#ratty is a kind of hobbit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years

Text

Back to school - chapter 5

Being sick at home, I have time to update my different stories :D

So, here's another Kira-chapter with a few surprises :))))

Fandom: The Hobbit (still an AU)

Characters : Thranduil x OC (and the others being awful)

Words: 4,5 k (+/-)

Rating: Gen

Warnings: reference to alcohol, silliness, awkwardness and a small surprise :D

Waking up was hard; Kira’s head vibrated with pain.

She should not have opened that aged rum just to numb the second-hand pain; she was not 20 anymore and she now paid the price for her reckless behaviour. “A new day, a new chance.” She told herself as she saw her bleary complexion in the tiny bathroom mirror.

A quick glance on another crumpled sheet of paper Gandalf had handed her informed her that she would have her class twice today. One hour for literature and another one, in the afternoon for “social studies and integration”. If she hadn’t been that miserable, she would have laughed as Gandalf had struck out the words and written “etiquette” beneath the line.

How the ever-loving hell was she supposed to teach those kids etiquette and manners? She had almost been stoned to death for taking them out into the courtyard and now she was supposed to teach them…table manners?

Brushing her hair back in a neat ponytail and slipping into her ratty old cardigan, she opened the door just to almost bump into a pristine white shirt. “Good morning, Kira.”

“Thranduil.” She sighed, recognising the woody, masculine scent, and the melodious voice. “I am quite able to find my way to school on my own.” She ground out, trying to push past the intrusive colleague. One could count on people like him to show up, perfectly styled and handsome as the devil himself, when one was feeling low and looking like a pile of…undesirable and unattractive things that might or might not have exited another organism.

When she turned around, he stood rooted to the ground, an unfathomable expression on his beautiful face. “I thought you might care for some company, even if it’s just me.” He murmured, lower than she had ever heard him speak.

Oh, here’s another one who isn’t loved well, Kira thought and her heart gave an unexpected and involuntary jerk.

“That is very kind of you.” She nodded slowly, seeing his eyes widen. When was the last time someone had called him “kind”, she wondered, feeling strangely sorry for him.

“The kids call me Thrandy.” He informed her as they walked to the unseemly building, earning a few nods and a few fearful looks. The kids call you all kinds of names, Kira thought to herself, but kept her mouth shut.

Her first class wouldn’t start for over an hour, but she had wanted to return Thorin’s file and maybe poke around in the school a bit before having to teach. Only, how was she to get rid of the man who seemed to have become her veritable shadow in the few hours she had been in this town?

“Don’t you have a class to teach?” She asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Yes.” He replied simply.

Without consciously choosing to do so, Kira walked alongside him to his class. She really was not at her best on this morning, otherwise she would have parted ways with him earlier.

“Hi, Miss Kira. Do you remember me? I’m…” – “Thorin’s sister.” Kira supplied readily, with a warm smile.

“Dís, go in, please.” Thranduil ordered and she obeyed with a smirk. “Oh, Kira, you’re early.” Gandalf hastened down the corridor. “I am not late, I am never late, I arrive exactly when I mean to arrive.” He informed Thranduil when the other man cocked an eyebrow and lifted his eyes to the clock fastened to the opposite wall.

“Yes…I had an idea. I will wander around some, except if the bogeyman might come and grab me off the stairs here inside the school as well?” Kira mocked, being met with two very disapproving looks.

“You should be fine here.” Thranduil replied calmly, making his class fall into silence by merely shoving his face, quite creepily if one asked Kira, into the classroom and giving them a punitive stare.

That man had an absurdly long neck, Kira thought, and he looked quite ridiculous, poking his head around corners like a grumpy giraffe. Really, he and Thorin seemed to be in a perpetual contest who could look dourer for the longest time.

“Miss Kira.” Ah, speak of the devil. Kira turned around to find Bilbo with Thorin hovering just behind him; the young boy’s very own dark raincloud. “Bilbo, Thorin, good morning.” She turned on her teacher-smile.

In the long months before coming here, she had almost forgotten how much she loved working with teenagers. They thought themselves so grown-up already, but they smelled like cheap shower gel and half-outgrown dreams.

“Did you have a nice night?” Bilbo asked. “I…Yes, I was very eager to come to work though.” Kira replied. Bilbo was an adorable kid: small with a penchant to growing slightly pudgy maybe, he had eyes that reminded her of the rolling hills of the countryside…and of its bustling, invincible life.

“Yes, I couldn’t wait either.” He gave her a wide grin and let himself be herded into class.

“Was it really bad?” Thorin nodded at the file sticking out from her satchel; a file that might well reek of spilled rum and tears now. “You tell me, Thorin, was it really bad?” She asked back earnestly.

“He’s a troublemaker.” Thranduil interjected, lifting his hands placatingly when Kira spun around, eyes ablaze. “But, there’s a but, woman, let me finish! This one is a pain in the ass, excuse my French, but not all of what you’ll find in the files is 100% true…or fair.” She stared at him in confusion, had he really said what she thought he had?

“I’ve got to go teach. The kids usually go home for lunch, but there is a lunchroom.” Thranduil nodded and went into his classroom without waiting for Kira to collect her thoughts and reply to his surprising admission of fallibility in teachers.

“What was that about?” Kira scratched her head. “I think the dear colleague wanted to invite you to have lunch with the staff?” Gandalf said gently, but his smile was sharp and too radiant to be honest.

Kira blushed, confusion writ plain on her face. “If…my idea works out, I shall have to go home again. I’ll be fine.” She smiled, wondering if her colleague would think that her no-show would be some kind of rejection.

Thorin was still staring at the closed door, apparently aghast that Thranduil would admit that he was indeed not actually the Antichrist reborn. “Thorin, can I beg for your illustrious presence in my mathematics class?” Gandalf prompted the boy with a rumbling chuckle.

Kira watched as he slid his impassive mask back on and trudged into the room as if he was under duress when she had clearly seen the tiny smirk he had given his headteacher before returning to being the sullen boy everyone expected him to be.

“I’ll hand them over soon enough, don’t you worry.” Gandalf grinned at her and closed the door.

Kira huffed, her superior seemed to know everything and have an amazingly good understanding of what went on inside of people’s minds; she had noticed that the previous evening already, but he was so humorous and nonchalant about it, that it had only struck her when she had returned to the void of her apartment.

Resolutely, she struck out for the administration office and returned the file.

“Ah? And? Already scared off?” The same lady asked her casually. “Not in the least.” Kira replied pugnaciously; the more people tried to warn her off, the harder she would doggedly stay true to her course.

“Is there a ballroom here?” She asked. “A what? There’s the festivity room, but it’s never used. Whatever do you need a ballroom for? Do you want them to dance? Dwalin will give you a bloody nose.” The woman laughed.

“Dwalin will do nothing of the sort. He’s a decent fellow.” Kira contradicted calmly which made the woman freeze in the middle of her movement as she was bringing a cup of coffee to her lips.

Her eyebrows rose in slow-motion. “Decent? Dwalin? He brawls like he’s paid for it. Always black and blue.”

Kira’s stomach turned into a block of ice. There were other reasons for kids to be bruised and she would have to look into it. No, his brother had not struck her as someone who would mistreat a young’un like that.

“Let that be my worry. Where is that room?” Kira enquired and took off as soon as she was given the information she had asked for.

Yes, she thought, this would do nicely.

There was even a small kitchen down a corridor. “A small lunchroom, huh?” She muttered to herself.

Table manners, yes, and who knew? She might even get the kids to dance.

Either way, if it was at all possible, she would organise a ball. A winter formal for her kids, for she saw them as her very own and she was fiercely loyal to them already, and all the others.

