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avoutput · 5 months ago

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Ryan, Wade, Logan, and Hugh || Deadpool & Wolverine

I have been on a bit of hiatus from seeing films in the theater, but what always seems to bring me back is even the faintest hint of good action comedy or the glimmer of a return of some legacy. In Deadpool & Wolverine, you get the promise of both in a single package. But I waited so long because I was still apprehensive. It bothered me more as time went on because it was so well received, as of now I believe it's the highest grossing “R” rated film of all time. The public largely isn’t a good barometer of whether anything is good or not, certainly not the amount of money it brings in, and definitely not the collective critical conscience. Word of mouth from trusted sources. People you love to disagree with. When both of those sources agree you simply have to take a look. I brought one of those people I disagree with, my father. A man who claims to hate the profane, but indulges in all sorts of films with deeply profane language, especially ones starring cops or detectives. Still he has always had a love for the X-Men, for Wolverine, and the chance to see him in the iconic 90’s suit was enough of a draw despite his lack of interest in Deadpool. He sat through all the violence, all the gore, all the dirty innuendo, the implied buttsex, and the 4th wall nods to the camera. He was the balance to my indulgence, and as I glanced over at him, I saw in his stoic stare, fingers resting on his temples like he had a headache, just how much it bothered him to see the swearing and the gore, and I knew in that moment that we might have a home-run on our hand.

Out of the gate, I’ll go ahead and assure you that the spoilers for the film will be marked at the very end of the article, and the initial review will simply go over the main points and my thoughts on the film in general. All I can think about right now is how I wish I was clever enough to write a review in a voice that broke the 4th wall, if there is even such a thing.

I am not sure if it's worth explaining the plot of the film, because it feels as though by design that it hangs around in the background, simply a vehicle for the jokes. Going into most action comedies, the driving force is usually the plot with the attached jokes along the way. With a franchise like Deadpool, forced to merge his well thought out and narrow franchise with Marvel, limited as it was by the copyright protections and constricted access to characters outside the Fox owned universe, you would be wise to be concerned that this wouldn’t be handled well. Even though both previous Deadpool films should have proved this creative team is a well oiled machine, I was still surprised by how well they merged their ideas into the Disney Marvel conglomerate. This film is constructed upside down, with the jokes being the engine and the plot being the fuel. Comic moments are designed in which the plot flows through them to create the momentum instead of the plot having appropriate jokes to follow the action. When the comic moments collide with the plot, you get these uniquely Deadpool action moments, with his masked smirk, potty mouth, and penchant for splitting bodies apart starting at the taint. It's quite an elegant display of talent that you don't see too often. If I had to make one thing clear, this action comedy redesign is the shining crown on Deadpool’s tight ass.

To satiate the curious, let me pour out the fuel for you, though common sense would tell you not to huff fumes, but it's your funeral. Wade Wilson is having another downer moment. In a desire to prove to himself that Deadpool is an important cog in the new Marvel Cinematic Universe he has found his way into, he tries to join the big leagues at Marvel headquarters. When he doesn’t make the cut, he gets depressed and the love of his life, Venessa, decides he needs to grow before their relationship can continue and moves out. Deadpool is then recruited by an interdimensional agency that keeps the multiverse from unraveling, which he is genuinely excited about. Only, the agency decided that Deadpool is the only thing left in his home universe that can be useful and relay to him they plan to destroy it prematurely. They plan to destroy it because the central character from his universe, Logan, perished heroically in a completely unchangeable Fox story cannon. Realizing the now dead Wolverine is the center of his home universe, Deadpool sets out across the multiverse to find the perfect Wolverine to replace his own so he can thwart the multiverse administrator villains and stop the destruction of his universe. Unfortunately, the only one he can find is a Wolverine that failed to live up to the legend of any other Wolverine’s from any other universe. This exhaustive story presentation is brought to you by the people who overthink Deadpool.

Brilliantly, this setup appears to be born out of conversations with a possibly real Disney boardroom. Disney appears to have told Ryan Reynolds and the Deadpool team that when James Mangold, director of Logan, closed the door on the X-Men universe when he put Logan out to pasture, and that all the other characters and creative choices across the Fox cannon were now worthless. Except for him. Ryan and Deadpool radiate star power, and Hugh Jackman had already confirmed he was done playing the Wolverine. This transformation of real world conversations into compelling meta-narrative is the part that feels genius. Not only did they write a narrative to fit the world in which they were writing Deadpool, they found a way to make that an entertaining bedrock of their film. And then they flipped it one more time, made this narrative the background story, the fuel as it were, of the film instead of the engine. They made the comic moments the focus, the action the result, and their creative purpose the driving point. Like Deadpool on screen, the creative team wants to matter and maybe the only way for anyone to believe in them is for them to prove that all that creative work at Fox has more value than the Disney executives can possibly imagine. As a result, they spoke the one language any executive knows, that language translated to now 1 billion dollars in ticket sales. Creative work again saved by the power of capitalism. (I hope that hits with the irony intended. I am not in the Deadpool creative team.)

Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman are still sublime as their alter egos. They define these characters for an entire generation. As such, it should go without saying that they are incredible in their roles this time as well. In fact, every actor in this film hits pitch perfect notes on every joke, every line, every stroke. I’d list out the various actors, and their strengths, but some of them feel like spoilers and as a man of my word, I cannot betray your trust. My only personal complaint is the amount of blood and gore in this movie would make a Mortal Kombat fan blush. It was by a wide margin the only thing in the film I thought should be toned down. It was consistently distracting in almost every one of the action scenes to the point that I couldn’t even be sure of what was happening, especially when they really got things going. It made me wish for an “R” rated, light cut of the film. All the language, half the gore. The take away from this should be that the only bad thing about this film was how distracting the gore was. Imagine this horse I just beat to death is an example of how distracting the gore in Ryan & Hugh: BFF4Life was as a whole. Damn, that is a great turn of phrase and critique. Good job me.

I can’t lie to you though. Or maybe I just won’t lie to you. I left the film after this meta-narrative thinking that, while the film was great, it came with a lot of baggage. The fire to this fuel is mostly lit by knowing not just the catalog at Marvel, not just Fox, but the careers of the actors, the artists in the soundtrack, and a never ending myriad of collective popular culture knowledge as well. I can still remember sitting down in the year 2000 to see the first X-Men film in the Fox franchise. It was quaint by today's standards, and while fan service could be found in the film, it wasn’t created to specifically cater to the demands of fans or their knowledge. Its primary focus was to tell the classic X-Men story. Lucky for us, Fox attacked it with a kind of fever no one really expected at the time. Not quite as unique as Tim Burton’s Batman, and not quite as earnest as Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man, but it was grounded without being gritty. It was real. Just before that, Batman & Robin and its 60’s hokey aesthetic had basically closed the door on superhero films for a while, or that was how it seemed. But a slow build was happening adjacent to this with R rated features like Blade, a gorey mess that kept the hinges of that door oiled. Fast forward almost 25ish years and Deadpool & Wolverine turned all these creative successes (and failures) into their showcase for the executives at Marvel. In doing so, they had to throw everything in the entire backlog at us, for us and everyone who worked on those films. They asked fans to light the fire, but in doing so, they ended up having to make a film that relies on people in the future being cultural anthropologists, lighting their own torches as they dive deeper into the dank caves of our popular culture past. I think films should have some amount of presence in the present, but at this point, we are basically asking people in the future to understand an entire lifetime to truly capture the thrust of the film.

And this time tunnel goes both ways. If you are my father’s age, a boomer disconnected with the now, there are a series of synapses that don’t fire. He may know a lot about X-Men, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the history of mutants, all sorts of nerd culture, but I could see him lost in about every other word out of Ryan’s mouth. He may have been alive, he just wasn’t participating in pop culture beyond his 30’s. He just can’t connect to it. I fear that may be how people perceive this film in the future, and in fact this whole MCU. The MCU as a franchise is an overwhelming excess that rarely touches brilliance across its entire catalog. It's not like it is a new cinematic language either, but rather a recreation of what makes serial comics like those under the Marvel and DC banner so uninviting to newcomers. What I love about films of the past is that they may capture the moment, but not at the cost of the story and not at the cost of the future. It's helpful to know what was happening around the time of films like The Godfather or Apocalypse Now, but the films don’t misfire because of your lack of historical awareness. When Iron Man came out, it was alone. It set a tone for itself and it was completely free to do so. Future generations would better grasp the whole of the film with knowledge of the Iraq, Iran, and Afghanistan wars of its era, but the film doesn’t rely on this knowledge for its story and thus will have a stronger legacy.

That being said, even if it is stuck in the present, all cylinders are firing on this film, even if it's only because I know how the car works. I think it can still run without it, just like starting a car is a simple turn of the key or press of a button, I don’t need to understand how the engine works, but it helps. Ryan and Hugh have completely brought to life Deadpool and Wolverine as they were always intended to be, you’d think they were born to play the roles. I think that here and now, we can call this film a complete creative success, and that is truly set in stone, but I am subtracting a few points in my own cannon simply because I believe films should also preserve their point within the runtime of that single film's arc. They should be able to stand on their own, speaking the human condition without the baggage of complete cultural knowledge. A great film is both universal and timeless. But I can still love a good film. And maybe that’s enough. It's clear that the success of this creative endeavor is shared by the entire team, from the director, the actors, the writers, the camera operators, all the way down to the lowly grips. Maybe that will be clear to new people watching this film in 50 years. Maybe that will ring true across all the baggage, across all the jokes, across all of time. A collective creative success.

****SPOILERS****

The greatest spoiler is that I won’t burden you with any spoilers at all! No, no, I jest. But with a kernel of truth. This film has a never ending slew of celebrity cameos, all playing a few one off jokes, but ultimately, they aren’t really worth talking about in a review because they have very little consequence. The Marvel Universe usually has cameos for the purpose of creating branching paths, but that doesn’t really happen in Deadpool. Not really. It's like an Easter egg hunt where there are hundreds of eggs of all different sizes and colors and it's hard to really tell them apart or make any one of them more important than the other.

So let me share my favorite eggs with you. I really enjoyed the post credit sequence, making the final case for the creative passion that went into Fox's cinematic universe over the years. I really enjoyed seeing Wesley Snipes’ Blade turn the corner and make possibly his last appearance as Blade, with all the original swagger. The riff on Gambit’s accent was fun, and Channing Tattum really hit the mark, but still made you wonder if Gambit really ever stood a chance on the big screen. And finally, seeing most of the original X-Men and X-Men First Class series villains. I think the biggest loss was not seeing Nighcrawler or Mystique. But you can only do so much, and the film acknowledges that. So there we go. Remember to plug yourself like daddy Deadpool likes and thanks for reading!

