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suncityblues · 3 years

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Bad Luck and Sunshine

Part 1/5 - SPN - 3k words

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He can fit all his worldly possessions on the passenger seat of his car.

Car keys, red bic lighter, a toothbrush in a ziplock bag. Cellphone, charger, brown faux leather wallet. A maxed out credit card with the name James Ledbetter on it, and a fake ID to match the card. Fourteen American dollars, one Canadian quarter, a Blimpie’s buy-one-get-one coupon.

A pen with the name of a bank on it, a tin of salt. A paperback with a four leaf clover carefully pressed into the pages between the title and the acknowledgments, and that’s it.

Castiel taps the book in the spot where the clover is pressed. He can feel the slight bump of it.

“They’re supposed to be good luck,” Dean had told him with a shrug when Cas asked why he was rooting around in the grass that day. Dean had handed Cas the book with the clover inside and said, “I used to search for them sometimes when I was a kid. It’s dumb but, hey, I figure we could use all the luck we can get.” Dean had smiled softly then, a bit sheepish. The tips of his ears had gone red.

Back then the world had been ending, so Cas supposed Dean was right, they could use luck.

He remembers trying to be encouraging, saying something about the placebo effect that made Dean roll his eyes and laugh at the same time. He can’t quite recall the specifics of it anymore.

A while later he had reached out to the clover with his grace and found nothing particularly special about it, but kept it and the book anyway. He reaches out again, now, with what little of his power he has left. It’s still just as lucky as any other dead plant.

He takes stock of his possessions again, focusing in particular on the fourteen American dollars and the one Canadian quarter. He checks how much gas he has left in his car and it’s not much. If he keeps going he’ll have to choose between food and gas, just to run out of it again anyway.

He needs to eat sometimes now, and drink water. He needs a shower and a bed if he can get them. Clothes, shoes, soap, toothpaste. All of it costs money, and to get money you have to trade time. Castiel has always found that a little ridiculous but it’s not like he makes the rules anymore.

He’s been pulled over in a dark parking lot in a truck stop town called Laurel for a while now thinking about what to do. Sam and Dean had set him up with the card and the fake ID before he left and Cas doesn’t want to ask them for any more help. He decides Laurel is as good a place as any other to get stuck in.

It’s 9:52 on a Tuesday.

A day and a half later Castiel is once again employed at a gas station. He’d tried a diner, a vegetable canning factory, a hardware store, and a rundown CVS but the gas station is the first place that got back to him. They were short staffed after someone named Ricky had walked out, and desperately needed a replacement. Kendra, the manager, had said “it’s like you were sent by an angel!” When she read through his mostly fictional work history. It had made Cas laugh.

This one is called Sunshine Gas and Go. They have to wear ugly yellow polo shirts that say “Let me know how I can help make your day sunny!” On the back. They keep the beer on the left side of the cooler bank instead of the right and the jerky next to the self-serve coffee but aside from that it’s remarkably similar to a Gas-N-Sip.

He wonders bleakly if he should have been the patron of gas stations while he had the ability.

The angel of Thursday, the angel of gas stations, that’s Cas. The guardian of the spaces you have to pass through on your way to better days, better places.

He sometimes wonders how Nora’s doing; if her kid’s okay.

It takes Sam and Dean five weeks to cave and check in on him. Cas has been in Laurel for the last three.

They pretend to be on their way back from a hunt, a totally routine salt and burn, and just so happen to be refueling at that particular gas station in this particular truck stop, exactly fifteen minutes after his coworker leaves Cas alone to cover the overnight shift. It’s an obvious and flimsy excuse to make sure he’s okay, but he’s known them long enough to understand that obviousness and flimsy excuses to see one another are gestures of affection in the Winchester family. He finds it somewhat exhausting to witness, and even more so to experience but he doesn’t call them out on it.

He does, however, make pointed eye contact with Sam who waves his hands in a placating gesture behind Dean’s back and excuses himself to go stare at the overpriced air fresheners on the other side of the store. He had hoped Sam, at least, would have had the sense to text first.

On the counter next to the cash register there’s a plastic bin with a picture of a bald child in a hospital bed taped to it and some loose change inside. Dean picks the can up, looks inside it, shakes it a bit, puts it down. It’s mostly empty.

“You’d think people’d be a little more generous, what with the cancer kid at stake and all,” he says. When Cas doesn’t immediately reply Dean continues, “Or is this one of those, uh, charity scams? You know, where the evil mega corporation asks you to pretty please donate so they can use it as a tax write off?”

Castiel shrugs, he doesn’t know what the Sunshine Gas and Go does with the money. Says: “I’m not sure, Dean.”

He pretends not to see Dean stick some gum from the display under the counter into his coat pocket. He’s watched Dean do this before to other casheers, leaning close to flirt and making off with what he can. Cas supposes old habits die hard. The gum is sugar free cinnamon.

Dean sees him pretending not to see. He smiles big and bright, his nose does a little crinkle that Cas always liked. The term “shit eating grin” comes to mind, Cas must have heard it somewhere, probably about Dean that time too. He rolls his eyes and says, “How was your hunt? Were you or Sam hurt at all?” He can’t do much besides heal minor cuts and bruises these days, but for the Winchesters he’d still offer what he can.

Dean waves him off, “Fine, fine, got shoved around a bit but it’s nothing a cold compress and a good night’s sleep can’t fix.”

“Speaking of,” Dean segues in a breezyl tone Castiel knows is dangerous territory, “Where are you sleeping these days? You gotta sleep now right?”

The ghost of Rexford sits heavy between them, though it’s been years since then. Cas realizes being back at a gas station might have caught Dean off guard, or felt like some kind of dig at him. He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s just bad luck, and he’s not sure Dean would believe him if he did.

This time around he’s not squatting in the back room with the cleaning chemicals but he is sleeping in his car, just until he has enough money for a place to stay or decides to hit the road again. He knows that’s not anything Dean wants to hear.

“Yes, Dean, I need to sleep” he answers, then pauses. He considers lying but it never works out when he does, and this isn’t life or death; just embarrassing.

Besides, Sam and Dean are observant and thorough even during a glorified social visit, so Cas figures they’d put two and two together as soon as they walked in the door. There’s no way they hadn’t clocked his too-big thrift store jeans under the uniform shirt, or the circles under his eyes. The way his beard is a little patchy from shaving in the bathroom mirror in the truck stop visitor center. It’s likely they’d found his car in it’s discreet parking space at the edge of the lot before coming into the Sunshine Gas and Go.

Cas tries tactful honesty: “I’m saving up.”

And it’s true, he is, though he’s not sure what he’s saving up for. But every Friday he gets a paycheck and brings it to the check cashing place in town. After the fee, and groceries, and little necessities he carefully stores what little he has left in the locked glove compartment of his car, under the book with the clover in it.

Dean’s lips press flat together. He stops leaning over the counter and stands at his full height. He makes an aborted head shaking gesture. He speaks like there’s an awful taste in his mouth.

“So,” he says, slightly too loudly to pay it off as cool. Out of the corner of his eye Castiel sees Sam’s head wip towards them, no longer pretending he’s not eavesdropping.

“So, ah—“ Dean repeats, “you’re gonna, what? Drift around? Lay low in some podunk shit hole for the rest of your life?“ he stops, puts his hands on the counter to steady himself, or to keep from reaching over and grabbing him, Cas isn’t sure. A beat.

“You know what?” Dean says, “Nevermind.”

Cas deflates. He knows Dean disagrees with him leaving so soon after becoming human again, and feels guilty about so many things it’s hard for Cas to keep track of them all, but he knows he couldn’t stay either. Just like lying to the Winchesters, it never works out in the end. With almost no power, he’s no help to anyone, not Sam and Dean, not heaven, not even himself. It hurts to think about but maybe that’s just part of being human.

“Dean—“ he starts to say but he’s cut off.

“Don’t worry about it, man” Dean says, he taps the counter twice with his knuckles, “nice place you got here. I’m glad you’re doing alright.”

Dean swallows and abruptly turns to leave, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. Cas watches him go until Sam comes to the counter with two bottles of water, a coffee, and an energy bar.

He puts a twenty down, says apologetically, “For this stuff and whatever Dean stole on his way out.”

“Gum,” Cas supplies, and slides the twenty back towards Sam. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.

The cameras don’t work inside the store, and according to Joanna, the only reason they’re still up at all is to deter would-be armed robbers. Castiel watches less deserving people steal from them all the time, so it doesn’t seem worth it to take Sam’s money.

Sam shakes his head and gives him a flat smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He takes his things but leaves the twenty. Says, “See you around, Cas.” He pauses for a moment, and seems to debate something with himself. Then: “Check in sometimes if you can, okay? You know how Dean can be when he gets worried.”

Castiel knows. He waves to Sam as he walks off into the dark.

Cas checks the gum display, then manually rings up the items Sam bought. He puts the change into the plastic jar with the kid in the hospital bed on it.

A few days later a woman comes in with a ghost behind her. Cas checks the time to keep from gaping. 11:27 AM.

The ghost is a man, perhaps in his mid forties. Too young to be dead, but Cas supposes most people feel that way when they die, no matter how old. When the woman comes to the counter and gives him thirty dollars to put on pump six he sees a wedding ring on a chain around her neck. He puts two and two together.

“That’s a lovely necklace” he says, he looks directly at the ghost when he says it. They make eye contact. The ghost does a sharp inhale for a moment and the lights flicker. The ghost disappears.

Cas frowns, “Sorry about that. It happens all the time,” he lies. He wonders if he could purify the ghost with what powers he has left, that way she wouldn’t have to burn her wedding ring.

The woman seems caught off guard, then smiles politely.

“No worries, it happens all the time at my house too. Must be a faulty power grid in this town or something, my kids swear it’s a ghost or something,” she says.

There’s an apprehensive edge to her voice then, hastily: “have a good one.”

“You too,” Cas says. He thinks about following her out, trying to explain. He thinks about texting Sam and Dean.

The slushie machine makes a mechanical crunching sound and suddenly there’s red goop all over the ground.

Joanna starts yelling and runs for the mop. He goes to unplug the machine and gets sticky pink syrup all over his last clean pair of pants. The ghost slips his mind.

Two days later Dean shows up by himself. It’s 6:43 in the morning on a Tuesday.

Cas has been finished with work for fifteen minutes already but there’s a rush at the end of his shift so he says on to help Javier and Kendra out. It’s mostly people stopping for gas on their way to work, or truckers picking up breakfast before heading back on the road. He doesn’t mind sticking around in the mornings, everyone’s usually too tired to be angry and it’s a nice break from the drunks and the sad eyed kids he usually meets on overnights. The extra money doesn’t hurt, either.

Cas doesn’t notice Dean until he’s placing two coffees on the counter in front of them.

His first words are a surprised, “Oh, hello Dean. Where’s Sam?” Which makes Dean huff, and shift from one foot to the other.

“Not here,” he says, then points at the coffee closest to Cas, “That one’s for you. Milk, no sugar still, right?” Cas nods. He knows this is Dean Speak for an apology. He can feel Javier and Kendra look over at them from behind the other register and the cigarette display, respectively.

Dean smiles, all charm but Cas can tell his face looks a little more drawn than usual, like he’d been driving for too long without a break, “You get off work soon?”

Kendra answers for him, “Yes, he does.” She has a maternal look on her face when Cas turns to her. Javier rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“Shoo,” she says, with a smile. She points at the slogan on his uniform shirt, “Go have a sunny day, James.”