“Air…We need air and sunlight.” No matter how dark the times were, children needed fun and something to look forward to and she would be damned if she didn’t at least try to provide that for them.

If necessary, she would clean the whole room by herself, decorate it by herself, cook by herself. Kira had a purpose, and she would not be set adrift again, not when she remembered all too well how it had felt to haunt her own life as a shadow of herself.

Dreaming her time away, she had to run to be on time for her class and she nearly bumped into Thranduil again. He was like a moving wall, always in the way, he was the very symbol of the labyrinth she had fallen into.

“Kira…” He started, but then ran out of words. “Thranduil.” She replied in that same cold tone.

“So…Oh, the Silmarillion? You know that they’re borderline illiterate?” He mocked as he saw the book she was extracting from her satchel. “You know that you’re…unfair?” She shot back and pushed past him, which felt like squeezing along a statue of marble. He didn’t budge. She didn’t even throw him off balance. Cocky bastard.

“Hello Miss Kira.” Unisono, the class greeted her, and she could see the astonishment in Thranduil’s eyes as he was still standing in front of her open door, eager to see her flounder and fail, probably.

“Hello class.” Kira replied, her warmest smile on display and then, turning to her colleague, “Was there anything else I can do for you? If not, be so good as to close the door, please? Thank you.”

Kira was unsurprised to find that the kids were not anywhere near illiterate. Yes, their reading skills had to be improved upon, but they listened carefully as she explained J.R.R Tolkien’s early mythology and were willing to read some of the parts as their curriculum for this class.

“Will we have to buy the book?” Ori asked, worrying his lower lip. “There might be a copy or two in the library…but…” He went on, looking intensely miserable.

Kira caught Bilbo’s discreet look and the almost imperceptible shake of the head; his index rubbed ever so lightly across his thumb and Kira understood: money was an issue for some of these kids.

“I’ll see if the school can order them.” Kira replied vaguely. “And we get to keep them?” Ori exclaimed, his eyes sparkling like precious gems in a deep cavern.

Kira looked at her class, everyone but Bilbo looked wretched, but Kira knew that it was not for the same reasons. Having experienced Thranduil’s reaction first-hand, she could understand why Legolas would be afraid to bring home a book his father would think so far beyond his capacities that it would make the boy hate it; Tauriel, Ori and Bombur were probably loath to ask their parents or guardians for money for a schoolbook, especially as their actual schoolbooks were clearly hand-me-downs. Thorin and Dwalin worked hard for their money and should have the right to spend it on fun and extravagant teenage pleasures rather than dusty old books.

“The school will not spend one cent on us.” Thorin grumbled. “Well, tough luck for them, because I have a long wish list.” Kira replied, a steely note in her voice.

“What if the school says “no”?” Tauriel asked, taking into account everything that had been said.

“If the school says “no”, I’ll ask them why.” Kira answered. “Because they think we cannot read.” Legolas muttered.

“In that case, I will buy the rotten books myself and we will read them and that will teach them…No, I’m sorry, but is this a school or a prison? If a school decides that kids are denied materials to learn because they are unable to learn, then the fault lies with the school and not the kids. How about that?” Kira took a deep breath; it would not do to show the students her irrational frustration and anger with the school system in general and this school in particular.

“You’ll get yourself into trouble, Miss Kira.” Bombur commented between two bites of his sandwich.

“Good. I have to prove myself worthy of my class. So, where are we on those presentations?” Kira asked.

The minutes just flew, intelligent questions were asked, and answers were dug out, discussions were sparked and entertained, and Kira could feel herself breathe again. This was what she had dreamt of doing all her life.

“Listen class, I see you this afternoon and I wanted to ask you for a small favour. I want you to draw up, in your mind, your understanding of formal clothing. We’ll meet in the festivity room, and we’ll talk about an idea I had.”

Blank stares followed by excited chatter.

Bilbo’s eyes lit up. “I can wear my formal clothing. If I do, will you?” He asked Kira with earnest joy in his eyes.

“Deal.” She said and they shook hands on it. “No lunch for me then…” She chuckled, not in the least dismayed.

“See you this afternoon.” She waved at her class and made her way out of the school before someone else got it into their head to walk her to and from home.

What had she agreed to? Kira was exasperated by her hair and her sickly pale face, but she had given her word and she would not go back on it.

The long dark red dress shimmered in the midday light as she stepped out of the shower and pulled her hair up in a formal bun; she might as well go the whole nine yards, she thought, and put on make-up.

She felt silly and she couldn’t shake the impression of being watched as she walked back to school, her dress sweeping over the floor with every step.

“Kira.” Jesus Christ, was he everywhere? How many times had he said her name today?

“Thranduil?” She turned around, the flowing fabric billowing around her and almost making her stumble.

“Why do you…You look…Why…?” He would have looked adorably flustered if it hadn’t been for the frown that crossed his forehead as if some moody god had tried to strike out his face.

“Etiquette class this afternoon. We’ll start with formal clothing.” She replied haughtily and tried to walk away from him again, but he took one smooth step to block her path. Now, he was definitely doing it on purpose.

“Ah ok…Erm…Good afternoon.” He snapped, turned on his heels and walked back into the very direction he had originally come from. Did he often just walk to and fro for no reason?

“Miss Kira!” Ah, that was a much more welcome voice, Kira thought as Bilbo caught up with her. “Amazing idea, I am invited to Tho…Dís’ this afternoon and now, I don’t have to go home to change.”

Kira cocked her head questioningly. “That is nice, what is the occasion?” She asked. “Homework.” Bilbo replied.

“You do homework with Dís? In your formal clothing?” Kira frowned mockingly, exaggerating her confusion.

“No…erm…I…I do my homework with Thorin of course, but Dís invited me and I wanted to make a good impression on his…her…their family.” Bilbo spluttered, blushing a dark pink and rubbing his nose in embarrassment.

“Well, that is even nicer. I am glad to hear that you take your homework so seriously.” Kira smiled and let the boy lead her into the school. He was wearing a white shirt and a tawny waistcoat over a very formal looking pair of brown pants. Down to the pastel cravat and the pocket handkerchief, Bilbo looked like the very picture of sophisticated adolescence.

“I think you should not have worried that much.” Kira whispered as they approached the locked festivity room.

“Oh sweet potatoes and gravy.” Bilbo cursed under his breath, or at least his tone made Kira believe that it was meant as a curse.

Thorin looked like he was going to a funeral. All clad in black and dark blue, he reminded her of a raven more than of a boy, and his perpetual scowl had never looked as appropriate as in this moment.

“I look like a fool.” He complained, and Kira was about to tell him that she had never asked or forced him to don his most refined clothes, but Bilbo was quicker and his breathless “You look amazing” was probably also the better answer.

While she unlocked the room, a swishing sound got Kira’s attention and she turned around to see Legolas and Tauriel coming their way; they were both wearing clothes that looked foreign in cut and material: flowing, silky and absolutely stunning.

Kira patted herself on the back for her idea and, a few minutes later, when the whole class had arrived, she could feel excitement and interest burgeon instead of open hostility. Apparently, all of them had agreed to dig out their Sunday best for this class and Kira had to hold back not to stare at them in amazement.

They had never seen each other like that and the fact that they all seemed awkward and ill-at-ease made it easier for them to bond over the shared experience of trying to wear the clothes and not let the clothes wear them.

“You look absolutely marvellous.” Kira declared finally; her voice heavy with pride.

“I look like a clown.” Dwalin grumbled, the dark grey dress shirt taut over his broad chest and his dark hair slicked back elegantly. “You don’t.” Kira contradicted. He looked imposing and obviously uncomfortable, but he also looked very elegant and handsome in his dark trousers and his well-ironed shirt.

