#accidental soulmate

[suntails]

it was a nightmare

comm for my friend dove's fic!! u can find it here, DEF worth a read!!

[wilsonsmcgillsweatshirt]

One of my favourite examples when talking about how well Wilson and House know each other, is the episode where Wilson becomes convinced that House has a gun. The fact that Wilson even knows House has a gun in the first place shows how much they know each other. But in the episode, they both trick each other and Wilson breaks into House's apartment and House tries to stop Wilson, but eventually Wilson outsmarts him and ends up going through House's apartment and everything he owns, all while House is insistent that he does not own a gun.

And then, at the end, Wilson pulls up to House's office, brandishing the gun, going, "Ah ha! I knew it." And House rolls his eyes and tells Wilson it's fake and Wilson doesn't believe him, and House eventually hands him back the gun and tells him to shoot him. So Wilson is standing there holding a gun with House encouraging and trying to goad him into shooting him to prove that it's fake. Eventually, Wilson gives up and gives House back the gun and concedes. And then, at the end, it's revealed that the gun was real, and House's bluff was to try to get Wilson to shoot him with a loaded gun as a way to earn his trust.

This is such a good example because I feel like it wouldn't have worked the way it did with anyone else. House was betting his life on how well he knows Wilson, he was so sure that Wilson wouldn't risk shooting him even with a fake gun, that he handed him a loaded weapon and tried to convince Wilson to shoot him. He only did that because he knew Wilson wouldn't. Wilson, on the other hand, knows House well enough to know that he definitely had a gun, and there was always a chance that it was real even if House said it wasn't. He took the gun with that knowledge and refused to do what House was encouraging him to do. He knew House well enough to know that House knew him well enough that there's a chance he'd pull a bluff like this. And so Wilson didn't risk it. They know each other so well that House can hand a loaded gun to Wilson, convince him it's fake, tell Wilson to shoot him, and then be secure in the knowledge that he's not in danger because Wilson wouldnt do it.

I feel like 90% of the characters would've just shot him because they fell for it and wouldn't have believed House would pull something like that. And I don't think House would've pulled that with anyone but Wilson.

[theminecraftbee]

Here is how to slowly, completely, and irrevocably fall into having someone know your soul as well as you do theirs:

First, be enemies, but of circumstance. Neither of you were really on opposite sides so much as connected to them. You think he loved them, though, that side that was only your enemy by virtue of not being your ally. He loved them, even if he didn't spend as much time with them. You mock him for this. For calling their leader 'king'. (Later, you'll hold onto mockery like it's all you have. You know it's not a game and you know he was really king, but without your ability to make fun of what's happening, you won't be much at all.)

You have a best friend then. This, too, is almost an accident, although to explain all the ways it's also on purpose will take longer than you have to explain. He's wonderful, and loyal, and going to die. So you die fast and young first, before him. You die in front of your friend. You die in front of him.

You don't regret it, the dying young, because it means you die before anyone else can die for you.

Second, watch your best friend fall in love with him, although that phrase feels both too pedestrian and too much like it's overstating the thing that really happens. You have your own drama for too long to really understand how it happens, of course. You're too busy facing a betrayal that will scrape the inside of your soul forever. (To tell the truth, you've already forgiven him for it, but there's something easy about being each other's enemies, so you keep going, orbiting around each other in betrayal betrayal betrayal. But that's someone else who knows your soul, another story.)

Then your best friend dies, as does nearly everyone else. You sit around a campfire with him. You tell him that your best friend trusts him; you'll trust him too. He stands by your side near the end, the two of you running together, another man's memories on your lips.

You're not sure what you regret, then, but you know there's something that won't undo that's a part of you now.

Third, learn the value of choices, as the universe tries its best to take yours from you. In this one, the people you're by the side of is at once familiar and strange. The finalists who'd protected you last time are now an ugly mix of your chosen soulmate and your enemy by making that choice; you attempt to hold on to your ability to choose even as blood makes it clear you can't. (The universe tried to pick someone who would fit you well, you realize later. More people who know your soul that this story isn't actually about. You care for him too, is the thing; you care for choosing more.)