Dean nods, “Yeah, James. Have a sunny day.” There’s that smile again.

Cas closes out his register and gets his coat from the back room. Dean’s waiting for him outside, drinking his coffee and leaning against the Impala. The lighting is the soft grey-blue of the morning, and it feels nice compared to the white fluorescents of the store.

Before Cas can say anything Dean scrubs at the back of his neck, then says, “This coffee tastes like piss. Let’s get breakfast.”

There’re a few diners in town but Cas has never been to any of them. Dean picks one on a whim, because the sign has a 1950’s pinup girl in a skimpy waitress uniform.

It’s warm inside and smells nice, like syrup and strong coffee. Dean orders something called The Lumberjack Platter and when Cas tells the waitress, “Just coffee, thanks” Dean overrides it and orders him scrambled eggs with a side of sausage and toast.

“My treat,” Dean says. Cas shakes his head but doesn’t fight him on it.

Dean avoids talking about anything personal. Instead they mostly chat about the case Sam and Dean are currently working on. Apparently they’ve hit a wall with the research and Sam’s been holed up at the bunker for days pouring over blueprints and hacked security footage. There’s a cursed object in a locked bank vault in Little Rock that’s making people have violent outbursts. The questions are: why did it start acting up now, which lock box it’s in, and how to get to it.

Cas wishes he could still fly, then at least he’d be able to solve two of their problems. He runs the idea of trying to find a spell to make the object useless by Dean and Dean types it into his phone to send to Sam. A moment later it lights up with a call but Dean mutes it and sticks the phone back in his pocket.

Dean changes subjects and tells him about the latest Dr. Sexy storyline, about a vampire nest he took out a few years back, about running into Garth in Topeka. Cas talks about the gas station a bit but mostly just listens. He always likes listening to Dean talk.

When they leave the diner and get back into the Impala, Cas realizes this is the first time he’s enjoyed himself in a long while. He smiles over at Dean, expecting to be asked where he’d like to be dropped off. He’s thinking about the park by the river on the far side of town, it’s a long walk back to the truck stop but he likes to watch the trees shift in the wind and the fresh air there is a nice change from diesel fumes. Instead Dean says, “You still don’t got a place to stay right?”

Cas nods cautiously. He puts his hand on Dean’s upper arm and, not willing to let the day go south, says sternly, “I assure you Dean, while I’m not strictly an angel anymore I still don’t need nearly as much rest as you or Sam do…”

Dean nods at the steering wheel, his jaw moving. Cas can tell he’s also trying to not turn this into a fight.

Dean shifts towards him, Cas keeps his hand firmly on Dean’s arm. The energy in the car changes and suddenly Cas realizes where this is going. Dean puts one hand on his waist and the other comes to rest on Cas’ neck behind his ear. Cas breathes in sharply.

“Dean,” he says, then he broaches the subject he’d been painstakingly avoiding all morning: “Why did you come here today?”

Dean blushes and goes still for a moment, he swallows but doesn’t say anything. After a moment tugs him in gently and Cas takes pity on him. Dean tastes like maple syrup.

It’d been a while since they’d done this, but they fall back into it easily. After a few moments of kissing Dean pulls back. Their foreheads and noses are still touching and they’re breathing hard.

“What I was trying to say was, uh,” his ears get red at the tips, “that I got a room at that Budget Motel by the gas station.”

All Cas can think of to reply is, “Oh, I’d like to see it.”

It makes Dean laugh and wiggle his eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah wanna come up and see my art collection?” He says. Cas doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he likes that Dean keeps his hand on his thigh while they drive.

By the time Cas wakes up for his next shift Dean is gone. There’s a text on his phone that says Sam finally had his breakthrough based on something Cas had said. Then a second one that tells Cas the room is paid through till the end of the week. He can stay in it or not, doesn’t matter to Dean one way or the other. A third one that just says: Thanks.

Cas lays in bed for a moment enjoying the soft sheets and suddenly remembers the ghost.

++++++++++

Thanks for reading :)

#spn #supernatural #destiel #deancas #Dean Winchester/Castiel #supernatural fanfic #my fic #dean winchester #castiel

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rebelliouslala · 5 years

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Oddity in the Universe (Renjun soulmate au, college au, Mark Lee best friend, fluff! ~8.8k words -some language-)

pls feel free to give me feedback!! thank u and I hope u enjoy :))

Your parents always told you about the cute stories they had when they met their soulmates. How your dad met Uncle Eric before your mom, with a string tied on his left thumb at a college party. Your mom met her soulmate, and she saw color for the first time. You never met him though, but he was amazing. At least that’s what Mom said. Life couldn’t get better. You were taught as a child all kinds of connections one could have to their soulmate; that you had someone to spend the rest of your life with. The thought of it of course drove you mad. Someone to love? Someone to laugh with? Someone to be happy with? The thought of a real soulmate was strong and true. Your best friend, Connie has a tattoo of their first words on it. As a child you would make fun of it.

“Haha, it’s ‘fuck you!’” You tease, poking at it with a finger. “W-Well. . .” Connie would start, but her tongue would twist. She never had the comeback ready for you. Your little brother, Simon has a silver necklace, half of a heart. Once you hid it, and he freaked the hell out, begging your dad what happened to his “Soul Heart” necklace. In middle school, you asked your teachers more about soulmates. After all, it’s such an interesting topic, just to even have in your world. You mainly asked your history teachers, they knew the most about soulmates besides your parents.

“What’s your hint?” They would ask, expecting some sort of trinket, or power to reveal itself. “I was wondering if you would know,” you would ask shyly. No answer. Even the doctors couldn’t pin it down. No tattoos. No words. Nothing. Most of your days you heard new reports on new soulmate connections, so you had hope. But with each year, each new way, you felt more hopeless. How long would it take for them to find you and make you happy?

Lee Mark, your best friend since you were four, well his soul connection is unique. If you touched his bare skin, he bruised, so he was waiting for his soulmate to touch him and not be hurt. You often give him bruises on his butt, and he would jump back and cuss you out. He still would let you hug him, especially on the days where you felt like crying and screaming at the universe for an answer. Even when you wanted to date, or try to see who it was, they had their own connection. Everyone was waiting for their own soulmate. “And it’s like. . .” You sigh, exhaling out, holding Mark even closer. He only let out a quiet hiss, but he stayed still, letting you bruise him. “No one wants me. I’m just waiting, and no one knows.” Mark shrugs and plays with your hair. “The universe will figure it out for you. Maybe it’s new?”

“That’s what everyone says,” you mutter, and you feel your tears prick as you hold him with a loosened grip, knowing you’re hurting him. Just as much as the universe is hurting you.

“Do you think I’ll ever find them?”

Mark holds your face and sighs, “Don’t worry. The universe will make you happy. No one in the history of Earth has never had a soulmate. Well, except God but you know.” You laugh gently and you wipe your own tears.

“Do you realize that you’re so lucky? My soul connection is through pain. You. . .all you have to do is search. We’re going to college soon. You’ll find them there, we will even fly around the world if we have to.” You hug him again, and he hugs back.

“Promise?”

“Pinky. Now get up, your mom is making me some ice cream.” You laugh and follow your best friend off the roof, and back into your bedroom window. You pause however, and look at the stars above. This night is so pretty. The stars glimmer just like the butterflies in your own stomach. You close them, and open them just in time for a shooting star.

“I-I wish. . .” You mutter quietly, holding your hands tight. “I wish I could meet them. . .Please.” You jump off the roof with a quiet, but almost relieved sigh after your quiet prayer, and the stars twinkle even brighter after.

“BRING ME BACK A STUFFED ANIMAL!” Your little brother, Simon hugs you tightly.

“Maybe, if you’re good for Mom and Dad. I’ll see you during Christmas okay? I’ll call Santa too to see if you’re good.” Your mom hugs you tightly, smiling and sniffling as she wears mismatched colored clothes. “Good luck on your journey.”

You laugh and you hug her tighter, “It’s college.”

“It’s where you’ll meet your soulmate, Y/N! I know it, now go with Mark, he’ll protect you.” Your cheeks flush, mainly from embarrassment. Anyone who even hung out with Mark for a second knew he couldn’t even save himself. Because that was Connie’s job. But not only for that reason did you get fidgety. It was because your mother could be right.

“I can do it myself. I love you Mom, and I’ll see you.” Mark honks, mouthing at you to hurry your ass up. You roll your eyes, and quickly kiss your mom and brother goodbye before running to Mark’s car. Connie giggles softly and looks at Mark, as he revs the engine. “Finally, bye Mrs. L/N!” You roll your eyes, “Drive.”

Mark pulls out of your driveway, moving out of the street, then out of the neighborhood, where the small red house fades into a small dot. You gulp the feeling down, holding yourself.

“So what’s Korea like?” Connie looks at the book she purchased, a Korean translation book. Mark shrugs, and scratches his head, “I mean, it’s cool. Just follow my lead.”

He turns on the radio as Connie leans back in her chair, “We have kind of different rules. Like respecting elders, uh. . .” He scrunches his nose up in thought before shrugging again. “That’s all I can remember, but I also know the language better than any of you guys. . .so just lemme be your tour guide.” Connie nods and she looks back at you, “Whatever, Lee.” It’s a strange distance from the window to your family saying goodbye. It felt too long, too real to say goodbye. You hold your hands again closely, looking down.

“Y/N!”

You turn and you’re already at the airport. You felt lightheaded just at the short passage of time, looking around. The drive from your small town in Canada to the airport in Toronto made you almost dizzy. “You alright?” Mark holds your shoulder. You nod slowly, blinking. The three of you all wait in your airport gate after a half an hour of just waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting in line. Your thumb is on your right hand, circling the back of it. The sunset outside is beautiful, and you lean back, watching it, admiring it. The sky mixes, slow like time, into the colors you once wore as a child. Orange, pink, yellow, a light red. How it easily slips from one spot to another, fading into the other like a puzzle piece. It is pure perfection made by the universe.

“It’s so pretty,” you murmur, your body instinctively moving to the windows. Just watching how the sun hid behind the far off hills, where your little town was. You feel your heart begin to ache. Before any tears, or any regretting thoughts could come into your mind, your friends grab you. “Y/N they just called us!” Connie pulls you back to the gate. Mark whispers in your ear, and you could hear the pout in his voice, even when you can’t see him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, let’s just go,” you exhale, and you grab your black suitcase, when someone else grabs your hand on top of yours. The birthmark on their right hand, a dull gray color, pops into a new color. The sunset pink, just like outside the windows, the pretty sky. Their pinky brushes on the same birthmark on your right hand as well. The colors change as well, into a bright but relaxing tree leaf green, vibrating into a pretty dark green. The feeling in your stomach drops. There's a chill down your spine and your cheeks flush. Your whole body explodes with warmth like a hug. You freeze, your breath stuck in your own throat. It’s impossible. A new connection? But your whole body bounces back in excitement, and you step back in surprise and you meet the eyes of the person.

His eyes are a dark honey color, it’s almost enriching how sweet they look at you. Everything else on his face is hidden by a black face mask. Your fingers feel heavy, aching to just push the mask down so you see the rest of his face. There’s a quiet silence around you, and you can barely think. That feeling lingers in your body, every atom inside you. He created that. That feeling. The ripple in your skin. The fireworks in your heart. The explosion in your mind. The shaking of your stomach. It’s so loud, but it feels so right. His hand is soft, and warm. Canada is usually cold this time of year, but how he made you feel safe, like you’re on a vacation island, bathing in a warm summer sun. You reach out for him again, after for what felt like days. Both of you touch each other’s hands, and close your eyes. The feeling makes you laugh quietly, and tears form in your eyes. It’s him. Your soulmate, the person you spend the rest of your life with. Would you marry him? Date him? Or just laugh and spend every night cuddling? You didn’t care honestly. Anything sounded good, sounded like a dream come true.

