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nanaminokanojo · 3 years ago

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Play the Game | Nanami Kento X You | Part 1/8

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NANAMI!! 🎂

collection masterlist

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight

"Play the Game" Masterlist

The final road before the bend that led to Gojo Manor stretched before Nanami, signaled by the consistent shield of the ancient cryptomeria trees that lined the road side. The forest was a momentary relief from the glare of the sun reflecting on the windshield of his silver Lexus. Such was the inconvenience of driving in the middle of a bright day when the sun was at its pedestal, making no room for shadows, no reprieve from the heat. He detested it.

A sigh escaped his lips. It’s supposed to be the beginning of autumn, he was thinking for the umpteenth time that day. He would really appreciate it if the Siberian winds would herald the actual beginning of the season. Yes, he thought. That would be nice.

The weather was, nevertheless, the least of his worries, and as he finally made the turn to the incongruously long gravel driveway of the estate, the real cause of his anxiety reared its head to the surface, presaged by the denser shadows of trees and the high gables of the colossal structure that housed the seat of the Gojo clan. It was supposed to be unfounded, his apprehension, or so he tried to convince himself since deciding to make an appearance earlier than expected. He couldn’t keep it at bay anymore when the emotion was mixed with hopeful anticipation. An odd combination, indeed.

He had no choice but to come, or rather, he wanted to come. It was for an important occasion anyway, Gojo Satoru and Utahime Iori’s wedding week specifically. If he was being honest, he wouldn’t miss it for the world. If it was significant to two of the most important people in his life then the same applies where his views on the matter was concerned. After all, he greatly appreciated it that Gojo chose him as his best man, well one of them anyway. The man could never make up his mind if he tried so, breaking the traditional order of things, he has two “best men” – him and Geto Suguru.

Much to the groom-to-be’s disappointment, Nanami initially planned to show up a day before the ceremony itself. It was an added displeasure to the fact that Geto wasn’t going to show up until later that week as he was overseas for work. Gojo still probably was disappointed since Nanami did not exactly say anything about showing up earlier. But when he saw an opening in his jampacked schedule which was rare, he took the opportunity to take time off work. As annoying as Gojo was, he did not deserve to have two absent best men on his wedding week. Besides, a week away from the firm wouldn’t hurt, and he thought it was a good way to unwind before his big case.

If he would be able to unwind anyway.

The man had been sure of how he would manage through the occasion if he only spent a maximum of two days surrounded by crowds which were sure to be invited to the happy celebration. After all, nobody ever expected the young master of the Gojo Clan to ever be serious enough about anyone romantically, much less get married. Now that he had to stay for longer, giving chances to more occurrences of a variety of events, he wasn’t so certain. Anything could happen at Gojo Manor. Anything.

His optimism relied on that fact. Troublesome things usually happened with Gojo and Geto together, throw in the other members of the family and the other clans in the area, but Nanami was betting everything on this week.

A pair of cool, aqua eyes met his dark orbs the moment he stepped into the semi-outdoor ballroom of the opulent house. It was always like instinct, the way Nanami’s senses seem to heighten and hyper focus on one person, all else tuned out and seemingly nonexistent. Like always, without a hitch, he found you.

Alas. If he was questioning the reason for his hopefulness, that wasn’t the case anymore.

There you were, stood on the elevated corner by the refreshments table. You appeared like a celestial being walking among mortals, the halo of silvery white hair shimmering under the sunlight filtering through the room making you seem as if you did not exactly exist in the same realm as everyone else.

You were initially not paying attention to anyone despite your cousin, Miwa, chatting away beside you. But then, you leaned towards the latter when she whispered something, being equally conspiratorial by raising your champagne flute to your mouth. By the looks of it, prior to that, you have long tuned them out, Miwa and her friends, what with your poor attempt at pretending to pay attention. Nanami knew you have mastered the art of doing so since you were a child. It wasn't on purpose, or so you say. You were simply oblivious most of the time or you just didn't care. And you tended to only see and hear what you wanted.

At the moment, he was the object of your attention. He was sure of it, unable to help but to be much too aware of it, nerves pulled to their limits like piano strings conditioned to make sounds at the slightest of touch of its ebony and ivory keys. The feeling he had made you real, existing. He wasn’t imagining at all.

At times, he still could not believe that he watched you grow up to the person you are at present. The first time he knew of your existence was when Gojo invited him and some of their other friends to that very house in middle school. You were just as remarkable as a child as you are as a grown woman, much too quick-witted and eloquent at six even as your nanny carried you astride her hip, looking very much like a female infant version of Gojo. The bright blue eyes you shared with the male shone with the same intelligence he possessed, probably more, even without doing or saying anything. It just emanated from the two of you even if Gojo behaved like an utter idiot at times.

You shifted your line of vision to Miwa who was inconspicuously flailing her hands as a silent and agitated command for the other girls to disperse when she saw Nanami approaching. In a split second, you were alone. Miwa has always been unreasonably fidgety around him but he never quite understood why.

"I seemed to have driven away your company," he said to you the moment he was within earshot, watching you exchange your empty glass for another that's full.

You finally faced him, your scintillating eyes glittering under the wide skylights above. They were fathomless as they were luminous, shining with mischief. It was a familiar sight. From a state of tedium, they seem to come alive at the idea of tormenting him.

"I don't mind."

Of course not. The corners of his mouth curled inconspicuously at that similarity he shared with you. "I seem to always offend that cousin of yours."

"Not really. Frighten is more like it." Your eyes stayed on him even as you drank from your glass.

"Frightened?" Nanami repeated with inflection. He knew Miwa was awkward around him, but it was news that she was afraid of him. He didn’t have anything against her since unlike you, she was actually a sweet girl.