“We grown-ups wear our best clothes as an armour and as a reminder of who we want to be and what we want to represent. I see that you respect the weight that comes with formal clothing; your posture has improved, and this is the first time I don’t see any downcast looks and averted faces.”

She sighed: “You deserve to be proud of yourselves just as much as anybody else. This class is an etiquette class…and I want it to be a redemption. Children…we will have a ball.”

“A ball?” Tauriel piped up, her voice strangled with emotion. “A ball. We will have a winter formal.” Kira confirmed.

“Just us? Dís would love that.” Thorin blurted out and then hid behind his disapproving, grumpy mask again.

“No, not just us. We will organise it and the others will come and dance.” Kira smiled.

“We will?” Ori was doubtful. “Yup, we will see where your strengths lie and then we’ll work on everything that goes with it: cooking, serving, making small talk with Thranduil.”

“Are you sure you’re able to teach us that?” Dwalin muttered, apologising immediately when he realised that he said that out loud and that it was an insult that might well lead to ruining the good will Kira had for them.

“I am not, but we will all try. Should we try that?” Kira was worried that they’d refuse outright, that they’d laugh at her, but once again, the class surprised her when they all started talking at the same time.

“I am a good cook. God, I love food.” Bilbo exclaimed. “So do I!” Bombur laughed and ambled closer, already thinking up recipes that would work in that context.

“You’d dare organising a ball?” Thorin was standing right in front of her, his voice dangerously low.

“Yes…I’ve been told that Dwalin would give me a bloody nose for it.” Kira replied, acting braver than she felt.

“Dwalin? Never…He’s a good dancer and he loves it.” Thorin chuckled, a sound like faraway thunder rolling over the land and shaking the ground. “A ball…” Thorin mumbled pensively, his eyes wandering to Bilbo again and again.

Ah, yes, that was a part she had not thought about duly, Kira had to admit: with formals came the whole teenage anxiety-inducing ordeal of asking someone out and buying flowers and corsages.

“Hmmm, there should be fairy lights.” Ori muttered beside her, chewing on the end of his pen pensively. “We’d need a contraption of sorts for that, wouldn’t we?” Kira thought aloud, charmed by the idea and happy to have another one of them on board.

“That can be done. Legolas here is good at climbing things and we are good at crafting things.” Dwalin muttered in a low growl that was much less impressive as his eyes shone with a fierce glimmer of joy.

Kira had the feeling to grow taller by the minute; she was so proud of those kids who had been hailed as Satanists and who had followed her into every single thing she had pitched as a project. She would do her best not to let them down.

“Uh-oh.” Legolas made, standing a few feet away from her and looking around the walls to gauge how tall the ladder would have to be to attach fairy lights below the ceiling.

Whirling around, Kira almost ended up smothered in a dark grey woollen cardigan partially covering the white button-down she had looked at from much too close up this morning already. How many times could this man just manifest right behind her? Did he float? Was she deaf?

“The door was open.” Thranduil declared as if that explained his sudden appearance. “Yes, this is a school. If I locked myself in with a bunch of teenagers, with this bunch of teenagers, I’m sure someone would have called the firemen and the police by now.” Kira rolled her eyes. “Are you spying on us?” She asked with a wink.

“No…Class is over and I…I was curious what you were doing, looking like that…” He looked around and caught the embarrassed gaze of his son. “Oh, you look nice, Legolas.” He commented which made the boy’s ears turn pink with pleasure. “Thank you, Sir.” He breathed shyly.

“So…what is this going to be when it’s over?” Thranduil leant against the door he had pulled shut behind him and Kira couldn’t help noticing how tall he was; he had slender limbs and his whole body seemed to flow in almost liquid lines.

Snap out of it girl, he has asked you a question, Kira admonished herself and replied: “A ball. We’re going to have a ball.”

The closed door made her feel claustrophobic all of a sudden; it felt strangely as if she was the one pressed against the hard surface with Thranduil towering over her, the cool, gauging expression in his eyes making her squirm.

“Ah, really? And…will you send hand-written invitation to said ball?” Thranduil cocked one eyebrow. “Maybe we will.” Kira gave back in a stroppy tone. “So, the other classes are invited?” He pressed on.

“Why? Do you want to chaperone?” Thorin chuckled grimly. “As their headteacher, it falls within my responsibilities to oversee this kind of celebration if my class is to attend.” Thranduil answered stiff-lipped.

“Oi, lads, we are going to send old Thrandy an invitation.” Dwalin hooted under his breath, for he had caught the flash of embarrassment in the teacher’s eyes; Thranduil wanted to come, he wanted to be invited.

“Yes, quiet, Dwalin, thank you. Those are things to decide later in the process.” Kira tried to prevent a complete derailment of the conversation into complete and utter chaos.

“You are dismissed, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” Kira ushered the children out, confused by the fact that her colleague made no attempt to follow either the stream of chattering youngsters or his own son.

“I had hoped you would come to the lunchroom.” Thranduil murmured as soon as the students had vanished around the corner, flipping a strand of his perfectly smooth almost colourless hair over his shoulder nervously.

“Dude, this,” Kira pointed at her face and her dress, “did not happen in a jiffy. I had to go home and change. Otherwise, I would have come.”

“Ah…yes…well, it would be a shame to waste such a tremendous effort.” As he saw Kira’s face sour, he went on quickly: “Not that I want to insinuate that it would take a great deal of effort to make yourself look lovely, but as you’ve pointed out that you’ve taken pains to create this…” He waved helplessly at her, “I wondered what you had planned for dinner.”

I don’t cook myself a three-course menu, Kira thought, remembering the can of beans in her cupboard; she had not had the time or the inclination to go shopping since arriving and she was not exactly looking forward to the beans.

“Nothing. Why?” She asked, shrugging and retrieving her satchel from the floor.

“If you don’t mind seeing your students AGAIN today, there’s a little restaurant down the street. I feel like we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe, we can resolve that issue over dinner.”

Was she seeing things or did his face twitch?

“What makes you say that?” She asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“You’ve called me an asshole? I am confident in saying that you do not like me overmuch.” He muttered, visibly annoyed. “True. I am sorry for insulting you.” Kira stood firm, not sure if she fancied having dinner with her stuck-up colleague whose eyes were dancing with dizzying stars like fireflies over a frozen lake.

#Fanfiction #Bagginshield #Kira chapter #AU #School AU #Thranduil #OC #dinner?#upping the cliffhangers #First try AU

15 notes · View notes

wyofabdoms · 3 years

Text

Undercover I Do - Chapter 5

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, hospitalization, blood and injury, swearing, awkward Javi, unrequited feels, mentions of sex toys, feelings, pining,

Word Count: 3132

Notes: You're released from the hospital, and Javi sets up house. While doing so, he stumbles across a couple of things that make him feel all kinds of ways!

Read on Ao3

You were released from the hospital two days later under the stipulation that you were to rest and were not to return to any kind of active field duty until fully cleared by the doctor and his medical team. Over the course of those two days, some of your memories had seeped back in, like figures appearing through thick fog and slowly taking form and shape. But, it seemed to you, not any of the really important ones were returning. You remembered now some specific events from the last two years of your time as an agent: big busts you had made, critical incidents that had ended badly for your agency, colleagues that had been lost in the line of duty. You had been able to recall many details of your work against the worst of the drug cartels in Colombia from the last two years and even further back...but most memories of things from the past three or four weeks were still a grey void with nothing in them, not even shadows to hint at memories waiting there in the fog.