He finally speaks. His eyes are open and he looks down at you. You didn’t even note how he is the perfect height for you to hug and kiss his chin. If he wanted that, of course. You open your mouth and murmur, “I-I don’t. . .uh. . .I don’t speak that language.” Another young man behind your soulmate grabs him, whispering in his ear. The man sighs, speaking back to him. The sweet look in his eyes dissipates, and you look down uncomfortably. The feeling fades. As much as you want to continue this, this feeling of just home. Of acceptance, you forgot where you are. He’s traveling, probably not even to the same place you are. You’re going to college. The universe had only wanted you to feel this for a moment, you assume. He hands you a piece of paper. It’s folded in half, in near perfection. Before you can even open it, he whispers something in your ear. He gives you a wave, going off to his airplane gate shouting something in his language. But you understood. Somehow you did. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

According to the piece of paper, his name is Huang Renjun. It has his number, written quick and fast. There’s a small bit at the bottom, a green heart. “So. . .Renjun huh?” Mark says, punching your side. “He’s your soulmate~,” Connie claps her hands, smiling to herself as she puts her luggage above her, people behind her grumbling. “What is he like? Did you guys say anything?”

“They were staring. Fucking cowards.” Mark laughs at you. “I thought you guys would at least exchange names. Pleasantries. Your soulmate story SUCKS so far, Y/N.” You’re already sitting down, not listening to your friend’s remarks. Huang Renjun. He’s perfect, as far as you know. But what did you know? All you know is that feeling when he touches your birthmark. The thought passes through, that maybe he feels the same way. That feeling, that sweet touch to the heart, like hot chocolate down your throat on a cold winter evening- or to contrast, a nice refreshing, cold event, drink on a hot, late summer noon. All you really know is how he makes you feel. You hug your own body as Mark moves to the window seat, and you smack his ass. “What the hell—? Hey! Now it’s going to hurt!”

“That’s what you get for calling my soulmate and I stupid,” you sigh, and he sits down. “I never said you guys are stupid, I mean like you guys never know said anything.” You shrug and purse your lips quietly. “I kind of wanted to kiss him.”

“PREMARITAL KISSING? Y/N WHAT WOULD YOUR PARENTS THINK?” Connie gasps as she sits between you two. Some people shush Connie, and she flips them off. “Well, isn’t there a myth about like, connection signs? If it’s platonic or romantic?” Mark gasps and his face twists to that dumb smile. “Dude~, gimme your hand!” Connie and Mark lean over your hand. “It’s the color from the sunset!” Connie whispers to herself. “Oh no,” Mark frowns. “This could mean it just shows what he saw, Con,” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It could just mean that’s the first thing he saw, AND felt. What did his hand change into, Y/N?” You give a soft shrug. “Green. Like a bright one. And he did talk to me, he called me ‘love.’” Your friends give you a look, smiling devilishly. “No,” you groan, turning around, your back facing them. “Yes~,” Mark sings as he pokes you. “Your soulmate and you are going to have soulmate babies~,” You cover your face, shaking it. “I-I probably won’t ever see him again. And those are just myths. Let’s go to sleep, I’ll try to text him once we get off the plane.”

“But I wanna—!” Mark whines, and you hit his hair like a feather floating down. “Sleep!” You command, and your friends grumble, as Connie snuggles up near you, and Mark leans on the window. You barely notice how nice your dream was when you wake up in the morning. You gag out, starting to choke out a napkin, drowned in your drool. Connie is up, reading a book and yawning to herself. “Morning, sleepyhead.” Mark is wearing an eye mask and ear plugs, and you frown, rubbing your eyes as you mumble quietly, “He never wears those. . .”

“Yeah well you were repeating your soulmate’s name a lot last night. I put a napkin in your mouth to shut your ass up.” You rub your eyes more, shrugging it off. “I-I’m going to sleep more.”

“We have two more hours on this stupid airplane and then it’s college.” Connie says to herself. “Please don’t wake up Mark.” You roll your eyes, turning over and falling back asleep. The dream this time is blurry, his eyes covered by blonde pieces of hair. You didn’t even notice how his hair looked when you first saw him. What is he wearing? What was his outfit? Why can’t you hear his voice? You sit up immediately at the voice of Mark groaning loudly. “Y/N. GET. YOUR. ASS. UP. WE. LANDED.” After scrambling your large suitcase down and your small yellow backpack, you run out of the gate. You text your parents that you’ve arrived in Korea. Before you can make a new contact for your newly founded soulmate, you move through the crowds and lines again. Mark is in front of you and Connie, spitting out enough Korean to pass you all to where you can pick up the rest of your luggage. You groan, your legs knocking together the second you fall on the seats at the baggage area, finishing with a quiet breath of relief. It had been an hour and a half of trying to pass through immigration and customs, but luckily Mark and other attendants had helped you. You rub your eyes softly, and yawn. How you wish and yearn for your soulmate, or even your stupid little brother to hug you. This whole process of moving to Korea still stresses you out. It had been a year of applying of Korean colleges, applying to live in Korea, working long hours to pay for this. But now you’re here. Just a little more and you would be sleeping in your dorm. Connie rubs your back, and Mark grabs all of your luggage, grunting as a few of Connie’s makeup bags fall out of his hands. “Can you guys hail down a taxi to the college? It should take a whistle or so.”

You wave Connie off, mumbling that you got it covered, letting her hold your things as you walk outside to where all of the taxis are, and where drivers pick up others. It’s like an endless field of yellow cabbies, large black vans with the thunder and bass of people talking. You wave down a cab after what feels like days of just passing through people to get near the street. The cab drives off with a customer already inside. The next cab takes the person behind you. After a few minutes of failure, you flag down an empty cab. A sigh of relief pours out, and you stretch happily. You just wanted to get into a bed and nap all of this bullshit off. A large black taxi pulls up, and a man in a black face mask gets in. You frown, trying to talk to the man, falling on deaf ears. The driver turns back and speaks to the man. You nod your head in thanks to the driver. The man, after a second of grumbling, gets out. He quietly scoffs, pushing his blonde hair back as he looks at you, but you both freeze. It’s only for a scene, it’s only for a second. But the feeling before rushes back like a flood, and that dumb smile appears on your face.

“Renjun?!” He nods, laughing to himself as you smile to yourself as well, chuckling. You wrap your arms around his waist the moment you both lean in, hugging tightly. Your hands clasp together, locking him in. His arms around the middle of your back, stroking lightly with his thumb, you laugh softly to mask your teary eyes. Your heart melts just at how warm he is, how he is just at how nice he felt. Just at how comfortable this truly is. Fate didn’t let you two apart, and you held him closer. He’s here. Your soulmate and you are here together, a small tear creeps down your face. Years of hope, of praying, of wishing for love and companionship is here, in your very arms. You didn’t want to let go. Renjun chuckles to himself, and he gently strokes your hair. His voice is so soothing as he speaks in Korean; You pout to yourself, opening your mouth to say quietly that you can't understand again.

But you stay quiet. The words flow through your mind slower now. You hold him closer with each word, a smile spreading on your face. “. . .it must’ve been a long flight. You look so pretty today—well, this morning. Heh, how long was it to get through customs?” You look in his eyes, your smile growing wider. “I-I can understand you!” Your feet start to bounce on their own, and your teeth show as you laugh. Renjun looks down at you, confusion dancing in his eyes. “What?”

“I didn’t know what you were saying!” He pauses, his eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“You were speaking Korean at the gate, I didn’t understand; what you were saying.” Renjun snickers, his eyes glowing before he starts to laugh, “Wait—, you don’t know Korean?” You pout gently, “No,”

“And you’re here? In Korea? Aww,” Renjun chuckles, his hand on your cheek. “You have to learn how to learn multiple languages, like me!” You roll your eyes, trying to stifle your laughter. He really is perfect. But maybe not that perfect. With a smirk, you touch his birthmark. He gives a small shriek, his eyes fluttering. You laugh at his reaction, going only closer to him. “Ah, I kind of hate it when you do that.” Renjun grumbles. “Why? I love it. I’ve always wanted to know my soulmate connection.” You say, letting his hands go between your arms and holding you close, like a teddy bear. “Mm, I never really,” Renjun hesitates, his chin on your shoulder, leaning down to reach it. “I never really cared for soulmates. But—,”

“Y/N L/N SWEAR ON THE UNIVERSE GET YOUR ASS HERE!” Connie yells at you, holding four of your bags. Shit. You look behind you, not even thinking as you kiss Renjun’s face mask, where his cheek is. “I’m sorry, I have to go; can we go on a date near Incheon Uni? I’ll be around there, text me!” You run back, and Renjun is frozen, his eyes wide like saucers. Not even thinking twice you grab yourself bags, stuffing them into the truck. “Were you making out with him?” Mark grumbles, sitting in the back seat. “No,” you get in, looking back at Renjun, who waves hysterically, some other men standing next to him. “Fuck! Dammit Mark,” Connie gives him some money and she gets in, with the taxi driving away. Your entire body wants to burst. You want to run back to him. But you wave back, giggling quietly. You immediately get out your phone as Mark talks to the driver. “So~?” Connie nudges you. You type Renjun a text message of the nearest cafe near your college, for a “soul-date.” You look up, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear, “Huh?”

“Oh my god what did you say?” Connie gasps, taking the phone away from you. You whine as you try to reach over, Mark shushing you both. “Shut the hell up or I’ll have this driver turn his ass around!” Connie scoffs as she changes your text, “What in the hell is a ‘soul-date,’ Y/N?” She mutters. “It’s a date. . .but for soulmates. . .” You say to yourself. “Jesus Christ don’t say that.” Mark sits back, rubbing his temples. You cross your arms, “But come on! He’s my soulmate! Who cares?” Mark leans over and gasps. “You invited him to our college? What if he’s like 30?”

“He looks kind of young.”

“You’ve only seen his fucking eyeballs, Y/N.” Connie laughs.

You grab your phone back, looking down at it and holding it close, “I’ll just send it, and we’ll see what happens.” You read over your text, “Hey Renjun, this is Y/N, as you probably know. I have a location for a soul-date :), interested?” You shrug, not even trying or wanting to overthink it, pressing send. Mark takes your phone away and puts it in the back of the taxi, where your luggage is. “Hey—!” You lean back, pouting and cursing his name. “Relax. We’ll get it. Now, look around you. I told you we were going to find your soulmate, and you did.” Mark pinches your nose with care, his fingertips only applying little pressure. Connie points to the pretty, shining sea. The high, late morning sun paints it a dazzling bright blue. The driver, at request of Mark, plays the radio, and it blasts a new Korean girl group song. Connie gasps and starts to dance and sing along, incorrectly pronouncing the words. Mark yells at her, smacking her head and helping her pronounce it. You go along, trying to learn with Connie. “Jesus no—Connie that’s how you saw it. You’re saying it like urine.”

“I DON’T KNOW KOREAN!” She screams back.