"Well, you have always been purposefully abrasive, you have taken the language of sarcasm to a whole new level and you are a grouch," you told him without batting an eyelash when everyone else was intimidated by him. You were probably the only one who could treat him that way. Not even your brother who is his best friend could do that and mean it.

His planned glance turned into a sidelong stare when he saw how you were eyeing him the same way. The difference was that you had a knowing look about you, evident in the way your eyes shone with diablerie and the contumelious curl at the corners of your luscious lips.

"Is that your opinion of me?" he asked, his expressions remaining stoic. Inside, it was a different story. You are the last being on earth he wanted to view him the way others usually did. He always thought you acted around him differently – defied him, messed with his head (and heart if he was being honest), and annoyed him – because you saw him differently, too. He liked that idea, the feeling it gives him. It was already enough that you are forbidden territory because you are his best friend's little sister. He didn't want you to turn out to be just like everyone else.

You grinned but didn't satisfy his query with a response. It was just like you to keep him guessing that way. You loved your games and especially loved to play them with him. He liked to play along at times, but it gets difficult to keep up with your antics. Your thought process was something he still has to figure out despite years of knowing you.

Seeing that he wasn't getting anywhere by engaging you, he said, "Where's the groom-to-be?"

You pointed at the direction of the wood-framed glass doors leading to the indoor salon where your brother was speaking to one of the organizers for his wedding.

When Nanami followed your line of vision, he found the person in question. On a long table before Gojo were different arrangements of flowers, all in shades of pink, cream and white. Honestly, he saw no difference but Gojo was eyeing them as if choosing the right one will solve global warming.

"Being fussy about the flower arrangements more than his bride, obviously." Shaking his head, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey, pinstriped slacks before facing you again. "You think it's a good time to step in?"

At that, you smirked openly. "Wanna play a game, Nanamin?" you asked, appearing and sounding innocent as you addressed him with that nickname you knew he hated.

"Sure," he said without hesitation, knowing well the kind of person you are when you’re refused.

"No protestations this time, I see. You're learning."

He shot you a withering look, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That coming from a childish brat. I won't take offense." He immediately regretted saying that when he saw how your eyes glinted with something sinister. What it was, he didn't know, but he was sure about one thing: he just walked into another one of your traps willingly.

"Whoever gets a rise out of Satoru wins," you said, cocking your head to your brother's general direction.

That was easy, he thought. The fact that he showed up for the week-long preparations for the nuptials was enough to draw out a profound reaction from Gojo. Nanami was just that kind of best friend – absent. In his defense, he did make it to the important parts just in time, but this was something new to Gojo. For all he knew, he wasn't even expecting him to arrive until the wedding.

"Fine." He nodded at you, the action very minute. He was never big on actions. "We'll talk about the compensation later."

You returned the gesture with saccharine mordacity to it. "Alright." However, instead of moving towards the goal, you walked towards the other direction, signaling for him to go first.

It was an easy victory. The moment he walked into the salon, Gojo’s attention was immediately pulled away from the flower arrangements, his eyes going wide as saucers as he took in the fact that his best man arrived way ahead of time.

"Who are you and what have you done to Nanami Kento?" he asked aloud, making some of the guests for the day's luncheon turn towards them. He was evidently elated, his wife-to-be coming to join in, hugging Nanami while he clapped the man on the shoulder.

"I wouldn't miss this happy occasion for the world," Nanami told the couple, trying his best to convey his thoughts without sounding patronizing. That would be overdoing things even if it meant he would win against you. He wasn’t big on emotions and sentiments either.

All the while, his eyes furtively strayed to you, his competitor, watching you from way across the ballroom, sipping leisurely at your champagne as if you cannot be bothered. However, if Nanami thought he has seen the worst that you can do, he couldn't have been more mistaken in his life.

In the next moment, you entered the salon, appearing self-satisfied as you sauntered towards them, looking like a queen surveying your domain. "Well, well. If it isn't the big shot lawyer himself, coming to grace us with his presence!"

He clucked his tongue, reading through your ploy. You weren’t exactly one for theatrics most of the time, typically straightforward and brutally frank, but your games were as intricate as they were vexing. Nanami turned to face you just enough to conceal his expression from Gojo and Utahime, arching a brow at you in both challenge and question.

In a flash of black and white, you have taken your place in front of him barely a foot away. Your intention to further close the distance between the both of you only became evident when both your hands shot forward, taking possession of both sides of his face as you willed him to bend to your height, tiptoeing to make up for the remaining space. In a brief but seemingly drawn-out sequence of events, you staked your claim on his slightly parted mouth in a scorching lip lock.

Nanami was momentarily distracted by the faint taste of champagne, that detail registering in his brain before the sensation of your pliant lips pressed against his. The realization dawned too late making blood rush up to his head and for his ears to ring as he froze and burned simultaneously. His arms had unconsciously found their way around your slender waist, the feel of your warmth under your taffeta dress searing his palms. It was more for the purpose of steadying himself than you on your precariously high heels. The mere touch of your hand made him incoherent, but the feeling of your lips on his drove him to irrationality. The slim likeliness of the act happening between him and you made it feel as if he was going to pass out or wake up from a long, vivid dream.

He was there. He exists. You were there, real as can be. And you were kissing him.

Gasps erupted from all around, and before he knew it, you have pulled away, releasing your grip on him. As if he couldn’t dig his grave any deeper and punctuate his loss any further, Nanami leaned towards you, chasing your lips, attempting to continue your little interlude, uncaring of where you were or who was watching. After having a tiny taste of it, the absence of your touch affronted him like no other. If having you that close was what it meant to lose, then he will gladly have it.

Your laughter snapped him out of his trance. When his vision focused, he found you leaning away, your hand pressed against his chest to keep him at bay.

“Eager, aren’t we?” you said loud enough for him to hear, and for everyone’s benefit, you droned on, saying, “Been dying to do that since I saw you come in.”