You were rarely alone at the hospital: if Dixon was not sitting at your bedside, then Javi was there in her place. Between the two of them, you had managed to scrape together some large pieces that were missing about your relationships: you had worked with Dixon earlier in your career in San Diego and when she had risen in ranks and earned a seat down here in the thick of things, she had brought you along with her. You had the feeling that she viewed you as a bit of a protege and you felt confident that the memories you had of her support and backing of you were true. Memories about your relationship with Javi proved to be a bit more difficult to get confirmation on. While both Dixon and Javi were very willing to discuss and confirm anything you asked about your mentor, when you inquired or asked for clarification on your history with your husband, both agents seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering you. Dixon was more guarded than Javi and the older woman would often change the subject as quickly as she could when you asked her about your husband. You got a distinct sense that she did not approve of your marriage to the man you had been partnered with during your time here.

You remembered that was how you had met Javi; you had been assigned as his partner. You remembered the earliest days of working with him: how he had flirted with you and you had rebuffed him, how there had been moments when your partnership had skated the line of something more. But it was only the older memories that seemed to come clearly to you...the closer to present day you came, the emptier your memories became. You had tried to remember when exactly your relationship with Javi had made the jump from work partner to life partner. When and how had the two of you told each other how you felt? And you had zero memories of a proposal, a wedding....no memories at all of how it felt to touch and be touched by the handsome man who spent hours sitting in comfortable silence next to your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask him questions about those things...not yet.

Surprisingly, Dixon was the one who escorted you when you were released. After the older woman saw you carefully buckled into the passenger seat of the car, you inquired as to why Javi wasn’t the one driving you home. Dixon’s eye flickered behind her dark sunglasses, and she mumbled something about him getting your apartment ready for you. She assured you that he would be waiting at your home when you got there.

Your home. For a moment, your stomach sank, thinking about how you would be going back to a place that was foreign to you but was supposed to be a safe haven, a refuge, the home you shared with a husband you were supposed to be in love with. Would you remember any of it? Would anything that you found there help jog anything loose in your memory?

You could only hope.

***

“Fuck!”

Javi growled as he struggled to keep a box from teetering off the pile of other boxes that it was precariously stacked on. His hands were full of his clothes on hangers, halfway between the box he had just removed them from and the clothing pole in the closet. He had been struggling most of the morning with lugging half of his possessions down the two flights of stairs of their shared apartment building and trying to make it appear as though he had lived in this apartment for longer than a few hours. Both he and Dixon had agreed it would be best for her to return to familiar surroundings...but they still needed to keep up the premise that the two of you shared a life together.

Javi had never given much thought to domesticity. The closest he had ever come was Lorraine...and the brief moment of introspection he had had when he had seen her those several years ago at that wedding. Thoughts had crossed his mind then: what would it be like to have a wife, to wear a ring on his finger, to have promised himself to someone forever? To have a future that was shared with another person? To make important decisions with another person and not just on your own? To have 2.5 kids and a house? But he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on it simply because none of that was really who Javi was, was completely unimaginable to him. He had never once really thought that sort of life would ever be one he would want, much less be able to live. And, quite honestly, he wasn’t all that sure that that kind of life was one that he deserved.

Now, it seemed, life was playing a little gag on him: turns out maybe there WAS a way for him to see if married life was for him...although he did hate the fact that his partner had had to be injured in the process.

One thing he was certain of at the moment, though: if getting married and divvying up and combining possessions was as big a pain in the ass for real as it was for this farce?...Well, that was a strike against matrimony in his opinion.

At first he had merely grabbed a small duffle bag full of items; things he thought he might leave at a woman’s house if he was spending the night or a weekend: a change of clothes, toiletries, firearm. But when he had let himself into her apartment two floors below his in their building, it had struck him that that wasn’t going to be good enough.

Her apartment was lived in. Unlike his own, which he realized now seemed a little sterile and cold, her’s was warm and (though not a word he often used in his vocabulary) cozy. She had artwork on the walls, shelves full of books from all different genres...even a few board games and some well-worn records on the record player stand. He spotted a rolled up yoga mat under a bench beneath the window and a couple of handwritten recipes and smiling photos tucked under bright magnets on the refrigerator. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and soft vanilla; the bed was neatly made (again, unlike his own) and dirty clothes resided in a hamper rather than tossed carelessly into a corner. The spare room that served as an office housed neatly organized work related content and photo albums of people from home, holiday decorations stashed under the guest bed; her closet had her clothes neatly organized (by color, who knew!?). He had quickly come to the conclusion that he might need to put a bit more effort into this charade.

So he had proceeded to spend the next several hours being swept into a whirlwind of imagining what a shared space would look like if the two of them were actually married. He had started with the few books he had in his own apartment; a few biographies, some car magazines and a ratty copy of “The Art of War” and “The Hobbit”. He had jammed them onto the neat bookshelves in her living room before returning quickly with some of his own records: some Cumbia records and an Eagles album, which he shuffled in with her own Steely Dan, Creedence Clearwater and Three Dog Night.

He didn’t have much to contribute to the kitchen besides a few bottles of whiskey and a bottle of tequila next to her own bottles of red wine. He had pulled a photo taken when he graduated from high school from his wallet and placed it on the fridge next to one of her with her huge family. He paused a moment to assess the contrast in the two pictures: her in the midst of her five older brothers and parents, all wearing matching Christmas sweaters...him standing bashfully and stiffly next to his dad, who grinned proudly at the camera, one arm awkwardly slung over a teenage Javi’s shoulder. The bathroom didn’t take long, either. He added his razor, a bottle of Old Spice, and his toothbrush and comb; he glanced into the medicine cabinet as he placed his deodorant there and eyed what looked suspiciously like a package of prescription birth control...his mind started to wander and he slammed the cabinet door shut, heading back upstairs to his apartment for another load.

He had strong-armed his clothes still on the hangers into some file boxes to make them easier to carry down the stairs, then had hauled shoes, underthings, suits, jeans, and (what he had not really realized until this moment) a ridiculous amount of the same style shirt in different colors downstairs and was now trying to wedge them into one half of her closet, trying to make it look like they had been there for a while and doing his best to not become buried by the haphazardly stacked boxes. Once the last set of shoes was stuffed into the closet next to a pair of sky high red heels he had never seen her wear before, (he was CERTAIN he would have remembered those) he opened the dresser to shove his socks and underwear into a drawer and gulped. Staring back at him was a drawer full of his partner’s bras and panties.

For a moment he felt like a creep pawing through her underwear drawer, but he steeled himself and carefully nudged the sensible pieces of cotton material to one side of the drawer. As the material shifted, he spotted a brief flash of red lace and something that could be black and leather, but he refused to investigate any further; he could feel his face flushing and his heart pounding harder. He dumped his own underwear into the drawer and shoved it closed, sighing with relief and opening the next one; socks wouldn’t cause his mind to wander into dangerous territory nearly as badly! He carefully shoved the rolls of clothing to the side to make room for his own once again and felt his hand hit something. His breath hitched as he uncovered what was very obviously a vibrator. Next to it was a tube of lube and a small box about the size of a deck of cards. Try as he might, he could not stop himself from carefully tilting open the lid of the box...Javi was quite educated when it came to knowing his way around a woman, but he was clueless as to the purpose or use of the two small colored balls nestled into the velvet inside of the box...although he was pretty sure he at least knew where they were supposed to go.

His mind clouded with images of his partner stretched out on the bed behind him, bringing herself to orgasm using these items and he felt himself harden in his jeans. He let out a puff of air and carefully nudged the items to the other side of the drawer, reburying them beneath the socks as they had been before. He piled in his own footwear, then shakily closed the drawer, still trying to blink away the images playing out in his mind. He wondered what her face would look like as she came apart. What did she sound like? Did she cry out when she reached her peak? What would his name sound like tumbling from her lips in the middle of her climax, what would she taste like…?