“BUT YOU CAN READ IT?” Mark yells back. You giggle, looking back and forth between them. “SHUT UP Y/N!” Connie yells at you both, making you only laugh louder. The driver turns up the volume, as you start to pronounce the words, trying to rap with the next verse. Mark laughs at you, rapping along with ease, flipping you all off. Connie leans forward to bend his finger back, sticking her tongue out. After a good ten minutes of you trying to learn, Connie cussing out Mark and him trying to shake her off, you arrive at Incheon University. The entire campus is split in half by the pretty, but small parks in the middle, and you can still see the ocean next to the campus. Near the left of you was a tall and dark tower that looked like an hourglass. Your heart sinks just realizing about the responsibilities you have to go through. Learning more Korean, figuring out a schedule, classes, studying. You touch your birthmark, sitting up. You have your soulmate on your side. No matter what, he’ll be there, even in spirit. From your hand outward, it sends chills and you widen your eyes. The feeling repeats twice, and you smile to yourself. Renjun really is perfect. The driver pulls up to the dorm rooms, as Mark instructs him. Mark pays him, speaks to him, ending with a chuckle and a gracious thank you. Connie gets out, and you get out with a nod to the driver, and you grab your bags and luggage.

“Oh shit, my phone!” You realize and grab it.

“A soul-date? Whatever you say, love, how about tonight?” Renjun texted back, and your stomach does a couple of cartwheels. With a soft squeal, you close your eyes and bounce. Dragging your things inside your dorm was a pain. Mark helped you as much as he could, starting off with a couple of boxes, but Connie and you -luckily you both are roommates- had everything handled. Your black, sleek desk the university offered is covered in drawings you made, and some art supplies in the drawers. The mirror is pictures of Mark, Connie, your family, your dumb brother, which hangs besides your bed. The bed is pushed close to the back wall, meaning one wrong turn over and you could fall off, but you could also charge your phone easily. The closet is now hung with hoodies and jackets, shoes at the bottom of the closet, along with a box of your most treasured items in life. You lay on your freshly made bed, finally finished in the evening.

“Fuck~!” You groan. “Shut up and go text your soulmate. I’m looking on SoulConnects to see if anyone has the other half of my tattoo.” You quickly lean over, towards the wall, on your charging phone. Picking it up, you see Renjun has texted you twice.

4 hours ago.

“SHIT!” You scream and sit up, unplugging your phone and reading his messages.

“So, we’re meeting up tonight, right?” A half an hour later he texted you again. “What time, love?” Your fingers smash the keyboard as you curse at yourself. Why in the everloving hell would you do this? You’re in college! This is going to prepare you for your whole life! Shaking your head, almost like a dog shaking off disturbing water on its body, you text back, “Sorry! I just moved into my apartment—,” You pause. Should you lie? He’s your soulmate. Your eyes close as you breathe to calm yourself down. “Sorry, I just moved into my dorm. You can name the time, and I’ll meet you at that coffee shop?” Sent. You get up, going to your closet, looking at it. You sigh, looking through outfits. You’ve seen your soulmate in only leggings and hoodies. Sure that’s a chill, laidback outfit, but you scratch your arm in worry. Your hand hovers over a shirt, eyeing another skirt. He’s your soulmate. He wouldn’t care if you wore weird socks to your wedding— “Hey.” You scream, hiding in the small empty corner in your closet. Connie chews on chips, looking around. “You looked weird just standing there. What’s going on?” You stand back up, patting down the bits of dust bunnies. “Oh, I-I uh, Renjun and I just planned our date.” She continues to crunch, and looks around, before meeting your eyes. “Don’t wear the skirt, it’s overkill. A cute top and jeans, hair in a high ponytail.”

“How did you—?” You start to ask, widening your eyes. “Because I was behind you when you were thinking, like an idiot. Wear a warm jacket, a jean jacket will do.”

“Not a Canadian suit,” you groan. “Hey, it’s a good outfit!” Connie shoots back, going back to her side of the dorm, “Tell me when you’re leaving so I can distract Mark.” Your phone buzzes, and you grab your phone just in time for Renjun’s message. “A half an hour, I’m near there already, but I’ll give you time to walk over from the dorms.” Your fingers start to type back before a new message pops up. “Or I can pick you up?” Your heart skips a beat, your face flushing. How could he do this so easily? It’s almost effortless. “Sounds great, I’m at 323. See you.”

“See you soon, my love.”

The nickname, that little name of affection makes your heart flutter. Immediately you grab a dark pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. Your finger hesitates over the jean jacket. He already knows you’re Canadian. You grab your favorite black puffy jacket, putting it on along with your other clothes. “SO?!” Connie yells at you, scrolling on her phone. You close the closet door, yelling at her back, “IT’S A DATE!”

“Thank God,” you hear your friend mumble to herself. After a good minute, you walk out of your closet, with the new outfit on. Connie walks around you, inspecting your outfit. “Hmm. What kind of bra?” You wrap your arms over your chest. “What?!”

“I don’t know. Is it lace or a pick up?”

“Jesus— get out, I’m going to do my hair.” You grumble, pushing past your best friend, red painted on your cheeks. You grab your own hair into one hand, drawing your hair up into it with the other hand. Connie sits on her bed, watching you, trailing her tattoo gently as she hums. “You look nice, wear some nice white shoes. It would go along perfectly.” You roll your eyes, but look at the white shoes. You hate it when she’s right. Putting them on, you go to your small bathroom you both share, standing back from the sink and looking at your whole body. “YOU LOOK GREAT, SWEETIE!” Connie yells, back to scrolling on her phone. “THANK YOU!” You giggle to yourself, and there’s a knock on the door. Damn, time did fly by. You run out to open the door, but Connie is already there. His voice sends chills down your spine. He’s here. “Hello, does uh, Y/N live here?” You giggle quietly at him mispronouncing your name. “I don’t uh, speak that.” Connie says quietly, for the first time in a while, she herself is speechless. You peek out, a stray hair falling over your eye. Renjun stands there, brushing his hair back in anxiety, and his eyes slowly trace the room, before he meets yours. His mouth curls up, and he gives a little wave. “Hey, beautiful.”

You and Renjun walk down the stairs to go outside, the sun ready to set. The end of his nose is flat but the structure is pointed out. You note to yourself, if this relationship pushes to romantic levels or affectionate levels, to kiss it as much as you can. His lips are perfectly thin, and his skin is clear. It’s so relaxing to see his whole face, besides it being hidden. Renjun hums to himself happily, softly bopping his head with a smile. You can’t shake off that awkward feeling. You want to say something, besides the weather. All of those questions you wanted to ask earlier just disappeared. Why? You should be jazzed—, no. So happy that he’s here.

“What’s your major here?” He asks, looking at you. You look up at him to respond, before your foot misses a step, and gravity decides to mess you up. Renjun easily grabs your arm with kindness, stepping down the two steps to flat ground, and catching you. Renjun laughs softly to your shaken state, he helps you stand back up. “Glad to know you’re clumsy,” You thank him quietly, your cheeks pink before you shake your head with confusion. “Wait what?” Renjun smiles at you, his eyes moving away at the last word, “So I can continue to catch my clumsy soulmate.” Both of you continue to walk, and you’re speechless. Did he just fucking use a pick up line on you? Your cheeks heat up and you continue to look down. Today is just a whirl of emotions, and it’s all because of him. “I, uh, I’m majoring in Art.” You say finally, going to open the door to outside, but he opens it for you, smiling at you. “Art? That’s amazing! What do you draw?” You shrug, going through the threshold, clearing your throat. Why were you so nervous? So anxious? “Uh, I mean. . .” trying to take a deep breath, he looks at you, frowning gently as he slowly touches your hand. “What’s wrong?” He says gently, his voice as sweet as cotton candy. You close your eyes, and just his touch, his fingertips on the back of your hand, relieves you. You slowly hold his hand back, and let out that breath you’ve been holding, “Mmm, I’m nervous. I’ve always wanted a soulmate. I just feel like I don’t know you well.” Renjun looks at the sky, the sun going down, and the sky turns into a beautiful painting. “Well, it’s okay, I would love to see your art, and I can show you my own, too.” You shake your head, as you both walk, and you grip his hand a little tighter, “I mean, like your favorite stuff. The basics.”

“Is this 21 questions?” He laughs, and he lets you hold onto one of his fingers. You both slow your pace, and he thinks, looking at the sky with a smile, “I’m 19 years old, almost 20. I was born in Jilin, China. I know English, Korean and Chinese. I’m majoring in Vocals, since I sing. I love hot pot—,”

“What’s your favorite color?” You burst out finally. He pauses, his eyes going to you. Renjun touches your hand, your birthmark. You cling onto him, the feeling of an explosion rippling your entire body system. Closing your eyes, you hear his voice, and you already know he’s smiling, “Mm. . .that.” You open your eyes, and look down. It’s the color of the sunset; not this one though, but that mixture of pink and yellow at the airport. When you first met him. When you first made contact. Your heart skips a beat, and you look up, shyly and slowly. “I don’t have a favorite color,” Renjun says, his hand on your cheek gently. His breath is soft, his eyes looking directly in yours. Your own breath collapses, and it’s shaky, trying to match his own as yours and his face are so close together, that only one of you would only need to lean forward to kiss. “But I do know, those colors of the sunset when I first saw you, is my favorite, ever.”

The next few minutes are silent. You’re speechless. That had to be the most romantic thing you’ve ever encountered. You’re falling so quickly and it’s only been a day since you’ve known this man. What the hell are you doing? This is the most perfect man, flirting with you. AND -Connie’s own voice gets in your head,- HE’S YOUR SOULMATE. By the time you both arrive at the cafe, you have gathered all of your courage. All of your love that you’ve been waiting to use, all of your confidence. You’re going to flirt back. You stand up straighter, trying to gain posture, and breathe. You push your hair back, before frowning and just letting it down instead. You lean on one side of your body, trying to use open language. The cafe is painted a nice rustic brown, the wooden floors creaking as you both wait in line. The cafe is filled with a lot of couples, making you even more confident. All you have to look is at him and the floor. Renjun holds your hand, looking up at the board, vines traced around it, he continues to hum to himself. “So, what would you like?” You clear your throat, “Oh, well is there any boba, d-dear?” What the fuck. You close your eyes and take another quick breath. “Yeah, matcha, taro, rose tea, some nice coffee brews—,” he starts, holding you close. You lay your head on his shoulder, holding his hand closer to your side, and you say in an innocent yet teasing tone, “That sounds so sweet, almost as sweet as you~,” He pauses, and you watch his cheeks begin to turn pink. Was it steady done? Would you already have won? Renjun grumbles, “Trying to best me at my own game, Y/N?” He looks at the menu, his mouth turning into an unreadable expression. You roll on your heels and toes, going back and forth, shrugging. “I mean, depends.” Just a little more; hopefully. Renjun leans down, to your ear, and lightly presses on it, kissing it gently. You gasp quietly, holding his hand even tighter. “Then let’s play, love.”

You sip your boba, kicking your feet in the air. You sit at the windows on a high bar, watching the sun set, and the cafe is dispersing. It’s only you, Renjun and a few other workers. Your confidence has definitely boosted. “What’s your schedule?” He asks, sipping his own tea. “Dunno yet,” you say, leaning on his shoulder, watching the sky get darker. “Okay, so tomorrow you’re free. I only have one class, since most of the professors are off on vacation. Sleep in, I’ll pick you up and we can have another date.”