Dazed, he just stared at you before him, the fact that he did not just lose to you within the premise of the game registering in his mind like a flash of lightning. Blood rushed to his head, heat permeating from the base of his neck to his scalp when his eyes strayed to Gojo who looked scandalized.

“You…what…” the other male endeavored to speak, but nothing coherent came out of his mouth, his blue eyes rapidly shifting between you and Nanami while his fiancée giggled beside him.

Indifferent to everything else and your sights only set on the object of your trickery, you tittered, savoring the hilarity of the situation. At least, to you, it was funny. “See you around, Nanamin,” you drawled and left with that confident gait, shaking your head in levity.

He wanted to join in on your conviviality, but the idea dissipated faster than water under intense heat when he saw his best friend eyeing him like he was about to castrate him. Nanami straightened up, rearranging his expression to that of quiet shock, laying it on thick by blinking cluelessly as if it was typical of him but Gojo was having none of it.

Ah, the joys of losing to you, he could just think despite his impending doom. Or maybe he was doomed to begin with. He couldn’t care less with the pleasant tingling of his lips and the memory of yours, the taste lingering on his tongue.

“You and me, in the game room. You’ve a lot of explaining to do.”

If Nanami would be asked how many times he lost to you, he wouldn’t have an answer. At least not for what is healthy for his pride and because he lost count. His only consolation was that he wasn’t the only one who had ever been under your thumb over the years you have had the upper hand. You’ve always had the advantage, and one way or the other, regardless of the odds of the games you played, be it tomfoolery or serious bets, you invariably have a way of turning them into your favor.

He could well say his chances of winning cases in court is higher compared to the fact that you always bested him in life. It frustrated him to no end.

“Wanna play a game?” Those were always the words which heralded a series of infuriating inconveniences that he, along with some other individuals, had to be subjected to ever since you acquired your penchant for mischief and seeming thirst to challenge if not victimize people.

Those words, paired with a ridiculous nickname of your choosing for each of your conquests gave one no choice but to engage. The way you say it was enough to rile even someone who just happened to be listening, as if you were surreptitiously patronizing the person of your choosing. The unreadable expression on your face when you initiate your games also makes one’s hackles rise. While Gojo had the same tendency to be condescending when he wanted to be, you were exponentially more menacing compared to him.

In your defense, you never did it to everyone. It was as if you have a rationale behind the selection of people you felt like messing with. Your criteria was not something that is known to anybody else. At first, it was just Gojo. Then Geto and Shoko Ieiri, another close friend of your brother, got a taste of it until finally, it was his turn. Anyone none the wiser would think your ‘affections’ were solely focused on Gojo’s friends, but apparently, it wasn’t the case.

There were three kinds of people where your games were concerned: people you didn’t give a damn about, those you liked to play with and those you engaged with but eventually stopped being a pain to.

Most people around you were the first type since you mostly didn’t give two fucks about them. For some reason, it had become a sort of status quo in the Gojo household to be included in your sphere but few were lucky enough to hold your attention long enough.

The third kind were people who seemed to have reached an understanding with you. Geto, Utahime and Shoko used to be casualties in your ploys, but after a game or two, they’ve eventually ‘graduated,’ and you treated them like equals. Apart from that, there seems to be an exceptional case when you did not have to inflict yourself on the person just like in the case of your closest friend, Itadori Yuuji. That kid was special somehow, and Nanami thought perhaps he was, too, until you got started with him.

As for him and Gojo, they were still people you liked to torment. His theory was that you were looking for something from the people you play with. If you find it, you stop. It wasn’t a theory anymore that it was a sort of defense mechanism if he deduced right, judging from the situations which led to the change in your behavior.

It all started when you came home from boarding school overseas after finishing your freshman year in high school. Gojo had invited them over as per usual for the summer events being held at their estate but suddenly started talking about his concerns over you.

“She’s distant,” he said with a sigh when asked about it. Apparently, your parents were upset over you decision not to attend the school of their choice anymore and threatened to drop out and run away if they insisted further. “And there seems to be something wrong with her. She seems different somehow. Very snappy and always in a foul mood. She rarely leaves her room, and when we try to help, she gets angrier.”

“She’s in that phase, huh?” Shoko mused. “Want me to talk to her?”

Gojo insisted to do it, being all dramatic and saying he had been a lousy brother. But that’s when you started being the way you were. You weren’t an angry teen anymore, just someone who indulged yourself by toying with others without regard to whose expense and to what extent. Most of them were harmless, but you very nearly endangered two of your friends, too.

Nanami dug his own grave when he purposefully tried to have a go at you, pointing out your mistakes in an attempt to intervene at that time. You used to be rather passive where he was concerned, polite even, but then everything changed that night.

He was somehow glad that you decided to approach him when you needed help when you usually gravitated towards Geto, surprised to see you at his doorstep past midnight and looking ashen.

First, you dared this new girl, Kugisaki Nobara, to sneak into the abandoned factory at night, and the girl ended up hurting yourself. You looked so regretful and distraught while explaining what happened on the ride to the factory, and for the first time, he realized that you only ever challenged people you held a certain degree of fondness for. Everything ended well without anybody else knowing of your mishaps but him, and in a twist of fate, she even became your first real friend.

And then, you started yet another game with Fushiguro Megumi, effectively getting him kicked out his father’s clan. You weren’t exactly aware about the deeper reason as to why his family wanted him to be close to you, only that you found displeasure in it because he was a groom candidate. It was common among old clans like yours, and when you dared him to tell your parents he had no intention of marrying you, your brother had to intervene and take the boy in, ending up registered under Gojo Clan instead. While his family was trash in all sense of the word, you were still at fault since you ruined his only chance at being accepted by the clan head. Still, he, too, became your friend, and more than that, an adopted brother.