#Film #Review #Deadpool #Wolverine #Deadpool and Wolverine #Deadpool & Wolverine #Ryan Reynolds #Hugh Jackman #X men #Marvel #MCU

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vanserraseris · 4 years ago

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END OF PART VI - Lucien learned how to fish from his brother, idk, no one can convince me otherwise. Just a warning that there are mentions of abuse and it is also implied. The next few parts are a little shorter, so hopefully they’ll be edited a little faster. I hope you enjoy it!!!

ahhhh so excited legoo!

Prince of Ashes. Part VI.

masterlist.

“I don’t like this,” Lucien mumbled as he stared into the waters of the river.

Rufus kicked water at him.

“I don’t like you,” Lucien grumbled as he made to splash back, his hand in midair when Eris growled at them.

Rufus kicked water at Eris.

Eris closed his eyes, standing straight, droplets of water dripped along his face and back into the river. He let out a long-suffering sigh. Lucien’s laugh could be heard above the sound of the water.

“I’ll remind the both of you that I was not the one that suggested we spend our day doing this.” Eris made a vague hand gesture in front of him. He opened his eyes and raised a wet, auburn brow at Rufus. Rufus waved a hand dismissively, something he seemed to have picked up from Eris. How annoying, Eris thought, and considered that perhaps he should wave people off less often.

“You’ve been holed away in that study of yours for far too long, it can’t be healthy. Touch some grass, Eris, smell some roses. I’m sure it will do you much good.”

Lucien smiled, his shoulder length hair tied back messily with a strap of leather, “Why don't we make it a game, then, that should make this exciting.” Now that Lucien had grown a bit, he looked a lot like Rufus. Eris supposed that meant Lucien looked like him as well, but there were more similarities to the two youngest brothers.

Both of them had easy grins and playful, russett eyes. The only small differences were their noses and the fact that Lucien’s skin was a light brown in comparison to the pale skin of the rest of his brothers. Eris couldn’t help but think they were all very fucking lucky that Lucien had the blood-red hair they’d all gotten from their mother. Sometimes, Eris wondered where in the fuck the Lady of Autumn had managed to find a secret lover from another court, but he wasn’t too keen on asking her.

“Hope you’re ready to lose, fox,” Rufus bared his teeth at Lucien, “Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you’re little.”

Lucien stuck out his tongue. “First one to catch a fish wins,” he said, getting into position.

Eris smiled, something that was becoming quite rare, bending over with his hands hanging loosely in the water, “Prepare to learn from the best, I’m sure the couple centuries I have on you both should give me an advantage.”

“Doubtful,” Rufus snapped, “You’re shit at this kind of thing.”

Not true, Eris thought, but didn’t bother responding. Eris had been the one to teach Rufus how to do this in the first place, having learned from Micah and Widge from his time in the war camps. Eris was pretty sure that as princes, he and his brothers were very much above wading around in rivers trying to catch fish, but it was nice to get outside.

“Are you sure there are fish in this river?” Lucien muttered.

“There are fish in every river,” Rufus replied, moving closer to their youngest brother.

Eris was no longer paying attention to the water, he merely glanced up to look at Lucien. Lucien was biting his lip, a look of determination on his face as he stared intently into the running water. Eris guessed that Lucien could probably do anything he set his mind to with that kind of perseverance.

Eris had been spending less and less time at the Forest House, not just because of his father’s many orders, but because he felt as though the less attention he gave Lucien, Beron did the same. Lucien didn’t really understand why Eris was avoiding him, but at least he still had Rufus. Eris hated to admit that he missed the little runt, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was missing out on Lucien’s life.

Cato had just been born when Eris was sent to the war camps that bordered the Autumn Court, Owain had been born right before the War, and Maddox right after it. Eris had been busy then. Worst was when Priam was born and Eris had been dutifully kicked out of The Forest House to rule over a territory far away from the capital city of Calchas. Not being there for his brothers was one of the few things he’d regretted when he’d been younger, but he didn’t spend too much time dwelling on that now.

He had been around much more for Rufus. His mother had had a difficult pregnancy and Eris had worried for her. He’d worried even more when Rufus was born such a small and sickly thing, but that had only meant that Beron paid him no mind. It was evident in the way Rufus acted, in his mannerisms and the patterns of his speech, that Eris had been a big part of his brother’s life. Eris supposed they differed a lot in personality, but he didn’t mind.

He’d rather Rufus be wild and playful than whatever the hells had happened to him.

“Ha,” Rufus said, amusement glittering in his eyes, “Found one.”

With a small yelp, Lucien crashed into the waters.

“Cauldron, Rufus,” Eris snarled. Rufus had wrapped a hand around Lucien’s ankle, holding him so that he dangled upside down, water dripping into the river from Lucien’s soaked clothes and hair.

Lucien made a funny gasping sound, his mouth gaping as he sputtered water. Eris didn’t know why he had panicked so irrationally, he knew very well that nothing dangerous lurked in these rivers. Eris stood to his full height and watched as Rufus lifted Lucien so that they were almost facing each other.

“The rare fox fish, quite the catch, brothers,” Rufus grinned, “I’m sure Old Sae will be thrilled with this remarkable find.”

“Eris,” his youngest brother whined, and Eris sighed, reaching for Lucien.

“Honestly, Rufus,” he tried to send a reprimanding look to him, but Rufus just shrugged, a smile still gracing his face. Rufus liked this sort of thing - tricks and riddles and jokes. Lucien liked it as well, just when he wasn’t the one the tricks and jokes were directed at. Lucien wrapped his arms around Eris’s neck, leaning his head on Eris’s shoulder like he had done when he was much younger.

Eris could hardly believe that Lucien was already a decade old. Eris held onto Lucien with one hand, fixing the cuff of his pants so that it covered the gold tattoo on his ankle. His father still didn’t know he’d gotten one, probably would have cut off his foot if he ever found out, but it served as a reminder to Eris that Beron didn’t own him.

“That’s why Eris is my favourite,” Lucien mumbled as Eris straightened.

Eris couldn’t help the triumphant smile he flashed in Rufus’s direction. Rufus scowled, “You hardly ever see Eris! He’s always gone, and you constantly come crying to me when father makes you upset, and Eris is your favourite?”

“Yes.”

Eris spoke before they started arguing, something they had begun doing a lot. “I think we’re done enough fishing for today.” Eris took the leather strap out of Lucien’s hair and handed it to Rufus, warming his hands with some of his magic and raking his fingers through the wet strands of his brother’s damp hair. “I should be getting back.”

“Mother’s tits, next time you want something, Lucien, I’m going to tell you to bother Eris with it.” Rufus was smiling as he ruffled Lucien’s hair, so Eris guessed Rufus might not have been telling the truth. “If you can find him, that is.”

“You never come home anymore.” Lucien observed, leaning back in Eris’s arms as he gently moved the hair that had fallen into Eris’s face. Eris frowned, thinking how Lucien’s softness was going to get him into a whole lot of trouble in a few years time.

“He’s gotten tired of us,” Rufus flicked water from his wet hands at Lucien. While Eris was pretty sure Rufus had meant that as a joke, he couldn’t help feeling as though perhaps Rufus was hiding some truth in his statement, some complaint he had of his oldest brother.

Lucien looked to Rufus, scrunching his nose in annoyance, “I’m tired of you.”

Rufus snorted, “I sincerely doubt that.”

“I’m not tired of you,” Eris felt like he needed to reassure them both, “I’ve just been busy.”

Rufus seemed to recognize that Eris hadn’t liked what he’d said, so he threw his arm over Eris’s shoulders as they continued to walk along the cobblestone path. “I know, I know, you think we’re great fun.” Rufus grinned, “It’s everyone else you’re tired of.” Just as they walked up the stone steps of The Forest House, Owain threw open the large, carved doors. Eris wondered if he’d been sitting there the whole time, waiting for their return.

The guards stationed there didn’t flinch at the loud bang the doors made as they hit the walls. “Where the hells have you been?” He snarled, his teeth bared. The jewels in the hilt of his large sword glinted in the light of the setting sun.

“Watch your tone, Owain, I’m not in the mood,” Eris snapped.

Owain stood in front of Eris so that he couldn’t walk any further, his broad hand grabbing Eris’s shoulder roughly. “Father has returned from his trip to Spring a little early and he’s looking for you.”

“He’s not due back until next week.” Eris thought that he would have been able to spend time with Rufus and Lucien, and Beron wouldn’t have even gotten word that he’d been neglecting some of his duties for it.

“Well, there’s been a change of plans, and now he’s fucking pissed.” Owain ran his fingers through his short, messy hair, “He already beat Cato bloody, said it was for letting you leave the house when you have a million things to do.” Owain shook his head, “I told father I’d send you to him once you’d returned. Head to the throne room - immediately.”

Eris was debating whether he should ask Owain where their mother was when Lucien was wrenched from his arms.

“Fucking hurry,” Owain spat, holding Lucien a bit awkwardly.

Lucien shifted in Owain’s arms so that he was facing his oldest brother, “Eris, you said you’d read me a story, you promised.” Eris frowned. He’d gotten very good at breaking his promises lately.

“I’ll read you a story,” Rufus finally spoke, saving Eris from having to respond, “Maybe we can get Owain to join us, too.”

Eris didn’t think Owain had ever read to a child, but he couldn’t help but feel grateful to Owain as he shot Lucien a small smile before he said, “I suppose I could join you for a bit.” The tone of his voice was much softer than what Eris was used to hearing from him. As captain of the Royal Guard, Owain usually sounded like he was giving an order, snappish and abrupt.

Eris remembered a time when Owain was all smiles, and he often wondered what Owain would have become had Beron not been their father. “I’ll read to you another time.” Eris tugged once on a strand of Lucien’s hair, “Goodnight, fox.” Lucien’s russett eyes were wide as he looked at Eris, tears threatening to fall from them. With one last look at Rufus, who wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping the fear he so obviously felt off his face, Eris jogged down the hall towards the throne room.

He would have to stop spoiling Lucien, Eris thought. He was making things worse than they had to be. By the time Eris finally made it to the doors of the throne room, he’d decided that he’d be spending even less time with Lucien, since that was what it meant to protect him. Eris took a deep breath, running a hand through his unbound hair. Eris regretted that he hadn’t thought to bring his boots when they’d gone fishing, and he muttered a low curse as he stared at his bare feet.