You don't see him much, this time. You respect each other, though. It's hard not to respect each other after everything that's happened. Still, you don't see him, and he doesn't see you. Instead, you see the end of the game. You nearly hold it in your fingers.

You regret. You regret deeply. You are so tired of watching people die, you think, and you regret more than anything else that you couldn't stop it.

Fourth, become enemies, but this time intentionally. Enemies, maybe, is a strong word; you're assigned co-parents, except bad, divorced ones. There's something hysterical about the whole thing, in both the comedic sense of the word and in the original, more concerning sense, especially given the way you all have thought about your best friend-now-son in the past. (Family ties are a thing you'll come to value; it's just that what the names are don't count, really, not when you do this again and again and again. Plus, it's nice to be able to have an excuse to yell.)

It's almost fun again. Maybe it's almost fun. You trade barbs with each other, and try to kill each other, and this time the consequences are light enough that you try to help each other, too. You see each other a lot. You're enemies, of course, but you see each other a lot, as you are: scared, and tired, and not as frightening as you appear, and happy, despite it all.

You don't regret much. You die fast and young, alongside your allies. You see his face before you do though, and you think he's the one with regrets.

Fifth, trip over him as you run across the first session of a new game. You don't know yet what this one will be, if it will be betrayals, or more stolen choices, or family, or fun, or anything else, but you look him in the eyes and make a choice. You will be friends this time instead of enemies. And it's nice. He and you fit together oddly now, but well, despite the oddities. You've had time to learn to, from a distance, and then closer and closer. (People seem baffled you're friends now. You wish you could explain that that's how these stories go sometimes.)

You're pretty certain he'll leave you when the time comes. He says he's a runner, and not a protector, and yet, when the time comes to betray you, you both know he won't hurt you, and you're both surprised anyway.

"You might regret this," you tell him quietly. You both have scars.

"You might regret this," he agrees. But you also both have choices.

"Okay," you say. "Have you ever fallen in love?"

"Cleo," he says, brushing your hair aside, and he doesn't answer.

"I don't think I have," you say honestly. "I think it's something else. Have you ever accidentally given someone a piece of your soul?"

"All the time," he says, and that's that.

The end is coming soon. You'll find out if you regret it.

[theaologies]

Emily and Wendell deciding they are life partners whether they’re romantic or not before they’re romantic at all and completely on accident without thinking about it whatsoever just because they’re absolutely fascinated by one another is SOOOOOOOOO good

[seagullcharmer]

not gonna elaborate

[denerturee]

Sweet dreams

[letojessica]

the red string of fate

wiktionary entry for “千里姻緣一線牽” // eloll, karen dolorez // jane eyre, charlotte brontë // najeebah al-ghadban // invisible string, taylor swift // x

[oh-wow-im-still-here]

Cursed au where before transmigration shen yuan was OBSESSED with tomodachi life and miitopia with luo binghe as the primary mii that he spoiled to death. He didn't use any QR codes, this binghe mii is crafted by his own two hands with PERFECTION. And no!!! He's not sharing his QR code on the forums!!!

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

albus severus is the human embodiment of be gay do crime, in this essay I will-

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Eddie and Steve are still both clueless about each other and their sexuality. Robin is just as clueless about them. Steve and Eddie both deal with unresolved sexual tension by arguing a lot. Steve, Eddie, and Robin are hanging out at Steve's place when yet another argument occurs.

Robin: Oh my God! Either make out or get out!

Eddie and Steve stop with wide eyes before looking at each other. They immediately start rambling incoherently, their voices joining together as they scoffed and laughed rather forcefully.

Eddie: I never never thought about -

Steve: Certainly never dreamed -

Robin: *her eyes wide* I was joking.