“Is this some attention-seeking behavior you’ve learned somewhere?” Nanami asked you that time.

“I get attention without as much as lifting a finger being who I am.” You snorted. “I can’t expect everything to be positive though.”

He was taken aback by your statement then. Still, he tested his theory. You were different after all. While some people admired you for your genius and your otherworldly looks, there will always be those who hated you for it. It was like a repeat of Gojo, except that he had them, his friends. Whom did you have?

“Are you being bullied at school?”

At that, your pupils constricted, your bright eyes turning icy as you regarded him. You were quiet for a moment as you stared, not exactly enraged but your brows furrowed together. Nanami could see the cogs in your brain moving through your eyes when you slowly grinned and said those four words: “Wanna play a game?”

He’s been losing to you ever since, not really knowing what you want and what set you off, hell-bent on making him miserable at every opportunity you could take.

It wasn’t all different at present.

The moment he heard the click of the doorknob and your scent – a mix of crisp autumn air, vanilla and a hint of something that reminded him of happiness – registered in his brain, he froze on his chair in the study where he was currently taking notes on his upcoming case. It was a trade-off for the length of time he would be gone from the law firm he worked at. His grip on his pen tightened that he thought he would break it to splinters when he saw you from his periphery, still looking like a goddess, fresh and gorgeous despite the day's affairs.

You were so painfully beautiful that concentrating on the file before him was proving to be difficult. Everything else didn't make sense to him whenever you were in the same room as he is. It didn't help that you kissed him in front of everyone just a few hours ago. He couldn't forget the feeling no matter how many times he convinced himself that it was just you playing your games; that it was nothing. He wished it was otherwise, not that it helped in his cause a bit.

"What on earth was that about?" Gojo demanded, pulling him aside to the game room like a child who did something naughty. In fairness to him, he was still fond enough of Nanami to offer him a drink but, indeed, he thought, what on earth was that about?

He shrugged. "Have you met your sister? Surely, you know just what crazy antics she has up her sleeves. She gets her annoying side from you anyway."

The answer seemed to have placated the male for the time being but if you were going to continue with your mischief, Nanami has no way of telling where things can go. And judging by your confident gait and the complacent grin swathed on your countenance, you were up to no good again.

He carded his fingers through his blond locks, leaning back on the chair as he furtively watched you.

"Do you need anything?" he asked calmly despite himself.

"Hmm. I won," you murmured, rounding the heavy oak desk before vaulting yourself up on it to sit just beside his papers, your eyes zeroing in on the files.

He shot you an accusing glare. "What was that about?"

You arched a brow at him, wrenching your gaze from the documents with a frown, the way your eyes widened in mock innocence making him want to box your ears. "What was what about, Nanamin?” The preposterous nickname rolled off your tongue tauntingly. “I thought you hated questions that can be openly interpreted."

"Why did you kiss me?" he snapped.

"Well..." You openly mocked him with a smile. "Could there be any other reason apart from our bet?"

"Of all the things you could think of, you went for something that would give your brother a heart attack not to mention that it put me in hot waters."

“Isn’t that the objective of our little bet?”

He sighed. "This is the last time I'm indulging you."

"Eh? You said that the last time we saw each other, too." You feigned exasperation. "Doesn't change the fact that you lost again though."

"What do you want?" He finally sat up straight, stacking the documents on the table. "Why are you sitting there anyway?"

"You're right." You jumped off the desk and much to his confusion, instead of taking one of the seats at the other side of the table, you swatted his arm from the papers and sat on his lap like he was an easy chair.

"What –"

You turned to him then, your faces just inches from one another. "Is this better?" you asked as if you saw nothing wrong with your iffy position.

Nanami didn't know what to do with, his arms remaining still on his sides while he just stared at you as if you grew two heads. "Is this another one of your games?"

You leaned closer to him, your bright eyes drowning him. "You tell me." You laughed then. "I wasn't the one who couldn't get enough of this afternoon's kiss."

He shrugged before he could run away with his thoughts. You were right. He did want to kiss you more, but it wasn't as if he could.

Just then, you reached over and removed the glasses that were always perched over his nose then wore it yourself. "What are you doing?"

"You look better without them," you commented.

"I need them for reading." He rolled his eyes at you. "Get off, Y/N."

"Hmm? Is that really what you want?" you taunted, your hand having found purchase at the back of his head, fingers toying with his soft hair.

He placed a hand on your thigh, slowly climbing up to your hip, reveling in the feel of your warmth under his touch. He looked at you seriously then and leaned away, surprised when you frowned momentarily. It was so fleeting, he didn’t know whether he was imagining it when he saw disappointment on your face. That was a first.

"Y/N, Just tell me what you want. You won the bet after all."

Shrugging, you stood up as if you weren’t just perched on his lap. "Go figure," you quipped, sounding pissed off. "Think of something I would actually want. It's up to you."

“Another game?”

“Think of it as you want.”

"What?"

You slammed the door close in your wake before he could get an answer, once again leaving him there puzzled at your reaction and exasperated with himself.

-end of Part 1-

First of all, Happy Cake Day to the love of my life, Nanamin!

I made him a lawyer here cause that's freakin' hot!!!

*I used “you” here, but since my character is Gojo’s little sister who is established to be his female clone for reasons essential to the plot, she possesses the same blue eyes and white hair. I did not exactly want to create an OC (although technically, I did by describing Y/N), but I opted for the best of both worlds in this fic, leaning more towards the literary aspect of it as opposed to it just being reader/you-oriented. I hope this isn’t iffy to anyone, and yeah, i’m not being exclusive or whatever.

Everyone's aged up here as well, including the younger characters which will be included in the story.