He felt a bit ridiculous, but there was no point in stalling, so Eris took another deep breath before he pushed the doors to the throne room open. Beron was already standing, the Lady of Autumn behind him and off to the side. She was gripping the skirts of her dress so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

“How many times do I have to tell you, boy,” Beron growled, his voice thick with rage. “How many fucking times?”

The ash-tipped whip in his father’s hand was familiar and Eris nearly flinched just looking at it. Beron shook his head when Eris didn’t respond, “Insolent,” he snarled. “The disrespect you show your High Lord cannot go unpunished, you understand that?”

Eris watched as his mother took one small step forward.

Eris widened his eyes in silent warning, but she spoke despite it. “Beron—”

“Be quiet,” his father hissed. “I don’t want to hear your voice.” Addressing Eris, Beron asked, “Where were you?”

Despite being quite a bit taller than the High Lord of the Autumn Court, Eris usually felt very small in his presence. Eris lifted his chin, “Out.” He often found he sounded very young when his father questioned him - like a defiant child. Beron looked closely at his eldest son, eyes stopping on Eris’s bare feet.

“5 for disobedience and 5 because you should have known better.” It could have been so much worse, and Eris knew he should have been counting his blessings for such a simple punishment, counting his blessings that Rufus and Lucien weren’t there in his place, but he couldn’t help the feeling of hate that swelled in his chest.

“Beron, please,” his mother begged. Eris didn’t know why she bothered, at this point, Eris’s back was so scarred it hardly mattered.

Beron turned to face her, flames in his eyes as the temperature in the room raised. “Speak again, and I’ll add another five.”

Since Eris could remember, Beron had always been a High Lord before a father. As Eris undid the laces of his shirt, he vowed that he would be a father before a High Lord if he lived long enough to do both.

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just-jordie-things · 5 years ago

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Unspoken Thing - JJ Maybank

word count: 2671 warnings: swearing summary: JJ and (y/n) have been in love since they were kids, yet never acted on their feelings. But as they get older jealousy starts to seep into their ��perfect’ friendship request: @sarcastic-space-weirdo: oooh can i please have jealous y/n thinking jj likes kiara and not her (she's oNe Of tHE bOyZz of course way more than kiara) but it was actually his intention just to divert(??)from the fact that he actually REAAAALLLY likes ₕᵤₕ ₕᵤₘ ₗₒᵥₑₛ y/n and doesn't want her to know or he's just dumb and a simp and doesn't know how to deal with his feelings?? so he frEAKING AVOIDS THE GIRL CAUSE IT'S TOO FREAKING MUCH AND MY BOY DOESN'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING ᵢₜ'ₛ ₗₒᵥₑ (also pls some angsty people crying) (a/n): its not as angsty as it could have been but it’s still there lol ___

It wasn’t really a secret that (y/n) had a thing for JJ. From day one it had been fairly obvious, to the Pogues and most of the island, really.

The pair had been inseparable since they’d met in grade school. She’d met him their first day of kindergarden. Some Kook kid was picking on him, and she thought it was mean.

So she’d marched up to the kid and smacked him on top of the head, before telling him to back off. And just like that, her and JJ were attached at the hip.

They were fiercely protective of each other, so much so that all common sense went out the window when one of them was in any trouble. But that’s how it always was.

Sometime in high school things changed. (y/n) couldn’t quite pinpoint when it was, she just remembered that one day they were best friends who surfed together and smoked together, and the next they were best friends who shared a bed most nights and some of those nights she’d wake up and be in his arms.

Over time, they both became more affectionate. Casual touches began to linger, normal nicknames turned flirty, and eventually neither of them could sleep well if they weren’t together.

(y/n) was certain that JJ didn’t know when things changed either, but it never really mattered. There was always an unspoken understanding that there was something more than friendship between them. They weren’t in a relationship, he wasn’t her boyfriend, but there was still something there.

Clearly, she should have clarified what they were before blindly assuming that he felt the same unspoken thing she did.

Because it really sucked to see him flirt with Kiara.

John B’s arm nudged into her ribcage, drawing her out of her thoughts and back to reality.

The Pogues had gone down to the beach to hang out. The tides weren’t great today so surfing was pretty much out of the question, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t picnic and smoke still.

Kiara had been wading around in the water, admiring the little fish and the shells she’d find, and JJ had all-too-excitedly followed her to help.

(y/n) hadn’t cared- of course she didn’t care, they were friends, and she was not the jealous type. Jealousy could get toxic, and JJ wasn’t hers in the first place, so there were no grounds for her to be upset.

John B still noticed.

“What?” She asked, turning to look at him.

She wasn’t as appreciative of his knowing look as he thought she’d be.

“What, John B?” She asked, slightly annoyed.

His eyes wandered out to where JJ and Kiara were standing, a bit too close. Just a bit.

(y/n) followed his line of sight, but quickly shut her mouth and stared back down at her feet.

Her and John B had been lying around, soaking up the sun and just enjoying the silence between them. But now he’d gone and ruined the good vibe.

“Come on, (y/n/n)” He said, nudging her ribs again.

She swatted his hand away.

“I don’t know what your problem is” She mumbled, pretending to be oblivious.

John B rolled his eyes.

He’d been friends with both (y/n) and JJ for a long time now, almost as long as they’d been friends with each other. So he knew well enough how stubborn the pair were when it came to admitting their feelings.

“Why don’t you guys just call it what it is?” He asked, but (y/n) didn’t respond. She just sat and stared at her lap. “You both obviously don’t want to see other people-”

“Obvious, huh?” She retorted, glancing back at where JJ and Kiara were laughing and kicking water at each other.

Cute.

(y/n) grimaced.

She turned back at John B, a helpless look in her eyes. He frowned at her.

“You know JJ doesn’t like Kie-”

“Do I? Do I know that?” She asked. She wasn’t trying to annoy him, but she was just so frustrated with herself that she ended up taking it out on him. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it sucks. Cause I- I just thought…”

She trailed off, not wanting to admit what she thought to him. It was embarrassing, thinking someone was all yours when in reality that wasn’t true at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” She mumbled. “He’s not mine, and I’m not his”

John B’s frown deepened, and he slid a little closer to her. She looked back at him, a bit confused, but when he held his hand out to her, she melted, and gave in.

She took his hand and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes so that she didn’t have to watch Kiara and JJ having a blast.

“He’s just being stupid,” John B reassured quietly. “He doesn’t even know it, that’s how stupid he is”

(y/n) giggled, squeezing his hand gently.

“He is pretty stupid, huh?” She mumbled back.

“Very much so. But you know how much he cares about you, it’s clear that he’s, yaknow, in love with you,”

She didn’t say anything, but John B knew that she understood him.

“He doesn’t know how to say it, that’s all. JJ’s not good with his words, you know that”

“Yeah, I know” (y/n) whispered, starting to feel tired from being in the sun all day and now half-laying on John B.

“You better know, you’re the one who trained him” John B teased.

She laughed, properly now, lifting her head to smack him gently in the chest. He hit her back, starting a small fight, before eventually she gave in and surrendered.

It was getting late in the day, and with all the pining and the heat, she was just ready to go back to the Chateau, have a big meal, and then pass out on the sofa. That way she wouldn’t have to wake up to JJ crawling into bed with her. She’s not sure she can spend the night with him tonight.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” She said with a small yawn. “I bet Pope’s made something for dinner and I wanna get back before it’s cold”

“Alright,” John B said, watching her stand up and grab her towel and backpack. “Would you rather go to The Wreck?” He asked as an afterthought.

“Right now?” She asked him, following his eyes as he stood up with her.

“Sure, we can get some food and then head home” He shrugged.

“Aright” (y/n) shrugged back.

She liked calling John B’s place home, because that’s what it was. Since his Uncle T pretty much moved out, it’s just been him, her and JJ, and it’s been great. She hated staying at home where her parents were always preoccupied with anything that wasn’t her, and JJ would probably never stay at home again, so it was perfect.

Her and John B left the beach together, deciding to just walk into town so they could talk more. It wasn’t often that they got one on one time, and he was probably her best friend, so it was nice.

Plus, she hadn’t been able to talk about her feelings for JJ this much before, and he really helped her figure out what to do about their little situation.

There were some tears, some laughter, as she tried her best to explain what she’d been feeling, but John B was there to hug her tight and remind her that her feelings for JJ were definitely reciprocated, even if he was a dumbass sometimes.

Maybe some of his advice was… boy-ish, but it was advice nonetheless. And she didn’t get it anywhere else. ___

When JJ went back to the Chateau, he couldn’t deny that a small part of him was pretty fucking pissed off with John B.

Alright, it was a large part of him. He was just about fuming when he went inside, ready to fight his best friend if he had to. He didn’t want to, but he felt he was left with no other choice after the stunt he’d pulled.

What he found when he barged into the house instead, was (y/n).

She was curled up on the sofa, in her bikini and one of JJ’s shirts she’d stolen so long ago it was pretty much hers now. If he asked her about it, she probably wouldn’t even remember that it was his first.

The sight made him soften for a moment, and for a moment, he completely forgot about his anger. She looked so peaceful, like a little armadillo, it made him smile.

He wandered into the living room to grab one of John B’s throw blankets, so that she’d keep warm as she napped. But as soon as he’d grabbed the blanket, John B himself came into the room, and JJ’s anger came back again.

“You son of a bitch-!” He yelled, but was just as quickly shushed by John B, who pointed at (y/n’s) sleeping self.

“Let’s go outside” John B said, already walking out to the porch, JJ right on his heel.

As soon as the door opened, he was yelling again.

“You knew I liked her, you knew I-”

“Hold on-” John B put a hand up, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about dude?”

“(y/n), obviously!” JJ said, smacking John B upside the head.

“Hey-”

“What the fuck were you thinking? Flirting with her like that-”

“Okay, jesus, calm down,” John B groaned. “I wasn’t flirting with her, for one, we were hanging out, because we’re friends. And secondly, you were off all day with Kiara!”

JJ frowned at the accusation, even though it was a fair one.

“And if you had even an ounce of common sense, you would have realized how upset you made (y/n) today, but how could you notice when you were the one flirting with another girl?”

That hit him hard, he didn’t even know what to say.

But all of the jealousy fades away when he realizes what John B was telling him. He’d made her jealous today, while he was trying to avoid his feelings all together.

“So what were you thinking?” John B asked. “You know she’s in love with you man, and I know you love her too, so why would you-”

“I didn’t know what to do,” JJ answered lamely, before John B could even finish. “I know that we’re something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know what to do about it and… and I thought maybe it’d just be best if she didn’t like me anymore…”

“What the fuck?”