“And then we can play the game again?” You ask, feeling smaller just saying it. But you liked it, because Renjun wouldn’t mind. “Yeah, and whoever loses, buys the other person dinner. Of their choice!” He smiles wide and leans in, you hold your breath. You can see every detail of his face, the small scars on his cheek, his small freckle under his jaw, how even his features are. He looks like a god. “Does that sound good, my love?” Your breath gets stuck again in your throat, and you choke out quietly, “Yep,” Renjun pulls away with a laugh, leaving you a flustered mess, painted a light strawberry pink. “Wow, I guess I’ll win easily then, huh?” You pout, rubbing your arm and looking away. The thought of him flirting and being affectionate makes your heart pound. You wonder if he can hear it. Or if he can tell you’ve already fallen. His hand goes for yours, slowly you both embrace each other’s fingers. He hums sweetly, looking at you, “If I lose, what’s your favorite food?” You look at him, and give a gentle shrug, still blushing from his act, “Well, I don’t know, Canada doesn’t have a lot of perfect meals. Hmm, are there any spaghetti places around here?” Renjun looks confused for a moment, before nodding, “Oh, yeah, pasta! Tons in Seoul, we can go there.” Agreeing with a nod, you sip the last of your boba, sighing happily. “So tomorrow, what time should I go over?”

“No no, I’ll pick you up.” Renjun smiles at you, taking your plastic boba cup, then his cup. “I got everything covered.”

“Then how will I have a chance to win?” You get off the chair, crossing your arms.

“You will have plenty, I promise. Just be yourself,” he stands up and tosses the trash away, then gives his cup to the baristas, leaving a tip. You get up, and he walks back. Your heart flutters just seeing how natural he looks. How he is naturally great, you hold yourself closer just thinking about it. How is he, of all people your soulmate? He holds your hand, taking it carefully out of your body. He kisses it softly, and he holds your cheek. You slowly look up at him, and again that warmth overcomes you, the thoughts washing away with you closing your eyes. Time seems to slow, and it’s just him and you. He smiles at you, kissing your nose softly. You and he walk slowly to the dorms, your eyes drooping softly. His hand is in yours, and your head on his shoulder, holding his arm close to your body. He felt so warm; You didn’t even think about the time difference. You sway from side to side to side to side.

“Jump.” Renjun suddenly says. Your head finally picks up, and you jump, your left foot and then your right. Awkwardly he catches both of your legs, letting your right leg go around his waist, and the other following. “There you go, sleep.” He kisses your hair softly. Your face heats up, but you didn’t care, turning your head to his chest and starting to close your eyes finally. “Renjun. . .” You say, yawning. “Yes?” He says in a low tone, going inside the dorm building. “I’m so glad I met you; you’re the best soulmate ever,” His chest moves up and down and he pretends to gag, “Aw, that pick up line won’t work on me, love.”

“I mean it!” you whine sleepily, “you’re the perfect soulmate, and I. . .” Your eyes flutter open and you mumble yourself to sleep. The next morning you sleep in, in your own bed. It’s already 9:30 in the morning, when you wake up with messy hair and the same clothes you wore last night. Connie is sitting in front of you, her arms crossed. “Fuck you.”

“Hmm?” You groan, still trying to fight yourself awake, “Huh?”

“Mark and I were trying to find you all night, and you were FUCKING HERE!”

“Ew you guys tried to follow Renjun—,” you gasp and sit up. “Renjun! What happened?”

“I’M HERE TO ASK YOU THAT, Y/N!” Connie groans, standing back up. “Plus if he was going to do anything Mark was going to fuck him up for you.” You shake your head, sitting up when you notice a yellow hoodie at the edge of your bed. It’s the same one Renjun wore last night. You shiver from the open window, and hesitantly put it on. The hoodie smells just like him, but you turn your nose away. Was that weird to just wear it? “Y/N. Tell. Me. Everything.” Connie says finally. You tell her the game you both are playing, and what you both did. “Then you weren’t out long. You fell asleep in his arms? Holy shit, was that your plan?”

“No! It’s just, because of the time zones, Connie.” You stretch and go to your closet, “I’m going to get ready to go out again, tell Mark to not go after us. Because Renjun and I will still play the game.”

“Weird ass soulmate flex but okay. Well, I’ll just be here,” Connie sighs, and you hear a knock on the door. You open it, to see a pink faced Renjun, with flowers the same colors as his cheeks in hand. Of course. Renjun bows, and he lets out quiet breaths. “I. . .ran all the way here. . .from my class so please. . .take these and let’s go.” He grumbles. You laugh, and help him stand back up, “How handsome. But that won’t work. I’m going to get dressed again. Wait here.” Renjun says, in a deep voice this time, “Of course milady, I shall wait for you here.” You roll your eyes, going inside your closet, a light tint on your cheeks. The game has begun, and you haven’t even planned an outfit yet.

It’s a calming, cloudy morning, the sun trying to push its way to shine on everything. Renjun and you walk side by side, towards the bus stop at the edge of the campus, his new hoodie on you. Everything is silent. But your mind races. Nothing huge but you still can’t stop thinking. Stop worrying about something. Did he really pick you up and let you sleep in his arms? Or was it a dream? Sure he’s your soulmate, and all of that shit. But he didn’t need to do that. Did he do it for the game? Your grip on your arm gets tighter and your gaze on your feet blurs as you zone out. Yes it was kind, but he could’ve been just flirting. Your heart wrenches, confused about the whole situation itself.

He stops walking and turns to you. “I’m hungry.” Your stomach grumbles in response. Renjun laughs and you pout cutely, “Let’s get pancakes! You’ll look so cute with some food in your mouth~!” You lean up, gently pinching his cheek. You can feel how soft his skin is -the passing thought making you wonder what his skin routine is- and kissing it. “Ah!” He lets out a small gasp after that, and he strokes your hair, “Fine. Let’s go for it. I’ll show you my favorite place,” Holding onto his arm, you and he walk, as you compliment him, “The sun is trying to find you today, they know you’re the angel they lost.”

“Did you look that up?”

“No shut up.” You say quickly, and he laughs, holding your arm. Like an ice cube on a hot day, you melt from the warmth, so you pout and rub his birthmark. Renjun winces, but he continues to walk, grumbling, “Stop,”

“Why? Catching feelings~?” You tease him by rubbing his birthmark some more, giggling at your abuse of power. Renjun clears his throat, “You haven’t even mentioned my new hair,” You did notice, but you were saving that pick up line for later. His hairstyle was pushed back, and the blonde washed out. Instead of a cute puppy like blonde, fluffy and easy to play with, it’s now a sky grey silver, slicked and styled back out of his eyes. Your eyes travel down the rest of his outfit. He looks like a model compared to your simple outfit. A pale white, thick turtleneck and black jeans, a large light brown coat on top. Renjun pulls you close to his body before you run into a stranger, “Look where you’re going, baby. I know you’re being distracted by my new look, but you need to focus on your beautiful self.” One point to him. That line was good, but you need to focus. You need to win. He helps you on the bus and you follow him, when there’s only one seat. “Sit down,” Renjun leads you gently, before you shake your head. “Please, I’ll be fine. You’re such a gentleman, you need to rest.” You pull yourself in behind of him, and gently nudge him to sit. Renjun furrows his eyebrows, and you have to hold yourself back from the cute face he makes, “No, Y/N—,”

“Please~?” You say, fluttering your eyelashes. “Being cute won’t work on me, Y/N.” Renjun sits down. You stand over him, laughing, “Yes it will. Why haven’t you left me then?”

“Because you’re you, that’s what makes me stay with you.” Fuck. You’re mute, another point won by him. You need to make him blush. Make him feel flustered as much as he does to you. After a few stops, you and he get off, and walk to a small cafe. The sun finally pushed through, and the clouds are fading to only large chunks, revealing a light blue sky. You hold his arm, playing with his fingers gently, smiling to yourself. “Looks like the sky found it’s angel they lost.” His arm tenses and you hum happily from the point you won, “Have you ever tried chicken and waffles?” Renjun wrinkles his nose, but he pauses and shakes his head. “Is that American?”

“Yeah, it’s super good. One day we should go, maybe back in Canada.”

“I was only there to visit a friend,” Renjun opens the door inside, and you thank him with a kiss on a cheek. Another point for you. The entire cafe is painted a grass green, having a cute look to it, with childishly painted frogs on the walls. Wooden tables are on the right. It’s obvious only couples went here, and the meals were made specially for two. Piano music plays overhead, a nice lofi beat behind it. You feel relaxed already. “Really? What do you like most about Canada?” Renjun pulls a chair for you, letting you sit down first, and then he sits down, “Well, the fact that Canada makes such good looking people like you.” How did you even let him get away with this.

“How sweet for you to take me here, Renjun,” taking his hand you rub his birthmark gently. The color change turns from the grey, to a sudden fire like red, and Renjun pouts. You found his weak spot, and another point to tie with him. A waiter comes to you both, placing down a menu. Renjun talks to the waiter, and you zone out, looking at the decor around you. All you can really hear is the order for pancakes, and something fluffy. The waiter leaves, and comes back with some green tea. You smile and look at Renjun, your body relaxing at the calm environment.

“How are soulmates taught in Korea?” Renjun sips on his tea, and shrugs, scratching the back of his hand as his eyes divert down. “I went to school in China, but even there we don’t really want to believe in it. I was always sort of hesitant to learn or know who my soulmate is. Whether they be romantic, friendly, I was pretty happy when I learned the different types, and wasn’t predicted with one. Maybe I didn’t have a connection, that’s okay.” His voice broke at the last word, and you felt your heart was too. You gulp, and look down too, nodding, “Why didn’t you want one?”

“I was afraid. . .that my own soulmate wouldn’t like me. That I wouldn’t like them. That my parents would disapprove. That I don’t deserve one, really.” You grab his hand, and you hold it to your heart, frowning. “You do. You deserve a soulmate. I’ve been looking for mine for my whole life, and you’re here now. You’ve treated me so kindly, like I matter to you. I’ve been so anxious moving to a new country, but once I met you, that all washed away. You do all kinds of sweet things for me. This whole cafe is cute. You picked me up at my own dorm, treated me out, gave me compliments, let me sleep, and you dropped me off at my own dorm. It’s me, who doesn’t deserve you, Renjun.” He looks up, and you both stare for a few moments.

“You win.” Renjun‘s lips barely move, but you hear those words. “What?” You say, lowering his hand. “I can’t beat that. You win the game. What do you want for dinner?” You wanted to get up and leave. Did he just really think you said that for the game? Your heart wants to explode. From anger, from frustration.

But you simply shake your head. “I don’t want that. I-I don’t know if you feel the same way, but, I love you. You’re literally perfect, and I’m thankful we met.” Renjun stares at you, and he slowly looks down. He gets up from his seat and bows, a sneaky smile on his face. “May I have this dance?” You hesitate. Was this still part of his game? You roll your eyes to yourself and take his hand.

Well fuck it. He’s your soulmate either way, and you and he were bound for life. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and his hands planted perfectly on your waist, you both sway, and you lay your head on his shoulder. “Remember,” he sings softly, in your ear, and chills run down your body, and you hold him closer. Everything feels right. He hasn’t responded to your confession, but that thought is far off your mind. His arms around you, the music leading you both, his own warmth; The feeling of him being here with you.

“I’ll be with you, always,” he sings with the music quietly, his hand playing with your hair. He gives soft kisses from your head, down to your own chin, he hovers over your lips. You nod, and he leans in, as you both finally kiss, pulling each other closer every second. You felt everything, his feelings, the new rush of contentment, his body on yours, the way he smiles against the kiss, your giggles, his touch, your small bounce to reach his lips continuously. Your souls connect. You both pull away, his forehead on the top of your head, small tears coming out of his eyes.