Eddie and Steve: I'm straight!

Robin: Right. . . *grabs their heads* I'm going to shake your heads, and if you dinguses start seeing rainbows, you're not straight!

Eddie: *shrieks* This doesn't sound like a very accurate test, Buckley!

Steve: We're not Magic 8 balls, Robin!

Robin shook their heads, and Eddie hollers until she lets go.

Eddie: I hat - Oh my God, I see them.

Steve: Fuck. Me too.

Robin: You see them because you want to see them. So, sources say. . .very likely.

Eddie and Steve look at each other with wide eyes.

Steve: We're, uh, going to go talk.

Steve pulled Eddie out of the room, and Robin breathed a sigh of relief.

Robin: Oh, thank God, I have no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I totally panicked. . .well, at least I can watch the movie in peace.

[somebluemelodies]

okay but like… if spiderbit did know each other as kids, there’s such a painful irony in q!Cellbit telling q!Roier in his vows that as soon as he saw his smile, he knew he wouldn’t forget it

head in fucking hands bro IMAGINE

[devondespresso]

EVERYBODY STOP I'VE HAD A VISION

Italian Steve teaching Robin how to cook by pulling out his Nonna's old cookbook (written in Italian) and making cooking another way for her to practice her Italian. maybe it makes her an awesome cook maybe they commit the fire extinguishers location to memory either way they have a blast trying

[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - June

It's around @russingon-week after all, I think...

Have some Russingon for your nerves :)

Now with art by @chechula!!! Go give them a follow!

Pairing: Maedhros x Fingon

Prompts: Wedding/Proposal, Saving the world, (accidental) love confession, “You aren’t what I expected”, Downpour, Soulmate AU

Words: 2 510

Warnings: Injury, prophetic dreams, gender confusion, soulmate AU, blood and rain

Nelyafinwë flexed his right hand absent-mindedly—he’d had another highly confusing dream in which a hand that seemed to be his own was pointing wildly at a blurry landscape in the distance.

Even now, hours after waking, he could not shake the gnawing sensation that he knew the outline of the faraway city, nestled at the foot of a mighty mountain, but, no matter how fiercely he frowned, the liberating recognition escaped him stubbornly.

“There you are,” his father exclaimed impatiently upon finding him ambulating under a quiet colonnade. “Your tutor is awaiting you!”

Nelyafinwë looked up, tempted momentarily to ask Fëanáro about the city in his dreams, but he didn’t dare.

Ever since his childhood, his family had owned and inhabited this vast estate. Nelyafinwë had, nevertheless, always been aware that they’d removed themselves from an entirely different, unknown society for reasons his parents adamantly refused to discuss.

He couldn’t shake the sensation that this imposed exile was somehow linked to him, and so he’d done his best to honour his family’s sacrifice by fulfilling his father’s every ambitious project and exaggerated expectation.

He was, Nelyafinwë thought as he ducked into the library, after all the oldest son, and he owed it to his brothers to be the best role model he could possibly be.

With the fanfare of hasty steps and rustling paper started this most fateful of days, looking much like countless ones before, which would end in the inevitable victory of fate over willpower.

In the afternoon, as he took another wistful stroll, Nelyafinwë passed by his father’s study and was struck by the high-pitched trill in his mother’s anxious voice.

His steps faltered for it was not in Nerdanel’s stolid nature to sound so distressed and breathless, not even in the presence of her formidable husband.

“He’s almost reached the age—” she whispered urgently. “Soon…”

“I care nought about the fate of the world,” Fëanáro thundered. “We’ve gone away so far that none even remember him—surely, whatever destiny that hooded, skeletal soothsayer has foretold for my son, shall not come to pass.”

“You have seven sons,” Nerdanel bellowed. “And if the Kingdom, your Kingdom, falls—what is to become of them? I’m afeared, ‘Náro. Can we truly outrun fate once it has been spoken into the world?”