Both boys jumped, not having heard (y/n) approach, but there she was on the other side of the screen door. She’d wrapped the blanket JJ had dropped on her around her shoulders, and she was staring at the blonde boy with a hurt expression.

John B cringed, opening the door to let her out on the porch, but she stayed on the doorstep.

“Why would you think that?” She murmured.

“I…” JJ opened his mouth to speak, but no real words came out. He ended up gaping like a fish out of water.

“I’m gonna give you guys some space” John B said, quickly sliding past (y/n) in an attempt to get out of the awkward moment as fast as possible.

(y/n) stepped outside, shutting the door behind her as she stared at JJ.

“I can’t do this anymore,” She admitted before she could chicken out. “I can’t do this whole ‘what are we’ game anymore, I didn’t care before but- but I do now,” Her eyes meet his, on the verge of tears in fear that he’s going to end this before it could even begin. “And I guess how you really feel about me,”

She blinks the tears out of her eyes as best as she can, her hands holding tighter to the blanket around her, and she hopes- no- prays that he doesn’t end it.

“What are we, JJ?” She whispers out.

He looks at her, really looks at her, and he feels heartbroken, because she looks heartbroken. It hits him how badly he fucked up today, and how he really let her down. But this is his chance to fix it, and finally decide what they meant to each other.

And he took that chance.

He stepped forward, closing the space between them and taking her face in his hands.

Her eyes blow wide as she looks up at him, surprised by the action. It had been years of playing this game, of dancing this dance, and finally, he’d made a move.

“You’re mine” He said softly, surely. It was the one fact they’d both known their whole lives.

She smiled back at him, before leaning up on the tips of her toes to meet him halfway in a sweet kiss.

His lips were warm, and chapped, but soft, and everything she’d always expected them to feel like. It hardly felt like a first kiss, it felt like she’d been kissing him all this time.

And she sure wished she had been, because damn she was missing out.

As she wrapped her arms around his neck, the blanket she’d been wearing like a cape fell from her shoulders, landing in a pile on the porch.

They were oblivious to their friends in the window, gawking at them, and exchanging money from bets they’d made years ago.

When they parted, JJ caught sight of them, but with a quick glare and a shooing motion, they were out of sight.

(y/n) turned to see what he’d been looking at, but his hands reached for her waist, bringing her attention back to him as soon as his hands met her bare skin.

She grinned at him, hands sliding around his neck before smoothing over his shoulders.

“No more flirting with John B, alright?” He asked, and (y/n) chuckled.

“I don’t recall ever flirting with John B,” She told him. “I do recall you ditching me all day…”

She was only messing with him, but the smirk on her face was intoxicating.

“Make a deal with me?” He asked, holding his hand out towards her.

She grinned back at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Not ignore what’s between us anymore?” He asked, quietly, like he was nervous, but it made her smile even wider, and placed her hand in his.

“Deal, Maybank,” She murmured, before grabbing her blanket from the ground. “Now come on, I’m tired, let’s go to bed”

Like a dog, he beamed as he followed close behind her into the Chateau.

“Bed huh?” He asked, a little too eager.

“Calm down, blondie,” (y/n) giggled as he excitedly shut the guest room door behind them. “I’m exhausted, we’re going to sleep”

She crawled into bed, not caring that she hadn’t changed into pajamas. It had been a long day, and she wanted nothing more than to doze off in his arms.

“That’s fine, I love sleeping,” JJ replied, following her into bed, and quickly hastily pulling her into his arms. She giggled again as he caged her in tightly against his chest. “Sleeping is the best, it’s one of my favorite things to do-”

“Alright, hon, I get it” She said, wiggling out of his firm clutch to rest more comfortably.

Her head rested against his chest as her arms wound around his torso. JJ let his hands wander a little further down her back than usual, but no one was complaining.

“You wanna go on a date tomorrow?” He mumbled into her hair, already feeling tired just from her holding him.

Her hand fisted into the material of the back of his tee shirt as she nodded.

“Where d’you wanna go?”

“I dunno. The Wreck?”

“Hm,” She hummed. “Or we can just go smoke on the beach”

“Fuck, I’m so in love with you, you’re my dream girl”

___

xoxo ~ jordie

#outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank scenario #jj maybank fanfiction

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blushing-starker · 4 years ago

Text

For my Gracie dear. What would I do without you in my life? Merry Christmas darling. @vaguekiwi

"Well, you wouldn't really be in this position if you had accepted my proposal, baby cheeks. In fact, I'm practically drooling over the thought of you saying fuck it and coming to visit with a few surprises beneath that second skin you're rocking." Two sentences, two very different tones of voice, both trying to coax him in. Reprimand and flirt, the only possible courses of action for Wade when it came to them.

"So I guess it's true what they say; chivalry died when you were born, Wade. Every single conversation between us is proof and the world knows it." He grinned as soon as he heard the exaggerated gasps over the landline, always loved these tennis matches with his partner in crime.

Sure, the 'red devil' of Cliffwood often threaded barely subtle, often outlandish innuendos into their interactions and never denied the neighborhood a chance of seeing him draped over Peter, but it was, God forgive him, fun. Exciting and a little thrilling.

And also past their bedtime. So to speak. "I gotta go and I know Wanda likes to cook late. Go help her in the kitchen, Mr Gifted Hands. Vision might give me an A in the next exam if I told him I encouraged you to make his favorite lasagna." It won't happen, obviously. The Maximoffs, because Vision had adopted the name on his second date with Wanda long before their wedding, were usually chaotic neutrals that tried sticking to the right side of the law. Hopefully, Mr Maximoffs' morality would at least allow the man to add a five point bonus on Peter's next physics test.

"Oh, you finally admit my hands are gifted, Mr Parker? How forward of you." If there was one thing that he loved about being friends with the incorrigible Wade Wilson, it was how the man oozed sex like it was nothing. His surety in it, in flirting, in courting and joking made Peter feel at ease. Most people, even those like Mr Rogers with his slightly conservative views, enjoyed Wade's antics because they were harmless.

Most of the time. The guy had slept with two thirds of the town, after all.

"I'm not sleeping with you, Wade. What would Vanessa say of-"

"Please, the woman basically throws me at people in the hopes of watching me sleep with them."

"you being with me before her?"

"..."

Peter squinted at a shiny red nail, worried he'd somehow messed up Morgan's job of decorating him in the Christmas spirit. The lamp next to the couch is a tad dimmer than usual, right, he has to swap the bulbs. He'd completely forgotten in the midst of playing with Morgan and Rocky, baking them brownies, battling the upstairs shower mold, decluttering the toy boxes and throwing something semi appealing for dinner. There was a spare light in the, was it the garage? No, his memory had been reduced to physics laws and the kids' allergies, but Peter's sure he would have noticed. Maybe Morgan had hidden them in the office, Rocky liked chewing on light bulbs so it's not too unlikely

"Shit, Parker, now I'm thinking about that, Jesus. Christ on a bicycle! Hmm? It's nothing, Wanda, just Peter being a brat and a tease."

"Hey, I'm not a brat!"

"Says you. I bet a certain member of the awesome facial hair club could evidence the opposite. Actually, I'll go right over and ask, hey!" The sound of Wade distinctly face planting onto the Maximoffs couch sent Peter into enough hysterics he could barely make out what Wanda was saying.

"I sincerely apologize for the little devil-"

"I'm almost two heads taller than you!"

"that can't seem to mind his manners no matter how many times we try to teach him how to be human."

"It's," God, he's wheezing like a freshman first day of gym with Coulson, "perfectly alright, Miss. I'm the one that should say sorry for keeping him up so late, I know he has chores to do around the house. Lovely Christmas lights, by the way. I think you guys might win the competition again this year."

There's a tiny worm of guilt crawling up his throat; how could he distract Wade when Wanda had her hands full with an energetic baby ready to sprint out of the house at any moment?

"Oh sweet Peter," she drawls out the vowels, like they're honey and she's trying her best to stretch them out, savour them, "you really think so? I thought the yard looked perfect, but Vision insisted on decorating the roof to 'ensure our win against my dear brother in law'. And please, a happy Wade that's finished his teasing for the day is wonderful for us. He cleans faster and doesn't kiss my cheeks as much."

"Wait, you did the roof?" He knew the Maximoff siblings were intense, had witnessed Pietro stabbing flamingos into Clint's lawn just to add some color to his already bright remodeling a weeks ago.

"You haven't seen it? Tell Morguna's father to take you outside to see it while the kids are watching television. That way you can go back with an excuse if you get too nervous with him."

Peter spluttered, ignored the fact his cheeks were flaming, pretended he couldn't hear Wade's howling through the phone. "I don't, I wouldn't, it's not like, I mean. The, the kids will probably sleep early tonight."

"Perfect, you won't have an excuse and he'll finally kiss you. Oh, Vision. Hello, dear, I'm saying goodbye to Peter. That idiot might kiss him tonight."

"Hello? Hello, Peter. I'm very happy for you both; but may I request you kiss after midnight? I'm afraid I made a substantial bet regarding that kiss and was hoping to get Clint back over Banner and Natasha."

Great, he'd died and entered a hell where the only thing he could do was stutter and flush crimson. Typical Parker luck, really.

"SurebyeMrandMrsMaximofflaterWade."

He slammed the phone back on its pedestal, dove into the leather couch and screamed until his throat ached.

--------

"Daddy? Peter, daddy's here! Don't let him go to our room until we're done with the Christmas card, please!" He yanked his head from under the cushions, scrambled to the door, tripped over Morgan's race car, narrowly avoided the destruction of Rocky's Lego chop shop, hastily stashed a pink apron in the drawers by the door, failed to straighten his sweater (a gift from the kids' grandmother) and took all of ten seconds to fix his hair before opening the door. In the exact moment the owner of the house leaned against it to enter.

There's a second where realization kicked in, worry is splashed over both their faces, he darted forward to help so the man's heart didn't shut down on them right then, said man wanted to preserve such a young, healthy body; they tried to control the damage.

They failed. Spectacularly. Crashed into each other, somehow elbows and knees sunk into bad spots, bone snapped, ligaments wept in pain, a chest became winded, one of them got a black eye and the other a constricted throat. This was, of course, before it started raining and two idiots got drenched while piled up on the front door.

Peter gasped, wasn't sure whether it was better to lie under his dream, his wet fantasy, his goal in life or allow his brain some oxygen.

To be fair, this would only happen the once. He could breathe for the rest of his lonely life.

"Uh, welcome home, Mr Stark. How was work to, today, sir, that's not my thigh." Wade would know. Jesus, Wade would find out Mr Stark touched his dick for the first time and it wasn't even on purpose.

