandalized.  Three more parents from the party have started listening in, not even bothering to look away.

“Yeah,” Victor says.  For the first time in Yuuri’s entire life, Victor Nikiforov seems visibly deflated.   

“But you haven’t talked to me since,” Yuuri says.  “Until recently.”

“Space!”  Victor says again.  “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“What, spook me like some, some timid omega?”  Yuuri asks.  Victor’s hands are softer than his own.  He holds onto Victor like a lifeline, searches for his pulse to calm himself down.

“Maybe,” Victor says, sighs. “I don’t know.  I don’t really know you.  But I want to.  I’ve wanted to know you for a very long time.”

“Oh,” Yuuri replies.  He squeezes, lets his toe tap against Victor’s again under the table.  Something feels like it’s wriggled loose in his chest, finally.  “Well, I’d like to know you too.”