Nelyafinwë did not hear what answer, if any, his esteemed father made to that passionate exclamation, for he was already racing headlong across the atrium towards the gate, desperate to escape the familial country home and lose himself amongst the old groves surrounding their estate.

All his darkest, most torturous suspicions had been confirmed, and he tended to agree with his mother—nobody, not even his father, could circumvent destiny.

The olive trees loomed dark and fertile on a nearby hill, and he plunged into the blessed shadow as fast as his long, toned legs would carry him.

Nobody should witness him as he came to terms with the terrible doom hanging over his helpless head—even a wretched fool had his pride.

Soon, though, he resented himself for his irrational, puerile reaction. He hadn’t even ascertained the nature of the prophecy that had so distressed his parents, and he knew only too well that being aware of the impending danger was ever preferable if one sought to ward it off.

Nevertheless, he was certain that nothing less than unbearable, unacceptable misery could have made his proud father leave his hitherto unmentioned family to hide away in the countryside.

His head was spinning with the devastating answers to old questions and new contradictions; surely, Fëanáro could not be part of the Royal House, could he?

This absurd revelation conjured up a new avalanche of guilt and despair in the young man; if his mother had spoken true, his father would have deserted his duty and deprived the whole family of a luxurious life for the sake of his oldest son alone.

At once, Nelyafinwë understood the deeper meaning of Nerdanel’s harsh words, and his eyes filled with tears of self-loathing and impuissant rage.

“Cry not, little princeling.”

Nelyafinwë looked up sharply upon hearing the ingratiating tone and the mellow voice coming from deep within the shade of the ancient trees.

“Who goes there?” he called, getting back to his feet to meet any intruder or foe head-on.

“I mean you no harm,” the voice resounded once more, followed by the discreet rustling of leaves and crunching of dry earth underfoot.

A moment later, a tall, beautiful stranger appeared, his mouth curled into a friendly smile—Nelyafinwë shivered in vague prescience.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact matter of contention, but something about that man struck him as odd and eerily uncanny.

“Did you have a falling out with your parents?”

Slowly backing away, Nelyafinwë stared at the long-fingered, broad hand extended towards him as one hypnotised by a snake about to strike.

“You cannot outrun them—you cannot outrun me!” Springing forth suddenly, the stranger grabbed the prince’s shoulders and shook him lightly.

Darkness—asphyxiating and absolute—descended upon Nelyafinwë’s senses, and he fell, insensate, into the waiting embrace of his terrifyingly charming captor.

Visions of his severed hand—pointing now to the sky, now to the dark abyss below his dangling feet—haunted his restless unconsciousness, and he struggled through bone-breaking agony back to the cold, glassy surface of the waking world.

As soon as he opened his eyes, Nelyafinwë understood that, as per usual, his mother had been right—there had never been the slightest chance of escaping his fate.

Thus, he was much less horrified than he should have been when he realised that he was chained to the sheer flank of a small mountain by his treacherous hand.

Somewhere overhead, he thought he could hear someone laughing wildly—Nelyafinwë was far too tired and proud to rile against predestination.

He hung his head and waited.

Findekáno awoke bright and early.

“The time has nearly come,” his mother said mournfully as she slowly poured fresh water from an earthen carafe into his goblet.

“I shall be ready!” he assured her confidently. His bright eyes were drawn to a ridge of faraway hills which separated the city from the remote wilds of the countryside. “I feel the need to travel, alone, to gather my spirits and strengthen my flesh.”

Anairë’s gaze grew soft, and she bent over her beloved firstborn to breathe a devoted kiss onto the crown of braided hair tenderly. “So it shall be then,” she whispered, smiling wistfully.

When she’d been heavy with child, a soothsayer had been brought to her, foretelling great feats of valour and puissance for her yet unborn child, and Anairë had never deemed it necessary to subsequently hide that momentous prophecy from her joyous, optimistic son.