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART SOURCES CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

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deancasbigbang · 6 years ago

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Title: Rescue Mission for Two Author: Pherryt Artist: Dogsled Rating: Mature Pairings: Destiel Wordcount: 50000 Warnings/Tags: Fantasy au, soulmate au, creature fic, dragon!cas, brief non graphic torture scenes, first kiss, stubborn!cas, self sacrificing characters, bedsharing, hurt/comfort Posting: 11/2/2018

Summary:

Castiel thinks he's the last of his kind and doomed to live a life alone. He's hiding in plain sight, as a human soldier in Angels Outfit, fighting alongside other companies - including Lord Winchesters renowned cavalry, the Silver Hooves - when his soul mark unbelievably flares to life.

Either he's not the only Dragon to survive the war, or he's bonded with a human. Before he can figure out which of his fellow soldiers it could be, he's sent across into enemy territory on a rescue mission.

Lord Winchester's eldest has been captured and last rumored to be in Alistair's hands. Castiel can't say no, but the clock is ticking and if he doesn't find his soul mate, he will die.

The skirmish covered a fair amount of ground, so it took a bit of traveling to escape the prying eyes of anything on two legs. He took it at a light jog to leave the area more quickly and when, finally under the sparse cover of young trees, Castiel looked for a good spot before he took his pack off.

Amazingly, he found one nearly straight off, and with no one in sight, he wasted no time in stripping his clothes and stashing them in the bole of a tree. Now naked, Castiel picked the pack back up and shifted the makeshift strap around that Balthazar had helped him design. He slipped his arms through the straps, the pack sagging low against his back. Not ideal for a human but…

Within seconds, he’d shifted, his human body melting swiftly down into the compact version of his true form. Castiel took a few moments to stretch his legs, his blue black scales nearly invisible in the darkness, but his eyes glowing ethereally. His tail swished across the leaf strewn ground and he flexed the toes on all four feet, getting used to once more being himself again. He sighed in relief at the stretch of wings on his back.

He didn’t generally mind being human. But the one thing he truly missed was being able to fly, unfettered, free of worry, as high and as long as he wanted.

But that was no longer the world he lived in. Short, stolen flights were all that he could manage most times. It was one of the reasons he volunteered so often for the ‘suicidal’ missions. Sentries were literally not prepared for non-human intrusions, and Castiel could be very silent.

He snapped his wings back down to lay flush against his back and started running, the pack bouncing lightly, but not too awkwardly in the space between his wings. When he emerged from the young wood on the side closest to the Tenebrim camp, Castiel spread his wings and leapt, taking to the air.

The wind rushing past his face and ruffling through his feathers caused exultation to soar through him. He kept his mouth shut, however, smothering the happy sounds he wanted to make at feeling at home again.

The sky was littered with stars and for a few moments, he let his memories drift to happier times and just enjoyed the flight.

Soon enough – too soon – he got down to business, focusing forward and speeding through the air, his wings flapping swiftly as he climbed higher. He only wished he could have asked for something of Dean’s to aid his search. One sniff would have made a big difference.

Well, no use crying over things that couldn’t be helped.

First thing was first. Make his way over to the Tenebrim camp and ascertain if Dean was still there or not.

#2018 preview #dcbb 2018 #deancas #destiel

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atamascolily · 7 years ago

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Fanfic Excerpt: Alternate version of 2x21 - “The Guardians,” 3/?

AU version of Adventures of Sinbad episode 2x21 - "The Guardians" - from Bryn's perspective. Parts One and Two are here and here, respectively.

In which I replace the sand monster attack with something so much cooler and Bryn gets something to do with actual narrative significance.

(If you don't know what fynbos is, check out the Wikipedia page for a general overview. Basically, it's the background landscape for at least 75% of the show.)

Her sleep that night is restless, but she finds herself in that familiar place, the lucid state where she is dreaming, and knows it. She is sitting cross-legged by a fire not too different from the one Firouz lit earlier in the evening, staring at the flames, when she feels the skin prickle on the back of her neck and she knows that someone is watching her.

It takes a moment for her to find him. He's tucked away in the shadows, dressed in black and silver, but his oily blond hair gleams in the fire light and she can feel his presence radiating outward like heat. He's staring at her intently with a gleam in his shadowed eyes that she doesn't like. He does not threaten her, but he does not mean her well, either. He is curious, in the way that a voyeur is curious, and she doesn't like it.

"What do you want?" she says, not even bothering with pleasantries.

"Give up the child. The bandits will kill him and leave you alone. It seems a shame for such a pretty woman to suffer on account of a stranger's babe."

"You're a magician," she says, her eyes narrowing. "You work for the bandits. Why?"

He shrugs. "None of your business, pretty witch."

There it is again: that slur that might as well be a title. Witch. Is that what she is? She doesn't know. But people are afraid of her, afraid of her magic, and sometimes, their fear is useful. Suddenly, she knows this man is afraid of her, and his efforts at belittling her only make her bolder and angrier. He does not want to fight her because he is afraid he will lose.

"Tell your master a prophesy isn't worth crossing swords with us," she says, because it's true. "If he leaves the child alone, the child will leave him alone."

The man laughs. "Oh, my lovely, it's far, far too late for that. You of all people should know better."

She does. The cycle of violence and revenge has started and now it's the bandits' turn to go down in a sea of their own blood at the hands of the caravans' only survivor. Or his adult chaperones. It's not inevitable, but the weight of the world bends in that direction, and with every act of violence, it becomes harder and harder to overcome.

"Leave us alone, or you'll regret it," Bryn says, abruptly out of patience, and yanks as hard as she can, up and out of the lucid dream, where he can't follow her. To his credit, he doesn't try.

Later, when she wakes, she replays the conversation in her mind, over and over again. Ajeeb is cradled against Doubar's chest, rising and falling with the big sailor's hearty snores. Sinbad is silhouetted against the fire's light, in the same position he was in when she fell asleep. Only the moon, which is halfway across the sky now, marks the passage of time.