"Kid, I'm so sorry. Here I was wondering if I could give you your Christmas gift without ruining the box and now look at me. Peter, you don't have to come back to work if you don't want to-"

"Wait, you got me a gift, Mr Stark?"

"I will pay you for this whole month, obviously." The man shuffled back, attempted to shakily stand up like a foal and immediately slid down onto the sleek young man.

"Not come back to? Mr, ow, Tony, I'm not going anywhere. Not on Christmas, not ever. Look at me." Don't look at what's between my legs, Peter prayed, don't look at how you are between my legs, don't look.

Tony Stark glanced down, inhaled sharply and snapped his gaze to the au pair's. He may have leaned against what he hoped was his Christmas gift. Maybe.

"I'm not leaving, Mr Stark." The rain kept drizzling into the house, his throat continued to ache, the distance between their two bodies remained the same. But there was something in Mr Stark's eyes now, yes indeed, something Peter had resolutely ignored for the past six months while working with the sweetest family he'd ever known. It was the same something Wade yelled about when talking about his best friend's employer's face as it regarded the au pair.

"I think Wade might kill me if -"

"Rhode's is gonna choke me out if-"

"Are you two gonna kiss or not?"

They risked whiplash to peer right at, or, in Peter's position, upside down at Morgan and Rocky who unflinchingly stared at the ridiculous site their fathers made. Rocky even shook his head the way Tony did when he was disappointed. Little Morgan criss crossed her arms and Peter thought he'd sob because that's just how he taught her.

"We were going to put mistletoe on the door when you came in; we finished the holiday card months ago so that was the one thing left on the to do list."

"Months ago? I helped you two make one last week!"

"Oh yeah, how were you going to hang up mistletoe, daughter mine? There's no nail." A soft thwump over the doorway. It seemed Clint had given Morgan her own bow. And she knew how to use it.

They collected their courage, scraps of reduced pride, some drool and a tiny drop of sweat before turning to the man they'd been waiting for for so long.

"Mr Parker, will you do me the honor of bestowing a kiss upon an old man with creaking bones and heating hair?"

Oh. Oh, this was happening.

"I love your hair and I'll get you a walker that has a cup holder for water and a few pain pills. Mr Stark, will you kiss a kid from Queens who's so into you the red devil of Cliffwood himself doesn't dare sleep with either of us and get in the way?"

"Well, first of all. A walker, really, am I that old. Second, nice call on the pain pills, very good save on the hair. And please. He'd never get in the way of us two-"

"Great, are you gonna kiss me?"

"Why, Mr Parker. Don't mind if I do." It was a soft statement he would otherwise confuse as a plea.

"Fucking finally." That was a bit more of a pained gasp instead of a sigh of relief, but Morgan and Rocky were doing enough sighing for the both of them afterwards.

Afterwards though, when the blood is finally distributed to the right places

"Yeah, I think I broke my wrist and you should get that throat checked. I'll get the car."

"Tony, it's the fifties. I can get the car while you call Bucky to look over the kids. Anyone talks to me and they'll think you had something to do with my throat."

"That is a fantastic idea, sweetheart. Save it for later, maybe raincheck?"

"Get the car, Tony."

"Yep. Come on, you rascals. Help an old man out."

----------

Wade can't look at Tony without howling, mutters something about a limp wrist while Vanessa sighs and apologizes, compliments Peter on surviving life with a ridiculous best friend by his side. He says it's ok. Wade's his go to guy for whenever Peter has to get his head in the game and his lips on Tony's.

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unlockthelore · 4 years ago

Text

Reasons

While Jaken seeks his young lord in hopes of answers to his wandering, he finds himself berated with questions. From the series Affections Touching Across Time on AO3. For more updates, follow the affections touching across time tag on this blog.

A glorified nanny.

If anyone were to ask how Jaken sum up his position, it would be that. While he considered himself to be valuable to his illustrious lord and an asset in the formation of his empire — looking after the children his master sired was a lackluster use of his abilities.

Admittedly, his lord was an odd one.

Ever since his encounter with the human girl Rin, he’d been exhibiting strange behaviors toward beings he would normally disregard, going so far to marry a human, of all things, and to sire hanyō, which only added to his complexities.

Centuries before, his lord would have found such rabble unworthy of gracing the sole of his boots, but now they walked alongside him without a care in the world.

It was mind-boggling. Though Jaken had no desire to be clobbered or bludgeoned with a rock, so his opinions were kept and buried away. Jaken plodded along the winding dirt-trodden road patched with dewy grass, his grunts muffled by wet slapping footsteps as his feet sank into the soft and pulpy soil.

A small outline of a child’s foot caught his eye, and he sighed audibly. No matter how often he chided the children on proper attire, they refrained from wearing the footwear their father had tailored for them. It was a waste of his lord’s kindness, and there was so much they could hurt themselves with — gravel on the roads, shells left in the beach sands.

Blatant disregard for their well-being — he could hardly believe the flippancy.

Taking after their mother no doubt, he thought tiredly, staring up into the bright afternoon sky. Hopefully, she would return soon. With the rise in banditry and ne’er-do-wells, she was in even more danger away from those who could protect her. A worried groan vibrated in his throat as he shuffled beneath the boughs of a towering cedar, grateful for reprieve from the beaming sun.

The child’s footprints also stopped beneath it, somewhere near the roots where muddy footprints cooled then seemed to vanish.

Jaken wiped the sweat from his crown and leant against the tree — it’s bark, smooth and dry, was comfortable against his aching back. He felt as if he searched high and low for the young lord, but to no avail. Hours passing to where his presence was sorely missed. Neither his sisters nor his grandmother knew where he was, although Jaken highly doubted the latter. The Lady Mother seemed to take pleasure in his distress, and without A-Un to aid him in the search, he was forced to seek on foot. Leaving him with precious moments before his lord became aware of his son’s disappearance.

Jaken sighed raggedly, forlorn and defeated, sinking down to the grass with his legs stretched out before him.

Thankfully, Towa and Setsuna had outgrown their desire to make him fret with their games of hide and seek. They were nearing their twelfth spring and found better forms of entertainment than teasing him mercilessly.

Although, that wasn’t to say they didn’t do so when the mood struck them.

Mugen, barely past his fifth spring, enjoyed playing and exploring much like Rin when she was a child. Time and again, his play would come at the expense of Jaken’s well-being. Wandering off, climbing everything, getting into innocent mischief — the list was endless , let alone worrying, and Jaken’s half-hearted grievances to Rin concerning Mugen being her son often earned him a scathing glare from his lord accompanied by a knock over the head. Instinctively, Jaken rubbed the smooth curve of his scalp . The bushes amid the cedar copse and the meandering roads were barely used after rainfall due to the mud. Carts would be easily stuck, but a child on foot would find no end to their mirth.

The young lord could have been anywhere and with as many hiding places as there were — bushes, knotholes, nesting spots, dens — it would have been easy for him to become trapped if something were to go wrong.

“Oh…” Jaken crooned anxiously at the thought, grasping Nintōjō tightly as he hauled himself up, staggering forward on quivering legs. Surely, he hadn’t climbed one of the trees. What if he fell and broke his neck or worse?! If Mugen had injured himself, he would weep for days and Rin’s disappointment would never cease. She never showed apprehension with leaving her children in his care. But if one of them were to be injured due to his negligence —

Jaken shuddered at the thought of her kindly features shifting into contempt. Would she defend him from her husband’s wrath, or leave him to his fate? Wouldn’t he deserve it for allowing harm to come to their son?! No, Rin wasn’t cruel. She would surely spare him, but what if she were upset? Oh, it was too much to bear!

Concern sprang tears to Jaken’s bulbous eyes, glazing them over as he crowed loudly into the echoing woods. “Mugen-sama! Where did you go…?!”

His voice echoed off the trees with no reply. In his distress, he propped his staff against the tree to free his hands, settling the end of it between two large roots protruding from the ground.

It would be grating to his sensitive ears, but if he could find him, that was all that mattered. Taking a deep breath, Jaken’s lungs swelled, and he held his hands around his mouth to bellow. “Mugen-sa—!”

“Jaken?”

“Gah!” Jaken shrieked, jumping backward as leaves fell from overhead, his head knocking against the tree trunk. He groaned low at the throbbing pain, sinking down to sit in the grass while batting the falling leaves away.

Wait, hadn’t that been...?

Jaken scrambled to his feet with a squawk, head swiveling as he tried to find the source of the call. “M-Mugen-sama? Where are you!?”

“Up here, Jaken.”

“Huh?”

Jaken’s heart leapt into his throat as he tipped his head back. His eyes widened comically , beak falling open at the sight of his young lord hanging upside down from one of the thicker branches. Silvery-white locks hung in a thick veil, disheveled and burdened with leaves. A pair of small floppy ears perked up at attention as Jaken’s gaze met a pair of bright golden eyes in a familiar, yet younger and friendlier, face.

“M-Mugen-sama!” Jaken cried, wiping at his eyes furiously with his sleeve. He sniffed harshly, choosing to ignore the boy’s pinched expression. “Jump down to me, milord! It isn’t safe for you up there!”

Much like his mother, Mugen seemed to scrutinize his words with open conflict. His gaze flicking up and down Jaken’s small form as he studied him. He shook his head. “You’re little, Jaken. I’ll flatten you.”

“Watch your tone! You’re not so big yourself, and if anything happens to you, your father w— aah!”

Without warning, the boy dropped from the daunting height, and Jaken’s heart ceased beating. Leaves shaken loose showered Mugen’s form as he met the ground in a low crouch. The pelt around his shoulders flapped on the breeze, slowly falling as he rose to his feet, thankfully unharmed but confused as Jaken hurried to him. Immediately looking him over, Jaken lifted his arms and circled him a few times to ensure there weren’t any bruises or lasting damage.

“Be more careful!” Jaken shouted, trying to calm his racing heart with the breathing exercises the old priestess taught him.

Mugen pressed his lips together and scowled, his gaze cutting. “I am careful, Jaken,” he said petulantly.

Jaken sighed. Though he wanted to argue the point, there was little reason to do so now that he was safe. He ambled over to unearth Nintōjō from the tree roots, grumbling all the while. “Why do you continuously run off, milord? Your father will have my head if something happens to —” He turned around, blinking slowly when he saw the boy was no longer standing beneath the cedar but wading through a bush, his orange hair ribbon swaying behind him. “M-Mugen-sama!”

At the call of his name, Mugen seemed to slow his steps enough for Jaken to catch up to him, panting and gasping.

“Tou-chan wouldn’t kill you, Jaken,” Mugen voiced, soft and well-meaning in his naïvety.