“He shall save the kingdom by his fortitude, and true love shall be granted to him as a boon.”

Even now, as she took a sip of her honeyed wine, she could hear the scratchy, unfathomable voice of the hooded stranger echoing through her weary mind.

Often, she had wondered whether she should have spared Findekáno the terrible knowledge of a vague trial awaiting him, especially upon seeing how single-mindedly and grimly he trained to be prepared for every gruesome eventuality.

“It’s almost time—I can sense it. My dreams have been increasingly troubling as of late,” he confessed under his breath.

“The red-haired maiden with the silver eyes again?” Anairë asked understandingly, yearning to lay her cool hand on the feverish brow of her child as she’d once done through seemingly endless nights of debilitating fear. He’d since grown so strong that she doubted he’d ever need her support and comfort again—the thought pained her, but her gentle smile never wavered.

“I cannot see her clearly,” Findekáno mumbled. “She’s always somewhere very high up, blurred by clouds and mist, and yet I know her.”

He stood abruptly. “Please tell father that I wish him well and kiss my siblings in my stead. I shall return soon. I must go at once!”

“May you be victorious, my darling son,” Anairë sighed as she watched him go. Since the day he’d left the protection of her body, she’d not felt so scared on his behalf, so she lifted her head and squared her shoulders resolutely.

She would not quail in the face of destiny—she’d prepare for her son’s triumphant return.

Findekáno set out without delay, a light pack slung across his back, and made for the distant horizon resolutely.

His mind was still entranced with the blurry vision of a person he’d never met and yet had known all his life—he could not recall when the long-limbed, red-haired stranger had first slipped into his most intimate and intense dreams, but he could not consciously remember her ever not having been part of his hopes and fears either.

Maybe, she’d always been there. Maybe, she was a part of himself. Either way, he was determined to find her, and—if possible—fulfil his mother’s tender hopes by courting her.

By the time he re-emerged from his distracted musings about things that belonged to the realm of potential and phantasms instead of careful planning and saving wisdom, Findekáno had left the city far behind him and was clambering over rocks and down virgin gorges.

Still, his heart did not despond, and so he pressed on indefatigably until he reached a bare, forbidding cliff, its jagged outcrops drawing menacing shadows onto the mossy forest floor.

As he turned his gaze upwards in search of he knew not what, Findekáno saw dark clouds gather ominously, and—a mere moment later—heavy rain started falling like passionate, angry tears from the marred sky.

Through the sudden downpour, he could make out a flash of red, glimmering like a defiant torch behind the curtain of shivering grey.

Momentarily, he considered his trusty bow, but he could not trust his aim in the present meteorological conditions, and he didn’t know how feeble his fated lover would be from her ordeal.

“You always knew that it wouldn’t be that easy,” he chided himself, casting off his pack and weapons and clawing his bare fingers into the slippery face of the wet rock.

The ascent was as perilous as it was arduous, but long years of devoted preparation and stubborn training had made Findekáno far stronger and more resilient than any random, benighted wanderer who might have chanced upon so strange and shocking a sight.

At last, he reached a narrow ledge on which he could stand and rest.

Tilting his face upward, he let his eyes travel along dirty, bare feet and long, shapely calves in captivated speechlessness.

This wretched captive, he knew instinctively, was the person of whom he’d been dreaming his whole life…only, those alluring calves melted into bony knees and seemingly endless thighs.

Impatient by nature, he let his gaze move across narrow hips and a taut, pale stomach hastily until it came to rest, astonished and aghast, on a well-defined but unmistakably flat chest.

Findekáno’s stomach somersaulted and his bleeding, aching fingers went numb; he’d found the love of his life, the person who’d right all the countless wrongs of their realm, the very embodiment of his own elusive fate at long last.

His impervious, bold heart stuttered in his heaving chest. Who was he to question fate? Destiny made no mistakes, and he’d risked too much and come too far to turn back now without at least trying to meet this last exquisite challenge head-on.