She says, quietly, because she knows Sinbad will hear, "There's a sorcerer with them."

She doesn't have to say any more. He doesn't ask how she knows and she doesn't volunteer. He nods, and that's enough.

****

Para opened his eyes to find Korla staring at him, a baleful expression in his eyes as he cleaned his weapons. "Do you know where they are?" the bandit leader growled. He'd been in a nasty mood all afternoon, ever since he and his men trickled in after what should have been an easy ambush proved more challenging. Para ignores the grousing and the wounded male ego - bandits, for all their physical toughness, are so fragile on that score - but it doesn't make for very companionable evening. Tonight there's been more grunting and shouting than usual, not to mention more drunkenness - a truly distasteful thing for magic-users, which required steady hands and a clear mind.

Para keeps to himself most of the time, and is careful never to show any of the contempt he feels on his face, especially around Korla. The man might be an ignorant brute, but he pays well and the work ranges from downright easy to occasionally interesting. This particular case looks to be one of the interesting ones.

He shrugs, and stands up, shaking the stiffness out of his limbs. "Well enough. They're on the road to Balardi with the infant, a few hours' ride from the desert. An ambush on the other side, before they get to the gorge, ought to be sufficient."

"Good." Korla's eyes narrow as he contemplates his options. "Follow them and make sure they don't change course. And keep them from reaching the gorge bridge, just in case. I want them caught like rats in a trap."

Para smiled in amusement. Oh, this was going to be fun. "Oh, and the woman is a powerful witch. I suggest you leave her to me, lest you find yourself picking your mens' bones off the rocks. She doesn't look it, but she can cause quite a bit of damage."

As he expected, Korla is dismissive of his warning. The bandit leader doesn't think much of women, a tendency that is going to get him killed sooner or later, and almost got him killed today when he tried to murder the child's mother. She fought like a hunted beast with a hidden dagger, and no doubt Korla will bear a scar on his sword arm for the rest of his life. But at least he won't blame Para for not warning him if their opponents' witch does inflict some damage.

In the meantime, no reason not to play a little. Para always enjoyed a good game, and the desert crossing offers no end of opportunities for a little mischief.

***

The next obstacle to cross is the white-sand desert - thankfully a small one as there are no oases marked on the map and they didn't come prepared for a longer stay in such an inhospitable wasteland. Doubar complains bitterly for a while - of all of the crew, Bryn thinks, he's the one who misses the sea most. Despite his title as Master of the Seven Seas, and his considerable skills as a sailor, Sinbad seems indifferent to the sea's charms, as long as he doesn't linger too long in any one place.

"He doesn't like to be tied down," Firouz said, when she asked him about it once. Rongar just shrugged. "We do live an active life, don't we?" Doubar chuckled, and she had to agree. Life with Sinbad was certainly unpredictable but never boring.

They were riding through fynbos, with nary a tree in sight, for hours already before they reached the desert, and it's already hot as blazes under the noonday sky. Somehow, the desert is worse. Somehow the low shrubs of the fynbos cool the land and block the hot wind that rises off the desert, drying out the skin and parching the throat. Firouz is carrying Ajeeb in his sling because Doubar fears an ambush and doesn't want Ajeeb caught in any crossfire if he has to make any sudden moves. Bryn isn't sure why, given that they ought to be able to see any bandits coming at them from miles away in the desert, but she appreciates the big man's need for a break even if he is the one least likely to see the baby as a burden. And, if there is an ambush, it's better if Doubar has his hands free, anyway. Firouz has his talents but hitting people isn't one of them.

Bryn feels a familiar prickle on the back of her neck, the taste of last night's magic in her mouth. "He's here," she says, tightening her grip on the reins as she feels her horse ready to spook underneath her. "'Ware ambush!"

"What kind of ambush?" Firouz wants to know - a reasonable question, but one Bryn never has to answer. At that moment, there's an explosion of sand and her horse rears up as something white and scaly erupts from the earth below them.

"A sandworm!" Firouz can't keep the wonder out of his voice. "I've read about them but never seen one! They're pretty rare!"

"How do we kill one? With your exploding sticks?" Sinbad shouts, as the worm rears up above them, and plunges back down into the sand, sending grit everywhere as the horses go mad with terror.

"Hardly! Their skins are too hard for that! All we can do is run!"

Bryn manages to get control of her horse again and steer the beast over towards Sinbad, but it's no easy task. "Can we escape it?" Doubar shouts, as the sandworm rears up again.

"I think so! They're carnivorous but territorial. If we can just get out of its range --"

"RIDE!" Sinbad's order needs no elaboration. They don't have to ride far - it's only a few minutes, to judge by the angle of the sun in the sky - but it's a hellish journey, the worm rising and falling out of the sand around them, blinding them and terrifying the horses. Doubar almost falls off his horse, and Bryn is glad that Firouz is the one carrying Ajeeb at the moment. Even when the worm falls back and retreats, they don't stop riding, not until the horses are soaked with sweat, and they have to get off and walk for a while.

"Any sign of them?" Sinbad asks and Bryn shakes her head, her throat too dry to speak. "How's Ajeeb?"

"Still asleep," Firouz says. "Doubar, you want to carry him again?"

"I'll do it," Bryn volunteers suddenly, although she doesn't know why. She doesn't know anything about infants, but she feels a protective instinct rise up within her and bares her teeth. Come and get me, you monsters, she thinks. Just you wait.

She feels the magic prickle again, and she knows that the bandit's pet magician is gone, and relaxes, just a little. For the moment, at least, she doesn't need to worry.

Still, it's a relief to reach the end of that white-sand expanses and drink their fill at a spring indicated as a waystation on the road to Balardi. Bryn goes behind a rock to shake the grit out of her clothing - it isn't as good as a bath, but it definitely helps. Doubar changes Ajeeb's swaddling, with some strategic help from Firouz, and the child is surprisingly agreeable considering their most recent brush with death. Thankfully, Ajeeb is old enough that he can eat moistened bread and other softened ship rations, which is all they have.