“That you know of…” Jaken breathed a haggard sigh.

If only the children knew what a terrifying yōkai their father could be, he thought, and they would if they listened to his stories instead of wandering off through the woods constantly .

“Watch your head, Jaken.”

Before he could ask, a low-hanging branch Mugen pulled back as he stepped past came hurtling at his face. A loud thwack echoed as Jaken staggered backward with a pained yelp, holding his beak as it throbbed. He murmured curses inwardly. His face growing hot with indignation and embarrassment while his eyes watered. Humiliation was an acutely familiar sensation among his lordship’s family, but he hardly ever felt on the verge of shedding tears in front of his charge.

“I told you to watch your head,” a gentle voice reproached. Jaken barely had time to voice a reply when his arm was tugged to one side. Mugen’s golden eyes flicked across Jaken’s face to assess the extent of the damage. His lips pulled to one side, and he sank down to his knees, fumbling in a pouch tethered to the belt around his waist .

“Here.”

When he found what he’d been searching for, he turned his knuckles upright and opened his hand, a cream-colored rigged shell sitting in the middle of his palm. Jaken blinked owlishly as Mugen opened it, revealing a vivid reddish-orange gel set inside with an oddly smelling spice that sent a burning sensation running through his nose. Claws dipped into the gel and, coating it over the pads of his fingers, Mugen held his hand out to Jaken who recoiled. The boy’s brows furrowed, and his eyes narrowed.

“It will hurt worse if you don’t use this, Jaken.”

Jaken huffed, covering his beak defiantly. “Where did you get that from?”

“Aneue,” Mugen huffed, batting away Jaken’s hands much to his displeasure. The gel was smeared over his beak in slow circles, throbbing and stinging pain beginning to burn dully. Jaken squeaked, but Mugen glared at him pointedly, continuing to rub the ointment. “Kaa-chan and Kohaku-ojichan made it with Sango-obachan’s help. It helps heal yōkai so they don’t have to use their yōki.”

Jaken dared not tweak his beak until Mugen finished, mesmerized as the gel glistened on his skin before gradually sinking into it. His yōki had been flowing towards the wounded area to heal it, but now the energy was shifting about in his body restlessly , righting itself slowly now that it was no longer needed. A handy trick made by humans.

Curiously, Jaken rubbed his fingers over his beak, but could find no trace of heat from the wound. Only the spicy scent strong enough to make his eyes water remained. He swiped at his eyes a few times but to no avail, screeching as a cool stream of water fell over the top of his head.

“Wh-What?!” Jaken sputtered, batting away the steady flow of water as he stumbled backward. Wiping the water from his face with drenched sleeves, he glared disdainfully at Mugen capping his water skin. “What was that for?!”

Mugen glanced at him, brow raised with a slight furrow. “Be careful next time,” he said curtly, tethering the waterskin to his hip aside the pouch then turning away. His pelt flourished and draped around him as he started off again.

Jaken gaped at his back for a moment then screeched. “There wouldn’t be a next time if you would only listen to me, milord!”

“I am listening, Jaken,” Mugen said with nary a backward glance, flexing his claws beneath the drape of his pelt and cutting through a few low-hanging branches, as though it were a hot knife through butter. The ends of the branches, now severed and burning with poison, were carefully taken in hand and set aside away from the mounds and burrows beneath the trees. “Up this way.”

Jaken quickly recovered from his stupor and mumbled under his breath. Like father, like son, though at least the latter had the decency to tell him where he was headed. Jaken puttered around to recover his staff then hurried after Mugen, hastening to keep the fluttering orange ribbon in sight. Branches and brambles cleared from the path led them further through the cedar grove to a small strip of grassland set before a stone wall.

Scraggly grass grew beside weeds, indicating that, with the sheer amount of unkemptness, the path must have been unused. Jaken could barely feel the packed earth beneath his feet, and every step brought the quiet swish-swish of tall grass brushing along his arms and Mugen’s stomach. As Mugen walked closer to the wall, Jaken peered up at it, squinting in the afternoon sunlight. A cool breeze swept through the clearing, carrying with it the brackish scent of the ocean. Distant echoes of rushing water caught his attention, and realization dawned on him. They were close to the falls near the cliffside by the palace.

“Mugen-sama, what are y— ah!”

Facing forward, Jaken noticed Mugen was nowhere in sight once again. Where had he gone so quickly?! Barely able to handle the shock, Jaken didn’t notice the rock sailing through the air until it knocked his hat from his head.

“Up here, Jaken!”

Jaken fumbled to straighten his hat and gawked at the height of the wall. Standing atop it, a rock tossed up and down in hand, was Mugen.

“How am I to climb up there?!”

Mugen’s face settled into a hard stare as he leant forward. “You’re right, your claws are brittle.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Jaken yelled, flailing backward when the boy leapt down. His staff dropped, arms opening to steady him when he nearly fell to his knees. “Be careful..”

Golden eyes blinked at him with a quick scrutinizing look, a small smile bending the severe scowl on the boy’s face. “Hang on, Jaken,” he said, giving little time for Jaken to question the reason. Mugen scooped him up in his arms, much to Jaken’s surprise and confusion. The air, hissing and crackling with a snapping pop as the boy crouched down. Something was coming, and Jaken fidgeted, unsure and nervous. He’d seen his lord use his abilities before. Hair floating, suspending from his energy and his eyes flickering red. In Mugen’s case, what was red was gold and burned blindingly bright, as if someone lit the sun behind his irises. Jaken screamed as the pressure building in the air snapped loose, and they shot into the air with one leaping bound.

He clung to Mugen’s shoulders, claws buried in his pelt and face hidden against his shoulder as the air rushed around them. Gravity bent to propel them downward, and he could only imagine how they would meet the ground. A harsh screaming filled his ears, and it wasn’t until he was jostled a few times that he realized it was coming from himself. Blinking away the tears beading at the corners of his eyes, he looked around in confusion. Past the beaches and few islands surfaced from the oceans was the expanse of the sea laid out before them. Although the wall they’d stood before earlier was dilapidated, around it were low parapets with the distant forms of guardsmen patrolling their lengths.

“Can you walk from here?”

Jaken startled from his thoughts and noticed Mugen for the first time. The boy’s unblinking gaze, seeming utterly unfazed from the heights from which he leapt, was reticent of his father, and Jaken sighed raggedly. These children would be the end of him before long.

“I-I may need a moment…” He admitted, tucking his head against Mugen’s shoulder.

A low hum was the only answer he received, and when Jaken regained his ability to stand, Mugen set him down, leapt off the wall, and returned with Nintōjō in hand shortly thereafter. Jaken sighed, careful not to step towards the edge of the wall. Without the parapets in place, it would be easy to fall to their deaths.

“We can see the gates from here just fine,” Mugen said, handing the staff to Jaken before sitting down cross-legged with his hands resting in his lap.

“The gates?”

“Mhm. Kaa-chan is coming back today, and I wanted to see her.”

“That can be done from the safety of the ground, can’t it?” Jaken huffed bitterly.

Mugen shot him a sideways glare, and Jaken flinched at the sharpness in his stare. “You didn’t have to come up with me,” he said with narrowed golden eyes. Then, he jutted his chin towards the right. “And there is a ladder.”

“W—” Jaken shuffled past him, careful not to tread too close to either end. Scurrying over, he leant over the edge to see that there was a ladder. Not far from where they made their jump either. Wheeling around, he glared at the boy. “Then why did you jump up here?!”

Mugen looked ahead for a long while then hiked his shoulders, sitting back on his hands.

Jaken blinked, then muttered under his breath. “You really are Rin’s son.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jaken cautiously crept to Mugen’s side and sat. Dusk was falling around their ears and dyeing the horizon a peach-orange hue. Waters reflecting the sky, drifting lazily with foam lapping at the cliff sides , mist spraying against the walls. Jaken sighed, and he laid his staff horizontally across his lap.

“Your mother isn’t due back for a while yet.”

Mugen nodded slowly. “I’ll wait,” he said. After a brief stint in quiet, he added softly. “You don’t have to stay.”

Jaken scoffed haughtily, but his heart sank at the vague dismissal. “Hadn’t I already told you, your father will kill me if anything happens to you!”

The words rolled off Jaken’s tongue, and a familiar dread washed over him as Mugen’s eyes narrowed and his peaceful expression twisted into one of irritation.

“He wouldn’t kill you.”

��Hmph,” Jaken folded his arms tightly to hide his trembling. “You obviously haven’t been listening to the stories I’ve told you of your father’s deeds. He’s a boiling seething —”

“ — Terribly magnificent demon,” Mugen interjected with a blasé tone, dry and vaguely unamused. “I’ve been listening.”

Jaken felt his ears growing hot as the boy several centuries younger than him leveled him with a flat look.

“If he wanted you dead, wouldn’t you be?”

The words spoken with a cold snapping tone clamped ironclad around Jaken’s heart. He swallowed thickly, feeling himself shudder. Dedication to his lord had cost him everything. The title that would have had others falling at his feet, lands he could have governed; yet, despite his griping, he wouldn’t have taken those opportunities over the ones he had now. It was terrifying following him into battle as well as waiting on him with his strange temperament. Nonetheless, abandoning him wasn’t an option.

Mugen’s eyes, unrelenting and piercing, reminded Jaken far too much of his father.

“If you’re so scared of him, why do you follow him around?” Mugen demanded, barely contained curiosity and scorn seeping into his tone.

Jaken’s tongue flapped, but he couldn’t seem to gain control of it. His insides twisted and turned the longer he held the steely gaze. “I-I’m his loyal servant a—”

“Tou-chan said loyalty made by fear is betrayal waiting to happen,” the boy snapped.

Bristling at that, Jaken yelled. “Wh— how dare — I would never betray Lord Sesshomaru!”

Their voices echoed, and the silence between them was deafening. Mugen’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed with a slight wrinkle to his nose while Jaken trembled with rage. How dare this boy question his loyalty to his lord? Who did he think he was?

Traitorously, his mind reminded him. This was his lord’s son.

Oh no.

Unprecedented panic overwhelmed righteous anger, and Jaken paled. Oh no, his head would be on a platter for this. As his terror reached a boiling point, Mugen’s severe scowl eased into a genial look as he turned away.

“I know, Jaken.”

Rage diffused itself slowly, draining from Jaken’s body like water from the falls rushing into the ocean. The blatant disgust and contempt was gone, replaced by a self-assured look, one from which he could feel genuine joy and warmth. He wasn’t sure what to say to that, laying his hands in his lap. Mugen inhaled then sighed, turning his head to look at him with a soft smile.