“You’re not what I expected,” he blurted out.

“I’m ever so sorry if my impersonation of a deviously beguiled and betrayed abductee is not to your liking,” the other rasped, grey eyes flashing in tandem with the churning sky behind him.

“No, I am sorry,” Findekáno replied courteously. “I…surmised that you’d be a woman, but no matter. I’ve been waiting, hoping, wishing for you. My name is Findekáno.”

“I’d shake your hand, but…” the literal hanger-on smiled sharply. “My name is Nelyafinwë. I’ve learned…was it today? Yesterday? A month ago? I know not…that I was a prince. Before I could fulfil my glorious purpose, though, I found myself…between a rock and a hard place, if you will forgive my grim sense of humour.”

Findekáno nodded feelingly; he’d not brought any crafting tools, and even if he was to climb down again to fetch his bow and his dwindling food supplies, he wasn’t confident that he’d then be better equipped to free what was, in all likelihood, his soulmate.

Already, he felt the eerie but irresistible pull of a power far beyond his understanding or control ensnare every fibre of his being.

Instinctively, he understood that the time of struggle and fight was at an end—he wholeheartedly yielded to the warm chains of a nascent bond taking hold of him and rooting him to the bare rock underfoot.

“Have you come to a conclusion?” he then asked cautiously, ready and willing to follow his fated lover’s wishes and commands.

“The hand has to go,” Nelyafinwë replied dryly. “Unfortunately, I seem to be unable to pull myself up for long enough to gnaw it off.”

Horrified, Findekáno patted his belt. “I have a knife if that is of any use to you?”

Like all people who spent their lives waiting for one very specific event to happen, he was thoroughly overwhelmed and discombobulated by the sheer speed and chaotic violence with which that monumental incident tore through his existence like an avalanche.

Unafraid even in the face of certain devastation, Findekáno straightened in a touching imitation of his mother’s steadfast stance of devoted resolution.

“Hand it over!” Nelyafinwë groaned, stretching out a blood-stained, long-fingered hand.

“Will you marry me?” Findekáno asked, holding the lethal blade out of reach.

He knew not why these words had burst from his lips so uncouthly—he’d always envisioned a long courtship full of peaceful walks and tense repasts in flowering meadows—but he couldn’t deny that it felt right.

Surely, Nelyafinwë also sensed their uncanny link. Didn’t he?

Imprudent and nonsensical as his paroxysm of desperate affection was, he stood firm under the bemused scrutiny of those gorgeous, stormy eyes.

“Is that a proposal? Once I’m out of here, I’ll literally give you my hand in marriage,” Nelyafinwë chuckled darkly.

“Don’t you have to consult your parents?”

“You have no idea how much they’ve hidden from me,” the other commented with an exasperated sigh. “Serves them well. I can’t shake the feeling that this, gruesome as it is, was meant to happen. So, may I have your knife as a token of your suit?”

Surrendering the weapon wordlessly, Findekáno felt his heart soar—he slung his strong arms around the cool, slick legs of his fiancé to steady him and keep him from plummeting to his death as soon as he’d escaped his bonds.

It was wrong, he knew, but—standing on the edge of disaster while blood and rain plastered his tunic to his heaving chest—he was perfectly happy.

Thank you for reading!

-> Masterlist

[innytoes]

Happy birthday, @invisibleraven!

Have a page of Rulie's scrapbook in the Mildly Cracky Soulmate Tattoo AU you created.

[realitycanbewhateveridesire]

somebody stop me from scripting stupid shit into my drs. cuz i just scripted magic "soulmate-type" connection with caitlyn, in which if one gets gets injured the other also gets their injuries.

[deathbypufferfish]

MOSCAR ‼️‼️‼️‼️ 🌊🍊

Thank you Ai!!!! Please commission her or be damned for all eternity ❤️ @gunthermunch @glockzap