He stormed out of the bedroom, furious at himself for going down that path. He felt like a pervert, getting so turned on after snooping through her personal effects. He was angry at Dixon for insisting that they do this; but he was frustrated at himself, more. He shouldn’t be going through her things like this. He splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen sink and trudged back up to his own apartment, pacing for a while once he got there, trying to both ease his erection as well as determine what else he should bring with him back to her apartment. His eyes settled on the shoulder case that had been retrieved from the house that had been used in the undercover operation. He pulled out the two framed photographs that had been next to “their” bed; the photos that she had referenced when she had first woken up. He stared at them, thinking that if he hadn’t been present at the time they had been taken, he would have believed they were real, too...that they were actual photographs of two people madly in love with each other.

Maybe…

No. He stuck both pictures under his arms, grabbed another box filled with work files, tossed his favorite ashtray and lighter in the box along with one or two small tchotkes, a couple of coasters and a small plastic plant from the window sill, and made one more trip down the stairs. He dispersed the items randomly throughout her apartment, thinking to himself that it at least gave a more unified image of two different people existing within the same space.

He hauled the box of paperwork into her second bedroom converted into an office space and plopped it down on the desk, taking one or two folders and strewing them about the top of the desk, again in stark contrast to her own organized, neat piles. It started to reflect their separate desks at work now, which he found convincing. He sat in the desk chair for a minute and quickly shuffled through the small desk drawers, double checking for anything glaring that might be difficult to explain. As he opened the bottom drawer, his eye caught a blue leather bound notebook. Flipping through it, he saw pages and pages of writing in his partner’s familiar handwriting. As he thumbed through, he was startled to spot his name on one page. He carefully flipped back, scanning the writing and was surprised to find that it actually appeared quite often. He turned a page and began reading from the beginning:

“Everything sometimes feels so incredibly heavy here. The job, the humidity, the pressure of being a woman in this man’s arena. I hate it! I hate that I have to be strong all the damn time. I hate that it feels like I can’t seek the same comforts as other women...even if I have insisted that it be this way. I’m so grateful and proud of myself...most of the time...like 95.5% of the time. The other times, I just wish I could let myself cry when something heartbreaking happens. When someone says something scathing that hurts my feelings at work. When I watch Javi go off to sleep with yet another woman.

Javi. That feels so heavy all of the time, too. I can’t seem to ever level myself out when it comes to him. Some days he drives me absolutely insane and I want nothing more than to bash his face in with a paperweight. Other days, I just want him to put his arms around me and hold me. Not do anything or say anything, just hold me tight…because he is, truthfully, the only single person that I trust.

And yet, am I fooling myself in saying that...in saying that I trust him? Because do I really? If I really trusted him, why don’t I just go to him? He only lives two floors up. Why can’t I knock on his door and fling myself into his arms and kiss him and feel what it’s like to press my body against his? Why can’t I bring myself to do that? Well...probably because I don’t really ACTUALLY trust him...not with that part of myself. Javi is the man I want having my back in a shootout...but is he the man I want to be next to me every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up? I dream about him sometimes...about him being in my bed with me, but we’re usually not sleeping...we’re doing everything but. I dream about it and then I wake up feeling empty because he’s not there, because it wasn’t real. The emptiness is heavy, too...”

Javi clapped the journal shut, feeling his stomach churn. He shouldn’t have read that and guilt thrummed through him. These were her private thoughts; never meant for anyone else but her to read. Once again he felt like an intruder and he loathed himself...Dixon...that asshole Ortiz...for putting both of them in this situation. He dragged a hand over his face, growling low in his throat. He looked down at the box at his feet, still open with a few files and the two photographs staring back up at him. He reached in and took out one framed picture, sitting it upright on the desk: the “engagement” photo. He took the “wedding” picture out and then tossed the journal into the box, carrying both items from the home office. He carefully set up the photo on a bookshelf in the living room, then put the lid back on the box and headed back up the stairs to drop the box off in his apartment and lock up. Before he left, though, he made sure to slip the freshly cleaned gold band onto his left ring finger.

His wife would be coming home any minute now.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

#javier peña x reader #javier pena x female reader #narcos #javi #pedro pascal fanfiction #fake marriage #undercover marriage

31 notes · View notes

marvelsbanner · 3 years

Text

little things

A year or two back I did this writing exercise in my comp 2 class where we had to find details about ourselves an author would use in a book and I couldn’t sleep last night and decided to do that again :-) highly reccomend doing this yourself as a little warm up!

I take time to stretch all my achy bones when I wake up

I hit snooze at least once or twice, and anything I say before coffee is an incoherent string of grumpy mumbles

My mornings and nights are sacred times of relaxation for me

Sometimes when I smile I kind of cheekily stick out my tongue between my teeth

I’m constantly playing with my hair, ill tuck my curtain bangs behind my ears just to immediately run my hands through it again

I touch my face mindlessly when I talk

I can’t make eye contact; when i listen to you i’ll often be looking away, but I always nod my head and make comments to let you know i’m paying attention can you tell i was a the teachers pet?

My pants are always cuffed and I often wear silly socks

I wear the same pair of ratty old school vans everyday

My freckles are darker in the summertime

My hands have calluses from working out

My eyes look more green or gray depending on what I wear

I only drink my coffee iced, even on cold days

When I read novels I often mouth the words to myself to help me focus. If the book is my own i’ll use stucky notes to make comments or write down new words

There is no such thing as comfortable silence for me; I fill any silence with jokes or random obscure questions

If someone says something that reminds me of a song, i’ll start serenading them terribly

If I hear a song I like in public i’m not afraid to start dancing

I drive like a stereotypical gay: 25 over the speed limit with an iced coffee in hand and taylor swift blaring on the radio

I have to have sound to sleep, i’ll turn on a fan even in the winter

I fall asleep easiest when i’m holding something, whether it be a pillow or jacket or blanket or person

But actually it’s kind of hard for me to fall asleep with another person because my heart is racing and I don’t dare move even if im cramped or uncomfortable because I don’t want to wake them up or have them leave my arms

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to write down ideas for songs/books/films/poems. I swear that’s when i make my best work

I have to have a snack before bed, my eating schedule resembles a hobbit

#hope rambles #writblr #personal #characterization practice

9 notes · View notes

ratsarecute4 · 3 years

Note

Ach!! Growing Up Has To Happen Sometime is so, so cute and rapidly becoming a comfort fic (in particular, the ginger candies and Rathers game are my favorite scenes, though I screenshotted this bit for it's brilliance alone)

Overall, this is so in-character I can hear it in all respective character voices, and the relationships are so entertainingly written, and It's just SO GOOD, but Rattie, this is a formal request to stop writing about food. It all sounds too tasty and I'm either underage or out of range to cook a lot of it. :)

Thank you so so much! I am really glad you like it, because I enjoy writing it! I will never stop writing about food though, what kind of story would have hobbits but no food?/lh Sorry if I sound awkward when I answer asks and things, I am much better at writing fiction that at writing replies!🐀

#ask #fanfiction #lotr #Growing Up Has To Happen Sometime #pippin #gandalf #merry brandybuck #frodo

6 notes · View notes

myvalzpival · 5 years

Text

“Elfs and Friends” Masterpost

“Elfs and Friends” from the LotR LCG game, as described by me and @1pen1knife:

LEGOLAS: here to fuck you up. doesn’t have many friends, but doesn’t care, he’s an independent woman goddamnit. suddenly turned emo for some reason. but you only act as if the black hair bothered you. you love it. is stuck in a group with two dwarves. the suffering is real.

CELEBORN: everything you know about the movie Legolas. he watches and he knows. sneaky bitch. always negative because he likes being positively surprised. has 6 younger brothers who ruin his life but he loves them. cannot sing or dance. falls from every horse he tries to mount.