“You’re part of our family,” he said. “And family doesn’t hurt each other, right?”

Family. Jaken’s mouth felt dry, and while he opened and closed it a few times, attempting to summon words was difficult. He swallowed and nodded his head in reply. Mugen gave a curt nod, and looked ahead again.

“I’m sure Tou-chan thinks of you as family too. Believe in him a little. Okay?”

He believed in him?

I need only you to serve me, Jaken.

He had said that, didn’t he? And if he didn’t want him around, wouldn’t he have dismissed him?

They’re our precious children. Look after them, Master Jaken.

Jaken sniffled and wiped at his misting eyes, clearing his throat. “... I-I suppose I’ll wait here as well, if it isn’t too much trouble, Mugen-sama.”

“If you want to, Jaken.”

As they sat beneath the sky, wispy clouds drifting listlessly overhead, Jaken couldn’t help but think of his place in life. Never did he think he would find himself in the service of an inu daiyōkai lord or enjoying an afternoon in the presence of his son. A hanyō, no less. No. That didn’t matter to him at all. He was concerned when Mugen ran off on his own or when he took needless risks. Youth and a feeling of invincibility provided him with a reckless amount of courage that served to complicate Jaken’s duties further. But Jaken was convinced he could guide him. Or at least, be at his heels to ensure he didn’t get in over his head.

“Mugen-sama?”

“Hm?”

“Grow into a strong yokai like your father.”

“I will.”

“It would be much easier if you drank your milk.”

“I don’t wanna.”

A sea-blown wind wrapped around them and rustled the orange ribbon in the boy’s hair, his unruly bangs and the fly-aways in his hair curled and whipped back from his face, casting shadows around golden eyes. The tint of sunlight against tanned skin gave him a slight glow, and Jaken wished for days like this to last. Days in which he stayed a child, unbothered by the nuances of the world and his place within it. For a moment, the kappa asked for time to slow.

A long shadow passed overhead, and Jaken shuddered, intense pressure bearing down upon his being. His skin pricked and crawled. Cold sweat broke against the crown of his head as he turned around, finding himself faced with white hakama, and upon glancing up, a pair of golden eyes that were far less friendly. Where he bowed his head in respect, Mugen scrambled to his feet with a delighted gasp.

“Tou-chan!”

Jaken peeked up in time to see the ghost of a smile on his lord’s lips as he greeted his son, extending a hand from his sleeve for Mugen to grasp. With a flourish, the boy was lifted in his father’s arms and hugging him tightly around his neck. From over his son’s shoulder, Sesshomaru looked down at Jaken and narrowed his eyes. The silent command to explain unneeded as he began to wheedle through events thus far that would not create cause to worry .

“W-We were just waiting for Rin, milord.”

To his relief, Mugen pulled back and captured his father’s attention, hands pressed to his jaw. “Tou-chan, tell Jaken.”

Jaken flinched as Sesshomaru hummed confusedly.

“Tell Jaken what?”

“That he’s family, like Kaa-chan said.”

Sesshomaru slowly shifted his head, looking away from his son to face Jaken, and the cold dread was replaced with anticipation. Would his lord really say the same? Was he truly part of this?

For a moment, Sesshomaru said nothing, and Jaken’s heart sank into the pits of his stomach. Perhaps he had raised his hopes for nothing. The idea of family in the eyes of a child was much different than in that of a yōkai centuries old.

Sesshomaru turned his head toward the horizon, easing his face free of his son’s hands. “Mugen.”

“Yes?” Mugen glanced between Sesshomaru and Jaken, an apology in his eyes, but the kappa brushed it off. It wasn’t his fault and this was within his father’s nature after all.

“Your mother is returning.”

Jaken tensed slightly, and Mugen twisted around to look behind him as Sesshomaru raised a hand, pointing a single finger toward the skyline .

“Look.”

Surely enough, a dark splotch on the horizon was beginning to come into focus. The thick curling cloud of ash and smoke beneath A-Un’s paws dissipating as the dragon gave a loud cry. Mugen’s whooping laughter came in answer, and Jaken scrambled up to his feet. A-Un curved overhead, skimming across the waters before ascending through the air. His rider, laughter loud against the backdrop of roaring waters, waved to them with glee. Jaken could’ve chided her for letting go of the reins, but even if Rin fell, A-Un or Sesshomaru would dive to catch her. He would have leapt over the wall to come to her aid himself were it not for the duty with which she entrusted him.

And it was as A-Un leveled with the parapets, drifting closer to where they stood, that he saw the genuine mirth on her face.

Rin’s skirts ablaze in the setting sun, orange and fluttering as they fell along the sides of A-Un’s saddle. Her dark hair unbound and whipping on the breeze, messy much like her son’s, their smiles bright as they laid eyes on each other .

“Kaa-chan!” Mugen cried, wiggling free of his father’s hold to leap into his mother’s waiting arms. Jaken’s heart cinched as the boy grasped at the leathers bracers on Rin’s arms, and she swung him in an arc before gathering him close to her chest.

She squeezed him to her, peppering his forehead with kisses and tucking her nose in his hair. The floppy ears atop his head shooting up and wiggling as she hugged him to her. Sesshomaru stepped forward until he stood at the wall’s edge, Jaken inching closer to the side to give his lord a wide berth.

Once Mugen was situated in A-Un’s saddle and distracted by petting the dragon’s soft manes, Rin turned her attention to Sesshomaru with a serene smile. Her hand cupped the underside of his jaw, and Jaken turned his head away as they shared a kiss. Meaningful, wordless glances and calm kisses exchanged from his lord, but soft brushes of fingers from Rin. To his relief, they parted fairly quickly, and he wondered how his lord’s face could remain impassive after such a display.

“Master Jaken.”

Jaken turned. Rin’s smile was blissfully happy, making her eyes squint and her cheeks round . “I’m happy to see you,” she said. “Thank you for staying with Mugen.”

“Y- You don’t need to thank me for doing my duty,” Jaken huffed, folding his arms across his chest.

She laughed softly and looked forward, a teasing wink making him sputter. “I know that. Let’s go, A-Un,” she said, picking up the reins. Sesshomaru tipped his head up as A-Un began to circle them, allowing Rin enough time to press a kiss to his head before she tucked her arms around Mugen. “See you,” she said before they were gone, streaking across the sky with Mugen’s laughter carrying on the wind.

With them gone, the pounding of Jaken’s heart promptly returned, and he glanced up to Sesshomaru whose eyes trained on the retreating form of his family, a ghosted smile returning to his lips, gone as quick as it came when he straightened up.

“Jaken.”

“Y-Yes, milord?”

Sesshomaru looked down at him and for a moment, just a moment, Jaken could have sworn his eyes softened. He tipped his head upward to the sky, turning on his heel. “We fly.”

Jaken’s eyes watered, and he nodded, trailing after his lord.

#inuyasha fandom #sesshorin #sessrin #sesshomaru x rin #fanfiction #my fanfiction #sesshomaru #rin #jaken #mugen #affections touching across time

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @aqua-ref!

Read on AO3

******

Give Me To A Ramblin' Fae

In the middle of winter, when the moon is heavy in the sky, dripping with milky light and offering, whole and raw, its' power, the Hale Pack gathers around the Nemeton, they dance and they sing, and they shift into their animal skeins to frolic, to chase each other with yipping howls and laughing barks.

Derek has Laura's throat held gently between his maw, and she whines at him to let go, but rumbles approvingly, because he doesn't often win these games of theirs; it is not a matter of low power, more of the target he chooses. The Alpha's heir will, after all, be more difficult to beat than the others. She nips at his ear playfully, urges him along, and they weave through the barren, wind-beaten trees, their paws soaked with snow-melt, muddying the crunchy ivory-fluff that chills the ground beneath them.

There's an undulating, calling, rejoicing howl from their mother that has them leaving a chestnut hare to its' frightened peace in order to return to her, to the Pack.

Through the branches, they can see the sky, all adorned in twilight, hosting, now, a parade of riders, their pandemonium an awe and a terror. Spectral beings ride black mares and stallions, ominous dogs of bared teeth and frothing spit and hideously haunting eyes are careening, entwining and twisting around toned legs and pristine hooves as the steeds gallop forward, heedless. Blackbucks and stags dash, their riders luminescent smoke and vicious intent. Creatures with starlight-encrusted, stained-glass wings, and horns which they blow to hail their passing, fly gracefully around the nocturnal horde, singing or shrieking, cavorting and cackling.

It's a dreadful, terrific sight, that streaks through the night sky, and when the Pack's howl breaks out, full-force, hopeful and evocative, every wolf lifting their song to the ghastly, ghostly peoples as they pass, some of those dragonfly, stardust folk descend, screaming and giggling, a gaggle of raucous temerity, as they gather the wolves in their airborne festivities, and launch them toward the procession.

The whimsical, urgent needs, and maddening power that surround The Hunt quickly seeps into the Pack, makes them drunk and giddy, all of them running with ancient spirits, wildlings, Fair Folk of every type.

Derek's lungs are stung by the rush, his blood electric with the adrenaline when an ephemeral, fey, svelte-lithe boy with bull's horns, skin like cream sprinkled with cinnamon, and mosaic wings that inspire the feeling of fertile soil and fields of growing, healthy, rain-soaked things, comes to him. His oak-silk curls are plaited with holly and mint, a leather-bound necklace hangs heavy around his long, dainty, breakable neck, a crescent moon-charm at the hollow of his throat, surrounded by crystal orbs and autumn leaf-charms, brass acorns and pine-cones, he wears nothing else, unashamed in his nudity.

"Hello," the boy says, bright and sweet, his voice like the delicate silk-dew mist of a cumulus cloud, and Derek feels himself tilt closer without even meaning to. "You're gorgeous. I wonder what you look like in your human form? Honestly, I wonder what everyone here looks like in their human forms. We all have one, you know?"

Honestly, no, he didn't, he was kind of caught up in the romanticism of it all.

All scents are clouded by the musk of wild, old magick, stained by an odd, dense-soil ecstasy, and a part of him, vivid and, for one, fanatic moment, overwhelming, wants to eviscerate the aroma The Wild Hunt carries, if only so he can learn what this boy might smell like.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we're malevolent or scary, but, honestly, dude, we're just escorting the spirits Grandmother Death didn't have the time or patience to get to to their respective homes. We've all still got day jobs—I mean, you have a day job, pretty wolfling that you are, don't you?"

Numbly, helplessly, and a little more sober, now, Derek nods.

The boy grins at him, crooked and terribly endearing, fire-light eyes sparkling in the dim, mist-fog, shadowed light.