Sinbad tries to hold the baby, but is so discomfited, he quickly passes Ajeeb back to Bryn. She tries and fails not to smirk - Sinbad may be quite the ladies' man, but he's more experienced at how to make babies than to take care of them. She's not the only one, either - Rongar is grinning from ear to ear, and Doubar makes a few jests at his younger brother's expense. Firouz is chattering to anyone who will listen about sandworms, but Bryn mostly tunes him out. She's glad Firouz has a chance to update the natural history books, but right now she has other things on her mind.

Bryn sings a lullaby to Ajeeb, rocking him back and forth. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue, and insects sing in the rocky fynbos around them, a staccato beat to her song. Despite the pain and terror of the last few hours, this is one of those precious golden moments in the midst of chaos that she treasures. It may be fleeting, but it is there to draw on in her memory when she needs comfort. Unlike other people, she doesn't have much of a reservoir of past happiness to draw on, no childhood celebrations, no adolescent awakenings, nothing before she woke on a beach, isolated and alone.

She doesn't know who she was before, so she treasures who she is now, and these peaceful moments, precisely because they are so fleeting. Who knows what she'll remember later on -- all the better to experience it as fully as she can, right NOW, when it is actually happening.

#adventures of sinbad #adventures of sinbad live action tv #my fanfiction #virtual season two: bryn #sinbad fanfiction #spleen #Sinbad 2x21 #this story really needs a better name #guardians rewrite

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embracewithintention · 8 years ago

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Today and yesterday a wild snowstorm has been whirling through the pine trees around the house. I’m at a ski resort on Lake Tahoe in northern California, skiing for the first time in the States. We’ve had glorious warm spring sunshine and driving horizontal wind, deep new snow and wide-flung views of the crystal lake and the Nevadan plains.

I’ve written a lot about skiing before—I’ve told one story of my illness and recovery through family ski holidays (Parts I, II, and III), and the easiest way for me to make sense of the beginning of my anorexia is through the hangover that concluded a teenage ski trip and made me revel, for the first time, in hunger. But I realised one thing on the first day of this trip which I don’t seem ever to have said in those other posts. Nothing makes me feel alive the way bombing down a sunny piste does. The speed, the exhilaration, the white and the blue, the fear at the fringes, the wind in my hair, the strength flowing through my legs into the edges of the skis and down through the powdery surface of the snow—there is nothing that crystallizes aliveness into a single extended moment like this does. I am utterly happy, and if this now could stretch into eternity, it would be a bright unending godless heaven.

This is not the first time I’ve had this realization. Indeed, every ski holiday I’ve been on, when I’ve been well, I’ve had it. This is why, despite the environmental awfulness of the ski industry, and the expense of every aspect of a week’s skiing (travel, accommodation, ski hire, insurance, blah blah blah), I do it annually if I possibly can—and would do it twice if I had the cash. But the thing is, I never remember the sheer wonder of it when I’m not skiing. This year, I was thinking I really should give it a miss because I have no income and a ski trip seems stupidly decadent. Most of me couldn’t justify the expense; just a tiny part of me kept thinking—I think this will be worth it. But like imagining being too hot when you’re freezing, or being too full when you’re starving, it seems impossible for me to believe in this form of perfection when I’m sitting at my laptop working, or even doing something closer to it like hiking in high places or driving fast with the roof down.

And this makes me reflect on something that characterizes anorexia, more and more the longer the illness lasts: the impossibility of imagining life being otherwise. My now-ordinary tapestry of similar days spent working, chatting, reading, lifting, chatting, shopping, sleeping, laughing, walking, are like a much more harmless echo of the long dark days of silence and hunger and nothing but work which were my later anorexic years. Both are normality: both impede the imagination of other more intense ways of being.

In itself this is no problem. In a way, the difficulty of remembering, believing in, comprehending the magic of an out-of-the-ordinary experience is inherent to its magic: if you could wholly recreate it in the mind, at a distance, it probably wouldn’t be so special. But I think there’s a sense in which we need to make an effort to let the default version create space for the extraordinary. We need to remind ourselves at least to acknowledge the existence of the extraordinary, even if accepting its unimaginability. And this applies in health as well as illness. More crucially in illness; more joyfully in health.

While ill, the extraordinary things you make space for despite not being able to believe in them might be elements of what other people would call normality: eating a biscuit with your tea, drinking a cocktail, spending a whole day on the sofa reading, accepting a last-minute invitation from friends, having a barbecue outdoors in company. And what does making space for them mean? It’s one of the many bootstrapping exertions recovery from anorexia requires: buying the biscuits when everything in you resents the expenditure on something you hate and fear and despise and secretly love the idea of eating; saying yes, and saying no, when almost everything in you wants to say the opposite.

Perhaps part of this skill is learning to attend to the submerged 1 percent that still remembers, or has the capacity to imagine, that letting go of your daily routine could be a pleasurable relief, that doing something unplanned with your day could be fun, that there is such a thing as fun, that the fun/pleasure/flavor/rebellion of the martini or the macaroon could outweigh the fever of guilt and desire for annulment that you predict will come later. That you could choose the fun despite its cost, knowing (even if not quite believing) that each time you do, the fun will be greater and the cost less.

And what about driving recovery onwards beyond the in-between space of managing to eat more but everything still feeling like managing, on to the wide-open territories where life feels like it’s being lived not survived? This must be partly about keeping on listening for the long-forgotten reminder that there are pleasures greater than, or different from, the quiet everyday ones that are now so newly and warmly cherished—that living has wild excesses and hidden corners and splendid expanses that invite fearless and frivolous exploration.