“Thank you, so much Y/N.”

“No problem, love.” God, that name rolled off your tongue with such ease, and you held him closer, kissing his nose and his lips after. “I love you,” he whispers, as you both sway away, laughing at the feeling, mirroring each other. “My love,” he sings, the cafe echoing his voice from corner to corner. The rest of the morning is you dancing with Renjun, singing together, kissing each other, touching each other closely, and letting your worries wash away as the sun rises high, shining proudly with no cloud in sight.

#renjun #nct #nctimagine #fluff #soulmates #collegeau #marklee #soulmatesau #nct scenarios #nct dream fluff #nct dream #renjun birthmark #renjun soft hours #dee writes

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evangeline-of-montfort · 4 years

Text

ash garden (v)

chapters 1, 2, 3, 4 read it here on ao3

There’s a moment the next morning when I wake up and wonder about the heavy feeling sitting on my chest like a Prairie bison. Pale light streams through the windows that Elane must’ve forgotten to darken last night. Our suite seems so serene, so ordinary, that for a second I forget anything is wrong at all.

The next moment, everything comes crashing down again like a thunderbolt. I spot my training suit, balled up in a corner next to my torn and bloodied uniform, and the unwelcome feelings come flooding back. I scrunch my eyes up and burrow underneath the blankets again, trying to block away the entire world.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He’s dead. Davidson’s dead, and it’s my fault, and nothing will bring him back—nothing.

Next to me, Elane shifts sleepily, her hair fanning out on the pillow and getting in my face. I brush it aside and roll out of bed, trying not to wake her, and head to the bathroom to face my emotions in private.

The ring sits on the marble countertop next to the sink—I put it there yesterday before taking a shower. I stop short at the sight of it, anger and self-pity pounding in my chest. Does everything have to be a reminder of him?

It occurs to me that there will only be more memories and reminders, that I’ll feel like this until the emotions dull and I start to forget. The very thought of that is unfathomable to me—I can’t imagine feeling any other way than this.

To forget someone like Dane Davidson seems an impossibility and a desecration.

I dress slowly, numbing my mind of everything but what I have to do today. Eat breakfast. Possibly talk to Carmadon. And… attend the private funeral this afternoon.

Thinking about the private service makes me want to throw up. I thought about skipping again, but I can’t miss a last chance to say goodbye. And I can’t leave Elane alone again.

She’s awake by the time I emerge from the bathroom, the ring on its chain around my neck. “Morning, Eve,” she says.

I cross the room in three quick strides and sit beside her on the bed, resting my head on her shoulder. “Good morning, love.”

The weight of the last two days hangs between us, so palpable I almost feel it on my skin. But we made an unspoken promise last night in the kitchens, and yesterday morning on the cliffs, and the day we put rings on each other’s fingers, and every minute before, between, and after. We get through this together.

“So. Are you going to talk to Carmadon today?” Elane asks after a moment, her fingers tracing the chain around my neck.

Just the mention of his name makes my stomach twist with guilt. “I—I’m not sure.”

“Evangeline,” she says, pulling away slightly to look me in the eyes. She knows better than anyone my history of running away. “It’s Carm. He isn’t a stranger.”

“I know, but…” My mind instantly comes up with a hundred reasons to avoid him—he’s a busy person; he should to grieve in peace; he shouldn’t have to deal with me today, of all days.

Elane’s eyes are still fixed on mine. “And,” she says firmly, “I think it would do you both a world of good.”

I drop my gaze. Deep down, I know she’s right. I will have to face Carmadon eventually.

It would be kinder to us both to do it sooner rather than later.

~~~

I find him in the gardens, a world apart from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the estate.

Brown leaves crunch loudly underfoot, deafening in the silence. Another pang of grief hits me as I look at the trees they left bare. Usually, this garden is quietly and persistently alive, verdant green and thriving. Today, it is more yellow than anything, and the silence reminds me of a graveyard.

Carmadon is at the far end of the garden, kneeling next to a bush, his head bent. He isn’t wearing his usual white, but he isn’t wearing black, either. His suit today is green, the color of life and regrowth.

Under his careful touch, new shoots peek out from each stem. It’s like watching a time-lapse of a sprouting plant, watching it grow from bud to leaf to unfurling flowers with pale pink petals before my eyes. I’m suddenly reminded of a line Mare was fond of: We destroy, but we also rebuild.

Satisfied, Carm rises to his feet, brushing dirt from his knees. “Angie,” he says, turning around. His voice is tired, but the shattered edges from two days ago seem smoother. “I thought that would be you.”

“Yes,” I respond, swallowing. My mouth is bone dry, and despite the fact that I’ve known Carmadon for five years, I don’t know what to say.

“Good. I was hoping it wouldn’t be another politician trying to offer me their condolences. Please, and I say this from the bottom of my heart, never go into politics.” A ghost of his usual joking manner lingers in the words.

“I certainly will not, but I can’t speak for Tolly.” I try to match the lightness in his tone. “He may have ambitions for government. I can’t imagine why.”

Carmadon shrugs his shoulders slightly. “Some people were born to be leaders,” he says, and I know he isn’t just talking about my brother.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, thinking of the man he lost. Because as close as I was to Davidson, Carmadon knew him ten times longer. A hundred times better.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I know you, Evangeline. Don’t blame yourself for what happened.”

“I can’t help it,” I whisper, my eyes trained resolutely on the flowering bush behind him. “Because it was my fault, and you should hate me for it. But you don’t.” The goodness of some people on this earth still astounds me, even if I’ve known them for what feels like a lifetime.

“Hate you? I could never,” says Carmadon. “It was not your fault that Iral threw that dagger. It was hers, and the thoughts of thousands like her that enable the Silver Secession.”

“But I was the one they came for. I radioed for help. And I was the person he took the knife for. It should have been me.”

“Evangeline.” The sudden steel in his voice shocks me into looking up. “If there’s anything I know about my husband, it’s that his choices were always his own.

“He chose to be the one to go to you. He knew the risks, just like the rest of us. And when the time came—” Carmadon’s voice catches a little, but it’s no less intense for it—“he chose to save you instead of himself. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Why?” The word slips out of my mouth, barely more than a breath.

Carmadon looks me straight in the eyes. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same for Ptolemus. For Elane, or Lyrisa, or even Cal and Miss Barrow. Simply put, Evangeline, he cared enough. He cared enough about you to take that dagger.”

My eyes burn. I close my eyes, and the tears start coming. But for the first time in two days, I’m not angry or ashamed. I simply have too much emotion to continue on.

He cared.

Two words laden with too much meaning for me to unravel.

My fingers tremble slightly as I unclasp the chain around my neck. “He wanted me to give you this,” I say quietly. “He said—he said that he was sorry, but that you would understand.”

There’s a long pause in which I think Carmadon might start crying too. He takes the necklace from me, holding it like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. Wordlessly, he clasps it around his own neck, tucking the ring gently beneath his shirt. “I do understand,” he says softly. “It doesn’t make this any easier, but I understand.”

He sighs, taking a seat on a nearby bench, and gestures for me to sit next to him. I do, and the tiny movement makes my sore muscles cry in protest. We sit in silence for a moment, and I study Carm out of the corner of my eye.

His gaze is elsewhere, sad but steady. He reminds me of Elane, always ready to be gentle to a world that sometimes is nothing but cruel. They have a strength far beyond what I know.

Carmadon starts to talk, his eyes still far away. “I knew Dane for twenty-eight years. I was lucky enough to be his husband for twenty-five of those. We saw the fall of five different kingdoms, the end of three wars, and the rise of two democratic nations together. That’s enough for a lifetime. For a dozen lifetimes, really.

“I think in the end, he was content to let that be it. We had almost three decades together—which is longer than you’ve been alive,” he says. “When you think about it that way: you have your whole life left. We’ve lived ours about as fully as we possibly could.”

“I just wish he hadn’t had to do it,” I murmur. “It’s just difficult to imagine a life without him.”

Carmadon smiles sadly. “I used to think that being with Dane made me stronger, you know,” he says. “But now, I don’t think it was the being, Evangeline. It is the privilege of knowing and having loved a person that strengthens us. And that doesn’t stop, even though he’s gone. We are stronger for having known him.”

~~~

taglist: @freaky-freiday @evangelineartemiasamos @farleydiana @fuvkingmagnus @folkoftheair @lilyharvord @scarletbarrow @gansey-just-gansey @glossy-vanilla @thatoddgirl777

#red queen #evangeline samos #dane davidson #elane haven #red queen fandom #carmadane #davidson x carmadon #red queen fanfic #rq fanfic #evangeline of montfort #ash garden

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clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Choice ― III.i. A Funeral and a Pyre

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART III ⥽

— Virginia, 1857. It was supposed to be their chance at freedom — their Shadow Kingdom. Instead it has become a battlefield. Tensions rise as the nation whispers of civil war and humans and vampires alike learn even freedom demands blood. No more will they pray to be saved. Not when the Shadow eclipses the Dawn.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Trinity will always be fighting for their freedom. The Godmaker has made sure of that.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

Virginia, 1857

They get a fair distance from camp before it dawns on them both. They aren’t far enough.

Perhaps they have been spending too much time around mortal-kind. Not that either man would admit it.

So a fair distance goes just a little but further. Until their ears cannot pick up the din of tin flatware and the crackle of the fire. If they cannot hear their companions then they, too, cannot be heard.

The canopy is thin this time of year — summer long-gone and autumn welcomed in its place in falling leaves and nights that leave bitter fingertips come morning light.

Fingertips that, now and finally blissfully alone, come together in barely-there touches. They know the other’s touch as well as—if not better than—their own. Proven as much in the surety of their actions. In the wordless way their foreheads come together and share the things that should repulse them; the dirt and sweat and gunpowder clinging in vain.

But they know better; know one another better know themselves better than to think something as temporary as the earth beneath their boots could lessen their inevitable desires.

The rugged palm of his forever comes up to hold Cynbel’s cheek — to capture this moment in time and bring it to the reverent place where they keep every other.

Distraught are the souls who are unknown of such rapture, he thinks — and pities them, that they may try to take their god into themselves in words and scripture, but know flesh is beyond them.

He’ll never know what blind faith feels like. He walked in to his faith with eyes wide open and led by a divine hand.

Supplies are low—have been for some time though that is a thought for any time but now—but they make due. Use blood and spit and take their precious time while grass tickles their bare skin. At one point a dead leaf crumbles under Valdas’ palm and the pair laugh at the sight. Find joy in the little moments even after all these years.

And oh, how many years there have been. How is it that each time is as familiar and as new as their first had been? How is he so lucky?

Valdas stills inside of him; eclipses the sliver of the moon overhead as if he was not already Cynbel’s sky and stars. “Does my lovemaking bore you?”

What a ridiculous question. “Never.”

“Then what has you both beneath me and so very far away?”

Ah. He nods, feels the catch of twigs in his hair absently. Runs long fingers up the canvas of Valdas’ outer thigh before gripping it tight to hold them together as only lovers know.

“Do you know something I hate about this continent?”

Valdas barks a laugh. “I know many things you hate about America, my darling. You never waste an opportunity to make that abundantly clear.”

“Fair point.”

“But for the sake of the vice-grip you have on my cock, what do you hate about this continent, Cynbel?”

As amusing as it would be to torture them both for hours upon hours… They just don’t have that kind of time here.