"See?" He says, gesturing, "Even Odin's got one, Odin, the God of knowledge, inspiration, creative and intellectual pursuits, the dead, fucking road rage—that guy, the head honcho, the one at the head of this whole operation. Like, in this economy, where barely anyone has the Sight anymore, and the number of people left who believe are too few and far between, what else are we supposed to do? It's not like causing havoc and stealing things is going to garner us any good-will, man, so here we are, doing the good work, and then tomorrow we'll go home and agonize over our bills just like everybody else." The faerie heaves a sigh, before blinking and seeming to realize himself, his cheeks burn a vivid, enchanting crimson when a harassing, incredulous, exasperated wail sounds from above.

"Oops," he breathes, a nervous giggle edging in, "I am so not supposed to do that, and I've just been rambling at you, and—" the wail comes again, more pressing this time. The boy groans, eyelashes fluttering down in mortification. "Sorry, I'll see you later, maybe?" Fragile, paper-thin wings flutter, and bone-nimble fingers tangle in the fur at Derek's flank to help the faerie wade close enough to press a candied, chaste kiss to his wolven cheek.

He says, "I'm Stiles, by the way," and grins like he isn't aware of how dangerously beautiful that expression is, before he zooms away in a sweeping, upward glide.

Derek gets a small glimpse of another fae, donned in a flowing, powder-blue toga-dress, with moth-like wings and magma curls flowing down to her waist, admonishing Stiles exhaustively, before their speed, much more than the wolves and the steeds and the dogs, has them blurring out of sight, catching up to a cluster of swarming fae up ahead, too far to spy on any longer.

Derek tries to get his thundering heart to calm and wonders why he ever thought love at first sight was a superstitious, optimistic myth, if not an outright lie.

Days later, after all the Dead have been put to their proper rest, a few offerings of milk and cookies meant for 'Santa' were traded for faerie favors, and quite a few more rogue, feral creatures were stolen and re-sewn into ravens or crows or hunting dogs, of the ilk to sleep the whole year away, and only wake when The Wild Hunt, again, takes place—Stiles is trying, valiantly, to focus.

His mind keeps tracing back to eyes like stars winking to tenacious life, to obsidian fur and sinewy muscle, a warbling wolf-song that lilted like a lullaby, all hymn-hope, resounding howl, to the way sharp, ink-fluffy ears kept flickering to him, listening and curious and three shades shy of entranced. He doesn't know why he's so caught up on it, this is the sixth year he's been old enough to participate in The Hunt, and they have wolves with them every time, thousands of Packs from all of the world join them, so why was he so attracted, distracted, by this one?

What was so special about him?

Other than the, you know, sand-escaping-his-fingers, barely tangible, general everything.

Stiles sighs despondently, and Lydia, who's probably been talking about Important College Things, hits him upside the head promptly.

"A—ow!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, glaring balefully at her. Her hand retreats to flick her hair over her shoulder in one fluid, deflecting motion, as if to dissuade anyone who might've noticed her uncouth action from registering it as more than a figment of their imagination, nothing to see here, folks!

He loves her, he does, but some days he wants to strangle her.

Just a little.

"You were sighing again," she points out, lashes grazing her cheeks as she looks down at her book, flips the page flippantly, like studies on how mathematical algorithms affect neurology bore her. "It's starting to get annoying, Stiles."

"Shut up. It's not like I can even do anything about it," he laments, complaining even though he knows it'll only be a study in disappointment and masochism, at this point. "Who is he? where does he live? work? For all I know, I'm infatuated with some Turkish Lord who I won't even have the slightest chance of seeing again until next year."

Lydia snaps her book shut with a sound that manages to be both refined and abrupt enough to startle. "What on earth were you doing galavanting with the lower-tiers, anyway? We aren't supposed to talk to them, Stiles—"

"But, he was—"

"If he had been a ghost instead of a solid, you could've been lost to the spirit-tide, and you know The Hunt doesn't discern when it comes to a close—you could be on the other side of the Veil by now, instead of sitting here, fawning!"

She's heaving by the end of her rant, cheeks flushed, sea-glass eyes glittering angrily, and Stiles knows her fury is borne from worry, from a very real fear. He remembers his mother, how she was all love and sweet-tempered fire, how she gave coins to the more corporeal spirits, gleefully hugged and spun yarns and danced with all the riders, always careful of the spirit-tide, of getting caught in its' undertow, until she got sick, and couldn't remember to be.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia had been old enough to go, yet, and Stiles' dad was human. Lydia's grandmother, they think, tried to stop her, to save her, but ended up just as lost and mourned as she.

He feels guilt curdle in his chest and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, Lyds, I am. I don't know why I did that, I'll—next year, I'll stay in the upper-tiers, like I'm supposed to," he inclines his head solemnly, reaches across the library table to hold both her hands in his, "I promise."

She squeezes his fingers, sniffs, her voice evaporated misty at the edges, "You damn well better, you idiot."

He offers her a sincere, sorrow-tinged smile, and tries to put the entire thing out of his mind.

It's New Year's Eve, and Stiles is exhausted, between studies and random research stints and trying to keep the Kelpies three doors down from killing and/or getting killed by the vampires that live in the apartment downstairs, he thinks he has every right to be. Still, though, Lydia put at least a quarter of her heart and soul into organizing this party, and if he hadn't come, he's sure she would've had him flayed.

So, here he is, sleep-deprived, delirious, eying the bar and wondering if getting drunk when all he's been living off of for the past three days is coffee, is at all a good idea. It isn't, it really fucking isn't, but...

But he's got nothing else to do, and tomorrow it'll be a new year, right? Might as well live a little.

Derek smiles briskly at the lady with a bird's nest of raven-black hair as he hands her her drink, and purposefully ignores the blonde at the end of the bar who's been whistling and snapping at him imperiously for the past fifteen minutes.

He's half tempted to text Cora and ask her what the hell she was thinking, pulling him behind the counter to fill in for her so she could go after the strawberry-blonde party hostess with a number and a cheap pickup line caught in her too-sharp teeth, because, yeah, he's got enough experience not to flounder (he'd found himself hiding from the rain in a drag bar while he was still in high school, and they let him hang out despite his age because he was a good enough cook that as long as he didn't touch the alcohol, they didn't care, and when you're in that sort of close-knit, street-smart gritty, overprotective Pack-like environment, it's impossible not to learn the tricks of the trade), but his customer service has always been shit.

With someone like Peter as an Uncle, he's capable of plastering on a smile and flirting a pretty lie with the best of them, he just doesn't fucking liketo. In fact, it's something he actively avoids unless lives are in danger.

Then a voice, one he remembers, all whispered silk-cotton dream-thread collecting raindrops in its' seams, starts murmuring a sugary melody in his periphery, and his eyes snap to its' source with a breathless, near frantic urgency.

And there he is.

Like Fate.

Like a fucking miracle.

He looks different, horns and wings gone, still with the wind-swept, earthy curls, though their holly-mint braids are nowhere to be found; dressed in a long-sleeved, charcoal gray shirt that cling to his lithe, agile-built muscles, an unzipped crimson hoodie layered over it, skin-tight jeans and ridiculous, neon-orange vans, but there's that leather-bound charm necklace, heavy around the length of his pretty throat, with a crescent-moon hanging just at the hollow, and it's him.

The rambling faerie he met on The Wild Hunt, absently humming a tune as he messes with his phone, patiently waiting for a bartender to notice him, at a college party on New Year's Eve.

The surreality of this is... not lost on him.

"Hello," Derek greets, sliding into the boy's- Stiles', if he remembers right- space.

"Oh, uh," he looks up from, and pockets, his phone, a little bashful, "I always thought you had to make eye contact to get, like, served, or whatever, but, um, hi?"

Derek tries to bite back a smile.

Fails.

"Hi," he repeats, and the boy blinks at him dumbly for a solid five seconds before just breathing:

"Wow. You're gorgeous."

And Derek can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "You said that last time."

"I did? Wait, I did? When?! I've met you?" he sounds outraged, on his own behalf, scandalized, even. "No," he denies, "no way, I would've remembered meeting someone like you and then doing something as stupid as calling you gorgeous to your face without any sort of filter—and, wow, smooth sailing, me. I am so sorry about that, by the way, color me extremely embarrassed, but. Yeah, no. No way in hell I've committed the same social faux-pas twice with the same person, I refuse to believe it."

Derek smirks, even as something warm and giddy and compelled sets up camp in his heart, with a kind of tenacity that says it'll be staying a long while.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a person at the time," he points out, "but I appreciated the compliment both times, Stiles, so you... really shouldn't worry about it."

"I—you—" Stiles sputters, freezes, mouth agape and molten-caramel doe-eyes very, very wide, before he seems to reboot. "You are kidding me," he says, feelingly, before pitching forward over the counter to grab Derek's face with his hands, searching his eyes intently.

Derek tries to be anything other than amused and endeared.

Fails, again.

"Wolfling," Stiles accuses, awed. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"Rambling fae," Derek muses, hushed, leaning further into Stiles' space even as he pushes the boy down into a bar-stool, because while he might not take offense, the other on-duty bartender, or, even, the party hostess, might. "Neither did I."

Stiles sucks in a very deep breath, and then spills out any number of tangential, spiraling questions, what's your name? Where do you live? Are you a bartender? can I have your number? I'd really like your number. Are you—

Derek crushes the rest in a kiss that tastes like sunlight and cherry-tart and ozone, Stiles melts into it with a helpless, keening whine, his spine curving up, shoulders opening, head tilting, whole body blooming like a flower, begging to be plucked, held, kept, known.

He answers what his fleeting thoughts will let him, mutters the words into Stiles' warm, slick-wet, receptive mouth, his name, that his Pack lives in town, that he isn't, but his sister is, and he's covering for her. With a drawn-out sigh, he does force himself to pull away, eventually.

Probably not soon enough, honestly.

"Take me out," Stiles says immediately, dazed, lips kiss-bruised enchanting, and then flushes that same, deep, candied, lascivious red as before. "Or. I mean. I want to date you. Can we go on a date? Not right now, obviously, but—"

"Yes," Derek grins, overwhelmed, blood champagne-effervescent, "yeah, I'd really like that."

Stiles exhales heavily, laughs, a little incredulously, shakes his head at himself, and then smiles, soft and marshmallow-fluffy up at him, "Awesome."

Derek begins to think that, maybe, he needs to give Cora a fruit-basket. Or, possibly, Odin, and that's... well.

That may well be the cherry on top of an incredibly strange, unusual, wonderful meeting.

#aqua-ref #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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