In the early days of recovery, the varieties of exploration are more predictable, circling often around matters of food and exercise. As the months pass, and then the years, the circle widens to encompass other kinds of self-compassion, spontaneity, silliness, and adventure. Beyond a certain point this is no longer about living healthily or otherwise; it’s just about living.

The moments that stray beyond everyday contentment will take as many forms as human passion and imagination do, but I wonder whether there might be a special role for the most physical of them. This links back to my post on the importance of making more time to experience one’s body as subject rather than object. So much pushes us the other way—into making ourselves into objects of aesthetic criticism, on the one hand, and into being distracted far from the capable reality of our bodily existence, on the other. It’s therefore no surprise that skilled physical activity may often be the thing that makes us feel, above all other things, free.

Here I think of the psychological concept of flow. In the 70s, the Hungarian psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi and his colleagues were interested in artists who got so absorbed in their work they forgot everything else. Some of the artists described those immersed experiences using water metaphors, and so the term flow was born. Flow is focused and energized immersion in the performance of an activity—a common synonym is being "in the zone." The activity needn’t be an intensely physical one—for me, playing the piano used to bring about a flow state, and writing occasionally does. But the characteristics of flow include those that may often be elicited by activities that demand whole-body coordination involving moment-to-moment feedback: intense concentration on the present moment, a merging of action and awareness, and a sense of personal agency. From these follow great pleasure, a loss of reflective self-consciousness, a changed experience of time, and a disregard of other needs and desires, because meaning is contained within the task itself. All this combines to create a sense of effortlessness within sustained effort.

Crucial to the emergence of flow is a balance between the levels of challenge and skill: something other than flow will arise if you’re doing something you find very easy or very difficult. This, I suppose, is why for me it’s hurtling down the piste that encapsulates the experience, even though negotiating scary moguls or the unpredictable drifts amongst the trees gives me great pleasure too – I wouldn’t want to do those for eternity.

Like any other great pleasure, flow can be addictive; flow can oversimplify the complexity and ambiguity of life. But insofar as it forms a counterpoint to an everyday that has quite enough of those complexities and ambiguities, it is not just a pleasure but also an enrichment. As Csíkszentmihályi puts it, "The flow experience, like everything else, is not 'good' in an absolute sense. It is good only in that it has the potential to make life more rich, intense, and meaningful; it is good because it increases the strengths and complexity of the self" (Flow: The Psychology of Happiness, 1992, p. 70).

So, there are two things that need doing if moments like this are to be cultivated. The first is to develop, or relearn, the skills that make them possible. This holiday it’s been beautiful to feel well, strong, capable, dependable, as well as to feel my old skiing ability return and grow; it’s been great to have implicit faith in the solidity of my muscles and the plentifulness of what I’m eating and the robustness of my self and my skill. And the second is to put oneself in the way of the challenges which will test that skill: to turn towards the slopes just a degree or two steeper, to reach out to the opportunities that lie a little further out from contentment, where joy is.

When it’s early days yet in recovery, joy may come rarely, and when it does, come from a balance of skills and challenges that feel sometimes tiny, sometimes great: the entirely innate but so long misused skill of eating, the so familiar but alien challenges of new foods or new environments for eating. Sometimes the skill and the challenge will feel entirely mismatched, but sometimes the match will click into place, and the exhilaration of something like flow will come quite unexpectedly – from the short-long moments of eating that so recently unimaginable croissant in the sunshine.

Perhaps applying the concept of flow to these moments of recovery eating is a bit of a stretch, but for me, the first pain au chocolat in daylight had all the key qualities: focused concentration on the act of eating to the point of all my awareness being subsumed in the action, despite the importance of the light and warmth suffusing me; a profound sense of personal will being exercised to make this happen, now, in this way. From these followed unimagined pleasure, the feeling of time slowing and expanding as I ate, and a novel disregard of what was to come, because this eating was the most intensely meaningful thing conceivable.

And despite the superficial similarity, it had almost nothing in common with the anorexic eating episodes which had preceded it the night before and would succeed it that coming nighttime and for many still to come. Instead of the meticulous rituals of food preparation long before eating, there was the simplicity of warming the pastry in the oven and putting it on a plate before stepping outside to sit on the front bench of my boat and – just eat it. Instead of the highly deliberate distraction with lightweight sections of magazines, I actually focused, intently, on eating. Instead of the actions and the pleasure being bound up with compulsion born of hunger drawn out all day, this action felt willed, and the pleasure came not least from that willed rebellion against ancient rules. It felt like I was doing something completely new, that required of me new skills; and so the skill-challenge balance was tipped to just the optimal point of flow. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit the flow model is the fact that I think my reflective awareness of myself was greater rather than lesser in the new morning eating: instead of being wrapped up in blankets at the dead of night, eating ravenously with no thought of another human being, now I was outside in the light and very aware of doing something that should be normal but which was the most terrifyingly non-normal thing I have ever done.

Nonetheless, the differences are telling, and act as harbingers of many more fluid experiences to come, later in recovery and beyond. They also act as a warning: it’s quite possible to perform any given action in a manner either conducive or opposed to the emergence of flow. This is an important caveat to what I’ve said about physical activity: if there’s no skill required (e.g. you’re treadmill running), if the purpose is not intrinsic to the activity (e.g. you’re doing it to burn calories), if your mind is elsewhere (on your next meal, or your last, or something else you’re worrying about) – perhaps, in other words, if you’re doing it with the anorexic mindset in place, flow will not arise.

But all it takes is a little shift, and it can and will. Maybe in the days when darkness crowds around, there can be comfort in the very reminder that there really is such a thing as experience where nothing matters but this, right now. And if this idea is a comfort, let it also be a spur.

#recovery #ed recovery #anorexia #anorexia recovery #eating disorder recovery #flow #real recovery

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