OROPHIN: name sounds like a drug. will end your suffering with one well-aimed kick in the head. voice way too low for his appearance. his greasy hair still looks better than yours. can sing beautifully, but only my chemical romance. “it’s not a phase, mom! i’ve been like this for the past 1000 years, ugh why can’t you understand!!!!”. throws himself first into every battle to finally die, always comes back victorious and disappointed.

ERESTOR: can speak any language you can think of except for French. knows a lot of things, but his rhetoric abilities are - 58. knows a lot of swearwords and screams them out during battle just to confuse everybody. can crush a can on his head, but nobody believes him.

HALDIR: a true fren. always there when you need him. seriously, he just suddenly emerges behind you and you are creeped out. thinks he has no friends, but everyone loves him. looks like he might cry any second, but will bash your skull in with no mercy. wishes a good morning to his horse the first thing in the morning.

ZELDA: the one straight friend who’s just trying to fit in. not the strongest, but trying his best. a good friend at any times. doesn’t understand why he can’t pet a balrog when he sees one. always learning and appreciative of advice. constantly muttering “so dumb! why are you so dumb!” to himself when he messes up. great at starting fires.

GALDOR: the concerned mom. has a strong will but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get fucked up every time. does not drink and brings all his drunk friends to their homes on his own back. great storyteller, especially for children. always has at least one useful advice for you. is always right, but you realize that when it’s too late.

GILDOR: has anyone said ‘sexual tension’??? probably Galdor’s bratty younger brother idk. will pin you down just for the lolz. puffy sleeves for l i f e. probably better with a sword than with a bow, he likes to get close and personal if you know what i mean. fabulous dancer. has read one (1) book in his life and it was a comic book.

IMLADRIS: *william osman’s voice* CARETAKEEEEEER! definitely drawn by a different author, but everyone pretends they don’t see it. takes care of frickin’ everyone all the time because McHenamarth keeps starting motherfucking fires. taken for granted by everyone, hardly ever hears a thank you. has an emotional support afghan hound.

GLORFINDEL: goldielocks in an armor. will smite your grandma if he gets the order to do so. pretty much a god, his attack should be anywhere between 7 and 500. young and ‘straight’ yeah right. changes from a puppy to a beast in 0,2 seconds. has his lucky socks that he wore when defeating the balrog.

ELROND: the good twin. not exactly h o t, but could be your dad so you don’t mind. wise and a good dad. also incredibly stupid and the worst dad ever. there’s no in between. likes long walks on the beach. sung in a choir as a child but never had the chance to fine-tune his talent.

ERESTOR: “what the fuck, Karen?” has zero fighting skills, but goes into battle anways because he looks scary and can scream very loud. doesn’t like telling people what to do, but everyone else is a fucking idiot so he has to. loves his wife more than anything, she’s super supportive. also his wife would probably choke a bear with bare hands, as opposed to him. likes soups.

ELROHIR: has kind of a blank look on his face, but that’s just because “I will survive” is playig in his head at all times. always wears armor. overequipped. if you need a knife, he’s your man. ran with scissors as a child. hair gets tangled very easily. sings only in the shower.

TIME FOR THE FRIENDS!

NORTHERN TRACKER: probably called Francis. not gay, but a good ally. rarely talks, but when he does, it’s pure gold. knows a lot of secrets and won’t hesitate to use them against you. has a small daughter with whom he plays dress up all the time. would die for his friends. touched a dragon once. always knows where you’re going.

LÓRIEN GUIDE: hates social interacion, lives in the woods. apparently walks so much his feet disappeared. looks a little ratty, but in a good way. the one person hobbits never hear comming. best friends with Francis, they met in jail. pretty much invisible, but when he arrives to a town and gets washed and fixed, every man and woman falls for him. he doesn’t get the clues tho. freezes upon seeing a beautigul man.

BERAVOR: the lesbian queen we don’t deserve. will crush your skull, either with her hands or her thighs. “pretty good for a girl” is the last thing you’ll ever say. sings like an angel, talks like a miner. can speak with birds. Sauron would let her peg him.

#lord of the rings #lotr lcg #tobes back at it again #legolas #elrond #and a lot of fucking friends

13 notes · View notes

ferluccia · 6 years

Note

Okay, so we know Viktor is a bookworm. This has been established, right? Well, what about young Vitya who, when going around the world for competitions, buys books regardless of the language. And he orders dictionaries online, and translates them personally. (Because being at the top of the world can be kind of lonely.)

I FEEL REALLY SORRY FOR NOT GETTING TO THIS EARLIER BUT!!!! I LOVE THIS!!!

Victor’s relationship with books dated back to a long time. Yakov’s first memory of him included a book snuggly held against Victor’s chest.

It made for a funny picture—the small, wide-eyed child holding a big book like it was a teddy bear, refusing to let go of it even though he would have no time to sit and read. Yakov remembers being able to peek at the title—it was The Hobbit, a colorful and illustrated version—and at his curiosity, Vitya’s mother chuckled and shook her head.

“He won’t leave home without bringing a book along,” she explained.

Little Vitya was a stubborn one. It was a trait he carried on into his adult life.

“Mommy,” Vitya tugged at her sleeve, eyes following the skaters on the rink, “can I skate yet?”

“I don’t know. How about you ask your new coach?” She replied, encouraging him to step forward and talk to Yakov.

Vitya, back then a five-year-old, already knew how to be polite and charming, raising his chin up to look at Yakov with his big blue eyes and swiping his hair back.

“Coach Yakov, may I use the rink, please?“

Yakov would be heartless if he refused.

“Of course. But you can’t take your book with you.”

He almost expected Vitya to widen his eyes and clutch at his book, perhaps insist on taking it to the ice with him by the way he had been carrying it all morning or turn to his mother and say something along the lines of “I don’t like this new coach”. Instead, little Vitya frowned, offering Yakov his book with a seriousness of a real adult who confided something of great importance.

“Then… can you keep it for me?”

It had started like that. Vitya would always bring a book along, and handing Yakov his book for safe-keeping before lacing up and stepping on the ice became a part of their routine. It happened before classes, it happened before competitions. Sometimes he would curl up in a corner of the rink and read his book while waiting for some free time to skate.

Victor’s passion for books became even more evident as he grew up. He always had one in his bag, but also always brought one from home. Yakov couldn’t tell which one he was reading—or if he was reading both—but he would never question it.

“The bookstore had a sale and I couldn’t resist,” twelve-year-old Vitya would explain when he arrived late for practice, and Lilia would only shake her head and look at Yakov.

Sometimes it was a bit of a problem. Just like he would refuse to do his warm-ups before finishing a chapter, he always backed one too many books for his trips.

“Why are you bringing so many books for?” Yakov asked as he loaded the taxi with Victor’s luggage. “Do you think you’ll be able to slack off just because you won gold in the last competition?”

Teenager Victor chuckled, glancing at his struggling coach as he scratched Makkachin behind her ears.

“I don’t know. I might get tired of waiting for my turn and read a dozen books before I step on the ice,” he teased.

It was a known fact Victor was a fast reader, but the reason why he brought a bunch of books wasn’t because of it. It was something Yakov didn’t entirely understand, and something he wasn’t exactly interested in encouraging.

Victor traded them with other competitors—sometimes giving up on his beautiful, limited edition cover books in favor of getting a ratty, old book in a language he couldn’t understand. Most of the times they weren’t even the same books—giving up on his treasured, flawless Anna Karenina for a coffee-stained, decade-old single volume Narnia in Italian?

Yakov didn’t understand. But Victor—he was always elated to trade books with people, no matter what it was, and would start reading it as soon as possible, running to the nearest shop in search of a dictionary that could help him understand the book.