“There are no ruins. No crumbled temples or ill-kept shrines. Well… none that have not been bastardized by invaders but —” but he, too, would seek release at least thrice tonight, “— and somehow the lack of such things makes me miss them all the more. It makes me miss your altar all the more, my Holy One.”

He smiles as recognition can be found in the dark eyes overhead. In the curve of Valdas’ smirk and the way he rolls his hips and brings them together near-seamlessly.

“While I too find myself reminiscing on such glory days —” the man beneath him keens in pleasure, body scrambling desperately to keep him inside but unable to deny him, “— I don’t let them take priority over the now. Especially when now is equally glorious.”

Valdas punctuates the word with a jerk of his hand, stroking Cynbel in something akin to haste. A direct opposition to his leisurely fucking. And while the contrast is good enough to bring his devoted progeny back with him to the present something unfamiliar lingers.

Hesitation. Doubt?

“It… is found equally so Cynbel… right?”

Perhaps before he would have taken such a question as insult. Would have disparaged his god for believing him to be anything other than in a constant state of growing love for him. Before all of this.

Before the war.

Thankfully for them both Valdas knows better than to take his lover’s silence as an answer he may not wish to hear. Resumes his pace and lets it build — lets them build. But his patience has a limit. Cynbel would know… he’s been the test of it for millennia now. He will have his answer before the night is through.

And he does — his golden son’s spite showing through in that he withholds it until Valdas falls atop the length of him, utterly spent and not in the least bit sated. Sweat and orgasm smeared between the places they long to knit together. To become one.

“It is not.”

The body above his tenses, readies to pull away. But it is only in things like this that Cynbel can refuse his Lord and Light. Only in the ways that ensure they are kept close; that they are kept whole and together.

Valdas pulls his head back enough to look up with guarded eyes. Sees mirth reflected back in dim pools of blue and the frustration he feels isn’t unknown to either of them. Though it is usually reserved for their beloved third.

Cynbel cards his fingers through Valdas’ dark hair and continues, “It can never be equally so, never in all our years. Because, my petulant divinity, each time with you is made ripe with age, seasoned with our years and the things we have done together, done with Isseya.

“It is never the same. It is always better.”

It is how they came to start and how they will end.

Though, he thinks — and lets himself fall back into the embrace of the earth with his religion hovering atop him, enveloping him; keeping him safe and giving him purpose in this endless labyrinth of eternity, if they are truly so blessed it will not be for many years to come.

Cynbel always makes sure he is the last of their regiment to enter the mines. Not only to ensure the safety of his beloveds but because it gives him the chance to see the barest ridges of sunrise over the steep Virginia hills. He waits until his eyes burn and send tears tracking hot down his cheeks — and then just a moment more.

He is never more glad of having no need to breathe than he is here. The newest among them still cover their mouths with scraps of cloth as though it is the coal around them they must fear, not the circumstances in which they have found themselves.

Especially to those such as the Trinity. To have wandered the freedom of the undiscovered world only now to cower under piles of stone.

One way in, one way out.

One more thing stacked against their favor in this their war for survival.

The hard-packed dirt makes it impossible for him to settle comfortable. Cynbel tries his best to find distraction in something—anything. And would be lost if he did not have the beauty of Isseya to gaze upon in the black.

She removes her hat and goes about the same routine she always does come morning light. Removes each of the fastenings that pin up her hair with the same care she used to give to the finest silks and fastenings of pure gold. The uniform she wears now does not do her justice — rather the opposite. She makes the ill-fitting coat look worthy of royalty even now.

“You’re staring.”

His smile is biological; instinctual. “Can you blame me? You know I have a weakness for pretty things.”

“Indeed…” she cards through her hair; lets the waves rest and he couldn’t possibly find her anything other than ethereal, “as I know they will be your undoing. You linger too long, Cynbel.”

Yet even as she says it she leans against him. Emotions are beyond the touch of flesh, now. And in this dirty hole no better than the coffins they have avoided for two thousand years… he cannot imagine doing it without her comfort.

“Yes yes — save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

“When you were feeding regularly. And I don’t chide you for stealing a moment away with our beloved—really I don’t. But you’re both fools for choosing not to conserve your strength.”

Their eyes meet in the dark. Held in a gaze of mutual longing… before he throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her tighter against him. “Careful, Iss’. You almost sound responsible.”

“Someone has to be, what with you two wandering the woods like incubi.”

“What happened to the fun Isseya? I miss her.”

“Piss off…”

Their words may sting but all is soothed in a kiss. Long enough to make the vampires trying to sleep on the other side of the tunnel shift in discomfort — because she still is his darling minx at heart. But without her clear head they might not have lasted this long.

“Where is Valdas?”

Cynbel rests their foreheads close. “First watch.” Immediately he feels Isseya’s anger — holds her ever-tighter to ensure she doesn’t do anything brash. Not much for them to do stuck in here as they are, but he understands. “This is why he did not tell you. Relax, my love, please. We would not be here if it was not a secure place to hide from the daylight.”

The day watch is something they all must endure at one point or another. Such is their duty to the regiment; a task that discriminates on nothing and asks only that you do your part. As they all are doing their parts in this war.

And, as he is quite sure Isseya will agree, he rests easier knowing the one on the front line, the first defense between a den of sleeping vampires and the onslaught of the Order, is someone he would (and has) trusted with his life for thousands of years before.

For example — the scraggly boy who sits across, whose head keeps lolling around from slumber only to wake himself back up — Cynbel would rather place his fate in the hands of, say, Kamilah Sayeed. That boy looks like he can defend nothing.

But surely he looks no better. Starving as he is and now with a night of rough passion to further sap his strength.

One more day of this and they will reach Charlottesville. Hopefully with enough moonlight left in the night to sate their hunger. Even the thought of a neck, warm and not-necessarily-willing, underneath his mouth leaves him craven.

Isseya sees the needless torture in his eyes and at the very least it helps to know he isn’t alone.

Falling asleep is the hardest part. While Cynbel hasn’t slept alone in over a thousand years he isn’t exactly accustomed to sharing quarters with more than his lovers. With more than those he know intimately. Now he is expected to share the daylight hours meant for rest with complete strangers; their faces and stories ever-changing, one swapped out for another with every battle and every loss. More losses than he cares to think about — even if the dead have no one to blame but themselves for their fate.

But like all things it is made easier with her presence. Her touch, her breath on his neck. The Children of Valdemaras cling to one another among the rest and know that they are together.

And together they are made immortal.

It is rare to find a church in disrepair in these times. Faith seems to have an endless strength with which to carry humanity. And with which to draft them for battle, he thinks, and knows he isn’t the only one who finds a twisted sense of satisfaction as they pass the church’s boarded-up front doors.

Charlottesville. The last safe place left for their kind in the colonies — though even those were but a sliver of the developing nation that called itself America. While most cities and towns would be found with barren midnight streets it is the opposite here. Cynbel’s roaming eyes take in clusters of evening gatherers, are taken in themselves by the very same, and they simply know.

They were all summoned by the same man after all.

Even in the midst of a war for their very survival Cynbel finds it hard to believe the Godmaker has even the slightest capacity for compassion. Once upon a time it was simply fact that Augustine cared for naught but his ambitions. But over time all facts from the Old World were becoming irrelevant; laughable superstition even.

He would amend his beliefs, then. Allow for the same leniency Augustine had shown them no more than a decade ago — the wolves let back among the rest of the pack to ensure their species would continue. Would have a chance to continue.

The lists of names in smudge-free care that hang in the foyer, however, would challenge those beliefs further.

Near a dozen frames hang on either side of the corridor stretching back into the heart of Augustine’s Manor. He recognizes the handwriting to be the same from the missive which drew them all to Virginia in the first place. Takes in each name as passively as he does the faces of the flock.

What good does it do him to idolize the fallen? No longer will they accomplish anything worth being honored for.

Isseya’s hand brushes against his; a subtle comfort in unfamiliar territory. One he returns in kind.

“Remember,” she says to him, says to Valdas half a step ahead of them both, “all of this will be worth it in the end. Our freedom will be sweeter than the spoils of this war.”

Still, Cynbel’s upper lip curls in distaste. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then look it, perhaps?”

The last page must be a recent addition. The lacquered frame shiny and new and without dust, the wall around it smelling of fresh paint. And inside — a memorial not-yet finished, the last name still an aching distance away from the bottom of the page.

Hung in effigy and removed when the time comes to grow the collection of the dead.

“It’s these names…” Cynbel catches his reflection and stops; takes in the gaunt hollowness of his eternal youth in the protective glass, “they mock me — they mock us all.”

Valdas watches him with an unreadable expression. “They are the fallen.”

“They are the weak.” He corrects, in that moment made no more than men on equal standing.

“Weak enough to fail; to die. There is no honor in only being remembered after you’re dead. Honor me in life—demand more of me than I have already achieved. Instead of… idolizing me in my failure.”

Battles bring out in him the thrilled hunter. Wars, however, have made him old and temperamental.

Valdas’ hand finds his, laces their fingers together sure and strong. Isseya’s soft hand on his cheek is the only thing that drags Cynbel’s eyes from his contempt and to them — he could never look at them in such a way and they know it.

“We are fortunate then to never have to worry about such things.” She reminds him. And it is enough.

Together the Trinity is led onward. Passed what must have been built as a polished office but instead serves better purpose as a war room. Papers and maps strewn on every available surface and then some. The toll war takes on even those as seasoned as the Godmaker brought to life.

One map is hammered into the wall obscuring a painting of some kind. Knowing Augustine — one of his many portraits sacrificed for the ‘greater good.’ He recognizes landmarks and the border territories of Virginia’s surrounding states all hidden underneath spools’ worth of colored yarn acting as… as…

Ah, he understands after the office and map are several paces abandoned. Dark wax seals acting as markers for battles Cynbel himself had participated in… had fled from against everything gnawing hungry at his gut…

Far more losses than victories. Their supply routes bottlenecked — then extinguished. Fewer and fewer safe places to hold down fort through the long summering days to come. Battle after battle has blinded him to the truth now laid bare; unavoidable.

The Order is winning.

The air in the dining room, when they arrive, is a stifling heat. The smell of gas lingering high towards the ceiling. Antique candelabras—remnants from the Old World—stand vigil over a feast of kings. Sweet breads still steaming and the ashy aroma of well-bred meats. Vegetables no doubt from the fields they had just passed through on their journey. All decadent — all utterly wasteful.

All no better than a table of writhing maggots and soured mold in the face of the real hunger that consumes them.

“Valdemaras — how kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”

Of course the Godmaker’s first words are a snide remark. Cynbel expects nothing less. But to bite the hand that feeds now would be suicide. He bites his tongue instead.

The King and Queen of Vampires take up either end of the long oak table. Guests — an unexpected and certainly unwelcome surprise — litter across the length of it. He can smell the blood in their wine glasses. Reaches out to cut his nail into Isseya’s palm to keep himself in check.

Cynbel doesn’t have to look up to know Augustine is looking upon the pair of them, Valdas’ only children, with disdain.

“I believe I told the messenger boy the nature of this meeting.”

Valdas nods; his chin raised among his lessers but eyes downcast in the face of his Maker. “A meeting of officers, yes. The message was relayed in full.”

“Then explain yourself.” Why are they with you, the question unasked. That he still has to ask in some form or another after all these years…

“Where I go they will follow. Always.”

Always.