When Victor turned fifteen he moved to Yakov and Lilia’s apartment to focus on his training, aiming for Junior’s gold in the following season. One condition, though—he could bring no more than ten books.

He protested. Being rightfully furious about the proposal, Victor refused to agree with Yakov’s terms—even though he understood the reasoning behind such imposal—and was only after a lot of negotiation from Lilia’s part that he finally decided to agree.

“How?” Yakov asked as Lilia brought him the good news.

“He won’t be bringing any books. I’ve offered him my library instead.”

“Your books are all in French.”

Lilia smirked, offering Yakov the famous you fool eyes that were affectionate and mocking all the same.

“You know that is not a problem for him.”

Reading a lot was never exactly a problem or a harm to his growth as a skater. Victor was a promising athlete with incredible potential, excited to win and passionate about his sport.

The real problem was that kids his age weren’t that passionate about reading. They had other interests—like games, movies, dating, and books just didn’t seem to be a popular top priority like it was for Victor.

Victor had always been charming, talkative and approachable, and when Yakov asked him to interact with other skaters at banquets, he would quickly gather a small group around him and would talk passionately about the latest story he read, exchanging impressions about characters and other things.

But after a couple of hours, Victor was nowhere to be seen. He would usually head back to his room, grab his book and find a peaceful place to read. More often than not, Yakov heard other people commenting about how focused he was on his book and lamenting not wanting to interrupt his reading.

As enjoyable as they were, books made for a lonely hobby.

When Victor got his own apartment a magazine made a photoshoot there, and they could not hide their surprise as they learned that Victor had read all the books on the shelves of his living room, save for a small pile that was kept next to the sofa where he would curl up after practice and read. They made sure to include that information when the interview was released, and Yakov remembered clearly the reaction it had gotten from the public.

Between practicing and reading, Victor Nikiforov did little else. People made a huge deal out of it—providing lengthy blog posts about how those hundred of books spoke of solitude and a somewhat intrusive trend of asking Victor personal questions about his mental health.

Victor dismissed those rumors saying something about being too immersed in stories to think about being lonely. To his inner circle, it was easy to notice otherwise.

However, Yakov noticed a change when Victor moved to Japan. It was growth. It was selflessness. First, he had taken only around ten books on his trip, which meant a significant effort from his part of getting to know someone, and being unsure about his future and the path he had taken. Bitter, he didn’t want to think too much about it, dismissing those things as Victor’s aloofness as he packed in a hurry.

For once, Yakov enjoyed being proved wrong. Wrong about Victor being selfish. Wrong about Victor not being able to coach. Wrong about Victor not knowing what he wants.

Being a teacher, after all, was about watching your pupils overcome and surprise you. And even though Yakov was still a bit bitter about it, he admired Victor for his growth.

“I’ll keep it for you,” he heard Victor say from the sideline, picking the book from Yuuri’s hand with care.

They stood a couple of steps away, Yuuri removing the guards from his blades while Victor’s help, his coat thrown haphazardly over his shoulders as he assumed the role of coach after his train was over.

“Can you mark the page for me?” Yuuri asked. “I forgot the bookmarker in the dressing room.”

“Of course. What did you think of the chapter?”

Wide-eyed, Yuuri turned around with a big smile on his face, nearly jumping over the boards in excitement while trying to not make a scene. It was funny. It reminded Yakov of young Vitya.

“I wasn’t expecting the plot twist to be that big? It was difficult to put the book down! I nearly skipped training just so I could finish it.”

“I know! I was sure you’d like it!” Victor smiled excitedly, holding the book close to his chest. “You won’t believe what happens in the next chapter. It gets so much better, you have no idea!”

“Vitya!! You promised not to tease!” Yuuri laughed, pushing Victor playfully.

“Yuuri, get to work!” Yakov called out, only then noticing how he was watching the scene with a shy smile.

“Oh—Sorry, Yakov!” Victor smiled apologetically, leaning over the board to give Yuuri a kiss before watching him glide on the ice.

Victor had always had a weak spot for cheesy romance novels. Yakov wanted to laugh when he remembered Victor is living one of them.

“Go on. Join him,” he said, nudging Victor’s shoulder. “Yuuri skates more passionately when you’re there with him.”

Victor looked at Yakov with his eyebrows raised and lips parted in surprise. He didn’t say a word, and yet his coach was able to read the emotions flowing in his eyes.

“Alright,” Victor smiled, offering him the book. “Can you keep this for me?”

#kfldjslkfsjdkl SORRY I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT BOOKWORM VITYA #this was too long and too cheesy i'm so sorry fjsdkljfklsjfklsd #ficlet #andie writes #yuri on ice #victor nikiforov #yuri katsuki #viktor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #victuuri #viktuuri #yakov feltsman #lilia baranovskaya #makkachin #yoi #katsuki yuuri #long post

2K notes · View notes

stereksecretsanta · 6 years

Text

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.

#caffeine-in-an-iv #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

42 notes · View notes

raeseddon · 7 years

Text

Obligatory Get to Know the Blogger Post

Nickname: Rae Star Sign: Taurus Height: 5'0" -- smol and loving it. Time right now: 9:41 am Last thing i googled: How to root my fucking phone. Fave music artist: Skinny Lister Song stuck in my head: Not sure of the title, but it was from the last fandom vid I watched. Last movie I watched: Rogue One Last tv show watched: Death in Paradise. (Christ I love Ben Miller...) What are you wearing right now: pajamas pants and a ratty star trek t-shirt When did you create your blog: Oh my god I don't even remember, it feels like I've been here forever. What kind of stuff do I post: A random assortment of fandom crap, some fic when I'm motivated enough to finish it, personal rambling, a shit-ton of meta/ critical analysis, and some political stuff. I vascillate between fandoms all the time. Currently there's been a fair bit of Dirk Gently, but I'll usually go back to my older anime and sci-fi fandoms on a pretty regular basis. IDW is my happy place so when I get caught up there's going to be a small burst of Ghostbusters and BttF. I follow all of two webcomics, Stand Still, Stay Silent and Paranatural. There's a fair bit of commentary on education and literature, as both are things I'm immensely passionate about. I trip and fall into "fandom holes" all the time, some of which I manage to climb my way out of, some I settle in and make a nest in because I've given up even pretending to try. I am and forever will be Pokemon and Digimon trash. Don't ask me about my AU's or crossovers unless you want to be here forever. Do I have any other blogs: Just a few defunct RP blogs from when Generator Reset was still a tumblr RP. Why did i choose my url: Rae Seddon is the name of my favorite character in my third favorite Robin McKinley novel. Gender: Female Hogwarts house: Ravenclaw Pokemon team: Mystic, but by god if they ever make Rocket an option I would switch sides in a fucking heartbeat. Favorite color: Purples, almost all cool tones and neutrals. Average hours of sleep: I'm an insomniac there is no such thing. Favorite character(s): This is like asking me to pick favorite children and I hate answering it whenever it comes up. I will limit this to favorite characters out of the things I watched most recently: the entire cast of Dirk Gently. Everyone. Team Rocket, Ash, Cilan, Iris. Richard Poole and Camille Bordey. The entire main cast of Rogue One, Conner Temple, Abby Maitland and Hilary Becker. (AKA: the OT3 hell I tripped back into most recently.) The entire cast of Blake's 7. Everyone in every crack ship Dhizzle and I created. How many blankets do i sleep with: One. Dream job: Hobbit. Go ahead, ask me if I'm kidding. Following: Don't keep track Followers: See above Tagging: Have at, whoever!

#meme

2 notes · View notes

lisa-in-the-sky · 7 years

Text

tagged by @manic-multitasker and actually answering in a timely matter damn

Name - Ciela

Nicknames: Ciela is a nickname actually

Star sign: Libra (Scorpio cusp)

Height: 5′ 2″ but i’m not what you would call little

Favorite color: idk. green? blue? red? black?

Favorite animal: Bears. absolutely bears, they’re incredible

Cat or Dog: dogs, but i love my cat and all cats a lot and honestly could never choose

Last thing I googled: pffff “border collie birthday” lmao

Favorite music artist: BITCH IDK. i hate this question. fuckin...i’ve loved Santana since i was a kid so i’m gonna say that

Song stuck in my head: UGH “Into You” by Ariana Grande and i love it but god damn

Last movie I watched: Princess Mononoke

Last tv show I watched: Sense8!!

What are you wearing right now: stripey brown sleep shirt...it’s 5pm and i don’t care

Do you have any other blogs: a blog where i stash all my porn, one where i complain about work, one for my original comic, a manga one that i don’t really help with...most of these are usually inactive

What kind of stuff do you post: a bunch of bullshit mostly

When did you create your blog: 2012? idk.

Do You Get Asks Frequently: almost never

What made you decide to make a tumblr: my friends all had them lol

Why did you choose your url: it’s a pun on my name, CielaLisa.

Gender: F

Hogwarts house: Slytherin

Pokemon team: Valor

Average hours of sleep: 8

Lucky number: idk, 7?

Favorite characters: how does anyone narrow this down?? Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, Crowley (Good Omens, not SPN), Peregrine Took (any hobbit tbh), Gandalf, Dr McCoy (because i like looking at Karl Urban mostly), Furiosa, Leia Organa,

How many blankets do you sleep with: ratty af rainbow fleece blanket (ugliest damn thing, i love it) and a grey plaid comforter. also a nightmare before christmas blanket and my old baby blanket (who the fuck???) on my feet in the winter.

Dream trip: a one way ticket to Madrid

Dream Job: idk

Following: 200ish

tagging @unclesteeb @passavantsridge @ivyfaerie @queenmabscherzo and @k-partist altho i think some of you have done this already lol

#about me #i love being tagged this i swear but i'm also very bad at talking about myself #or being succinct ever at all #whoops

2 notes · View notes

tripstations · 5 years

Text

Free refills and pyjamas on long-haul flights

Lighter, more fuel-efficient planes are making it possible for airlines to offer longer flights that cross more time zones. But for many travellers, spending half a day or more in the air is a recipe for stiff muscles and serious jet lag.

Travel

September 2, 2019 Travel

By Star2.com

A new trail for adventurers in Brazil

An unusual ratty snack in Cambodia

It will take all six of the Lord Of The Rings and Hobbit movies to fill the 17 hours and 20 minutes on Qantas’ new flight from Chicago, Illinois in the United States to Brisbane, Australia.

The 14,324km flight, which begins operating next year, will become the longest non-stop flight operating out of O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, nudging aside an Air Zealand flight to Auckland that covers 13,166km.

To make those flights a little more comfortable, airlines are trying to help travellers adjust to new time zones by playing with cabin lighting and meal timing, passing out cooling gel pillows and pyjamas for better rest, and encouraging passengers to move around.

“); } else { document.write(“

“); document.write(“”); document.write(“cX.callQueue.push([“invoke”, function() { “); document.write(“googletag.cmd.push(function() { googletag.display(“div-gpt-ad-Mobile_Star2_SP_Mid_OSV”); googletag.pubads().refresh([gptAdSlots[8]]); });”); document.write(“}]);”); document.write(“”); document.write(“ipt>”); document.write(“

“); }

“It’s not just about making it a comfortable flight, but making sure that when you get to your destination, you feel as good as you can,” said Phil Capps, Qantas’ head of customer product and service.

Thanks to its home base in Australia, Qantas is no stranger to operating long flights. In 2017, it began working with researchers at the University of Sydney’s Charles Perkins Centre to try to make those flights feel shorter.

Qantas is still working out the details of what its service between Chicago and Brisbane will look like. But flights between Perth and London, which have averaged 16 and 17 hours, depending on the direction, since launching last year, show the kinds of strategies Chicago travellers might expect.

Business-class seats have aisle access and can stay fully reclined from take-off to landing, while premium economy seats have headrests designed to accommodate ergonomic pillows. Economy passengers also get more space between each seat, Qantas said.

While many perks focus on passengers in the front of the cabin, some benefit all travellers. To help travellers avoid jet lag, the carrier tinkered with light, temperature and meal timing, which can all affect the body’s internal clock, Capps said. Cool hues such as blue, for instance, tend to make people feel awake, while red and orange light can make them more inclined to sleep.

Cool hues such as blue, for instance, tend to make people feel awake, while red and orange light can make them more inclined to sleep.

Qantas worked with Boeing to programme cabin lights to shine in a sequence meant to help travellers adjust to the time zone in the city where they’ll arrive. The airline makes similar adjustments to the cabin temperature throughout the flight and tweaks the timing of meals.

Even delaying the first meal service by an hour or so, rather than serving immediately after take-off, can start help passengers adjust to the right time zone, he said. The menu on the Perth-London flights was also designed to help travellers stay hydrated and feel ready to rest at the right times.

Qantas’ Dreamliners have self-service bars where passengers in economy and business class can grab beverages including herbal tea and juices. The goal isn’t just to help flight attendants avoid another trip down the aisle with the drinks cart.

“We know if you get your blood moving, you’ll feel more comfortable. It’s as much about your ability to walk from your seat to those locations as what you do in those locations,” Capps said.

Helping travellers start adjusting to a new time zone in-flight makes sense, sleep experts said. The catch is that passengers aren’t necessarily starting on the same schedule – some might be starting their journey, while others are on a connecting flight mid-trip, said Phyllis Zee, an expert in sleep and circadian rhythm disorders at Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine.

“What would be really cool would be to individualise it based on the person’s itinerary,” Zee said.

That’s tough on a plane, where it’s hard to escape a seatmate’s overhead light and there’s no such thing as a personal thermostat.

Airlines try to give passengers some control. On United Airlines’ long-haul international flights, business-class seats come with two different blankets – one lighter, one warmer – as well as cooling gel pillows. Mattress pads are also available.

There are noise-reducing headphones and in-flight entertainment systems have channels meant to provide relaxing background noise and visuals, such as guided meditations and ambient video of outdoor landscapes, said Mark Krolick, United’s vice president of marketing.

United’s international business class, Polaris, has one perk that’s just for flights over 12 hours: pyjamas.

It’s no accident there are more perks for passengers paying for premium seats. Flying with fewer seats reduces the aircraft’s weight and helps stretch its range. But that means airlines need to generate more revenue from each seat that’s left. In many cases, extra-long flights only make financial sense if airlines can fill the planes with a larger-than-usual share of business and premium economy passengers, who pay higher fares, said John Grant, senior analyst with aviation data firm OAG.

That’s also why you’re unlikely to see airlines add features such as exercise areas that would help travellers pass the time but take up a lot of space, he said.

While it’s tougher to snooze sitting sandwiched between other flyers in economy than in a lie-flat business class seat, there’s at least one thing travellers can do to boost the odds of arriving relatively well-rested, wherever they’re sitting: stop worrying about their sleep.

“For a lot of people, sleep is elusive because they’re trying to control it so desperately,” said Christopher Winter, a sleep specialist and owner of the Charlottesville Neurology and Sleep Medicine clinic.

“Resting, if done properly, is doing about as much good as sleep is, and that’s perfectly under your control.” – dpa/Chicago Tribune

The post Free refills and pyjamas on long-haul flights appeared first on Tripstations.

from Tripstations https://ift.tt/2HE9fT5 via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Tripstations

0 notes