But this war has changed more than the Trinity — it has changed the so-called ruler of their people. Gaius’ noise of discontent is only brief; stifled with supper. He waves to an empty seat on his right. “Enough time has been wasted in anticipation of your arrival. Join us and send your ilk elsewhere.”

“I would see them fed after the long journey.”

“Very well.”

Though their devotion is like a brand upon their shared skins — their love as famous as their cruelty, as infamous as the bodies left in their wake — Cynbel and Isseya don’t allow themselves the pettiness that might come with the way Valdas takes his leave of them. They must play their role as their Lord and Light plays his. All of it an act; dancing around a carnival faire for the Godmaker’s amusement.

When the curtain closes they will be free of him. Valdas ensures it with every placating act. He is willing to sacrifice for them — how could they do anything less but the same?

They wait until he is seated. A young boy approaches with a pitcher and pours their beloved his fresh meal. Their eyes meet over the head of a bearded officer and Cynbel knows his beloved will not consume in front of them. In solidarity.

“Leave!” Augustine barks; they do not give him chance to do so twice.

They arrive at the end of a funeral. Isseya recognizes the sight of ashes catching on the breeze; carrying whoever they once were far off and to a better life than the one that failed them.

How very… human. The sight of it nearly ruins his appetite.

In front of a dozen or so gathered stands a lone man. In his hands rests a plain box bearing no carvings or paint. The dead as nameless as the living.

Together they have no intention of stopping — when Cynbel feels resistance in their held hands he even looks at her as though she’s gone a touch mad.

But his beloved girl’s focus is cast over the field of grass to the ceremony. A furrow he does not like crinkles restless on her brow. They keep their distance but, for all intents and purposes, join in.

The leader’s voice carries rich and sweet over them all.

“It is from Her blood we are made anew; given strength and life where there was none to be found. But with each life born another must depart, for only She may live forever. And in that eternity we must believe She will be there to welcome our fallen friend, that She will accept the gift he now gives — Her strength no longer needed in this life.

“In these ill times, my brothers and sisters, the journey seems an unending path. But with each departed Her power grows… And I believe that by the end of this war it will be enough to see Her risen again, to bring Her to us in our darkest hour. Have faith beside me and She will see it rewarded.”

Cynbel would recognize such a reverence anywhere — bastardized by the New World though it may be. Of course the Godmaker had taken upon himself an opportunity that could not be passed up. The First Son of Valdemaras can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same in Augustine’s shoes.

Everyone needed something to believe in. Someone in which to rest their faith when they believed their destiny out of their own hands.

Not all were as lucky as Cynbel and Isseya. Not all were able to see the living face of their god and know the surety that came with it.

Not all yet understood that none could make their path but themselves. Divine intervention would not come unless one took it by the reins.

Or… in Valdas’ case, anyway, the fangs.

“Must we really house ourselves among these fanatics?” Whispers his darling, and Cynbel’s nod is a reluctant one.

“Better than a mine shaft.”

“And not with our heart.”

“He will join us soon enough. Rather in this life than in the home that Augustine would no doubt set aflame if we even tried.”

The look he gives her is rueful enough. Presses a solid kiss to her frown because he hates the sight of it, truly, and they leave the mourners to their invisible Goddess and Her empty promises for the promise of temporary peace.

Inside the barn has been converted into barracks for their like. Windows covered in layers of cloth and boarded up for good measure. Anything to keep the numbers of Augustine’s army. The Trinity exchange looks and know they are of the same mind; that to stay in such squalor is, as he said, “better than a mine shaft” but not by much.

They used to rest their heads under endless skies. After that with headboards of marble, of gold. Sheets beneath bare flesh woven by expert hands until they bled… and then more. Certainly more than the thin cots of stuffed hay and threadbare blankets they take up in this hellish space.

The blood is fresh enough to still be liquid in the bowls they take but only just. It curdles on the back of Cynbel’s tongue to the point where he has to hold Isseya’s hand near-breaking to stomach it. And on an empty stomach it refuses to settle — makes him feel sluggish and not at all satisfied.

Isseya coaxes Cynbel to sit on the edge of a bunk near the back of their quarters. Lets him hang his head while she comes up from behind and eases his uniform from his shoulders. That her touch does not immediately excite him is a testament to how hungry he truly is — but she knows him well enough by now not to take offense.

She’s seen him in the heat of the slaughter after all. Let her nakedness be a canvas of blood of which he was a master on par with the greats of the Renaissance.

They have before and they will again. Together. A trinity.

Though the closed-off space makes it impossible to know for certain Cynbel is sure he can feel morning dogging at the heels of the vampires who finally join them. Their things already resting by besides, some sharing a bucket of well-water to wash old blood from their bowls; they have called this place home for longer than the lovers.

The contentment of their routine disgusts him. The ageless thumbs pressing into the base of his spine eases that hatred only just.

She works him as she always has — down to the bone and further still. His muscles gone pliant under her touch, craven for it to continue. Desperate for the solace only she can provide.

Hands that once slaughtered her own family in the name of the Made-God and his Firstborn… that would have soaked endless stretches of land in blood if it meant appeasing them.

They pretend to sleep before they really are. He pulls Isseya on top of him and she doesn’t resist in the least. Here at least they can sleep comfortable even if it only ends up being the barest definition of the word.

Cynbel hears a whisper that might sound something like “They’ll break the cot that way,” but he’s hungry, he’s exhausted, and damnable hells he’s horny too and Isseya’s no prude but neither of them are in any fit state to be working themselves up right now.

So he lets it slide. This time. But his generosity has its limits.

They’ve gotten so used to the darkness of the mines during their slumbering hours that seeing sunlight stream through one uncovered sliver in the barn thatching is jarring to say the least.

But it reminds Cynbel of better times. Some happier — some not. But all of them better. Better than this hell he cannot even find contentment in. If it were a hell of his own making, perhaps… but it is not even that!

“What are you thinking about?”

The bunk they’ve taken is several cots away from the last of the vampires. And Isseya — his darling girl knows exactly how to whisper so their better ears cannot hear. Usually used for things of a far more seductive and sultry nature… but it works, too, in this.

“What would you wish me to think of?” She smacks his chest none-too-lightly and his laughter isn’t without a cough or two.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Fine, fine —” he relents and her heart leaps against his chest in victory, “— but you of all people know my thoughts are rarely so simple.”

He laces their fingers together, would rather she simply find what she wishes inside of his mind. A memory or dream that could take them far away from here and, ideally, with their beloved Lord.

They’re both too hungry, too weak for that. And without Valdas wrapped somewhere around or between them it just isn’t worth the energy.

“You like to think yourself so complicated… but I know otherwise.”

“Oh do you now?”

Her touch slithers downward, grasps him cheeky and knows even weak he can still get it up for her. “I do.”

He can have all of the silent moments he wishes… but she won’t rest until she has an answer — and that means neither will he.

“Oddly enough I was thinking to when we met you, Valdas and I.”

Such a fussy subject when it comes to his darling girl. Some days she enjoys thinking of the last act of her humanity to be anything but. Others… well there’s a growing concern for where exactly she’s grabbing… and how long healing might take in their current state.

So he can’t help but sigh in relief when she finally speaks.

“What brought that on?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Cyn…”

“What does it matter? It’s not as if we could go back to those times. Free of war… of pollution in blood and land. Before the forsaken fucking Order took a fucking continent for their own.”

And there it is. Cynbel raises his chin enough to see the sparkle of knowing, of understanding in her eyes. He may not be as skilled as they in the psychic arts but what he lacks there he makes up for in his memory. In all the things he’s learned and practiced… and one thing he can never forget—will never forget—is the happier times. The simpler times.

“You could not have known their intention to sail to the New World. None could.”

“No… I know that.”

“Then why do you linger on it?”

“I caused the actions that led to this, did I not? Paris, my love, Paris. It put them on the Godmaker’s heels and moreover put him on those of the Colonies.”

It’s a rare kind of talk from him and Isseya knows it better than any. Has her propping herself up on splayed palms and a dark concern in her eyes still like stars…

“Remorse is not like you, Cynbel.” Her curls tickle at his cheeks.

“Think of what we could have been doing these last years. The gifts we could have given you — the ones you and I could have bestowed upon him. The wonders of the other side of the world where all this… nonsensical fighting is beyond us.”

In Valdemaras’ name… what is that look in her eyes? Frustration but… pity? Psychic though he may not be he knows her. She’s angry at him. Why the fuck is she angry at him?

“You spend one breath taking the blame and the next calling it all ‘nonsensical.’ You contradict yourself, my bloodsoaked lover.”

“You know I’m better with actions than words.”

“Yet words show your true colors. Not just red… spare me the guilt, Cynbel. You feel nothing for this conflict but what it has cost us.”

Through his furrowed brow… he relents. “Yes. Yes that’s… that’s true.”

“Only it isn’t enough for you to say it. You must mean it, too.”

He doesn’t have to push her further. Knows exactly what she means… But what they both know is that certain things are just out of their control.

“I will,” he swears; and like pack animals they butt heads, nuzzle their noses, the intimacy of the moment temporarily granting their wish to live outside of time… outside of the things that keep them bound to all this madness, “just as I will spend the decades to come making it up to you—to Valdas—to you both.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

Then Isseya’s hand is in his hair, golden bright on her olive skin. She forces him to meet the same eyes that have served as the doors of death for legions. “Swear on something that matters to you.”

Cynbel hesitates only in that he would loathe for her hold on him to end.

“I swear on your lives. Yours, and His.”

“Again.”

“I swear on your lives.”

She leans down and licks the outer shell of his ear. Immediately takes it back with a sharp pain… Cynbel watches in rapture at the sight of her pulling back to swallow the cartilage whole.

“Again.” The Priestess of Valdemaras demands through bloodstained teeth.

As if he could ever deny her looking like that.

“I swear on your lives.”

“Hey, hey here he is! Over here!”

“Cynbel! CYNBEL!”

“Help me lift this —”

“— HEAVE!”

Laying there choking on ash—ash from hay, from old rotting wood, from his dead kind but not his kin—gives Cynbel a strange kind of perspective on immortality.

He’s never been a fan of self-reflection.

Relief hardens into confusion, into anger at the sight that filters through burning eyes and tears. Not the face of his beloveds but someone else. Cynbel recoils because the mere possibility of death, even a terrible death such as this, is better than what seeing a strange face as his rescuer implies.

Perhaps I am already dead, Cynbel thinks as the face laughs above him, because none other than the Devil himself would separate them, would laugh and revel in his misery. I deserve Hell — for that I could not kiss them one final time…

“What disappointing rumors, Old Blood!” The Devil says through pearly fangs, “that the infamous Golden Son would need rescuing by one such as I!”

The words force Cynbel to stir. Yet… why would he? Why should he? Surely they are each in their own separate voids, to be cut off from one another their eternal damnation…

“Hey—hey! Come on now!” A few harsh smacks to his cheek, stinging offsetting the burn of flames under his heels. Hadn’t he worn stockings to bed…?

“You really gonna let your grave be a damp barn in Charlottesville, Old Blood?”

Unfortunately the Devil has a point. Always knows how best to tempt the vices of sinners.

“My… my bb-beloveds…”

“— would have my head if I walked outta this barn without you.”

Begone, tempter. Please.

Though Cynbel can’t help but wonder where the Devil truly lies this day. Is he the face above shrouded in smoke and flame, the one that hauls the smoldering remnants of a rafter off of him? Or is he the ones who tells him to turn away from the choked-out light of day and slumber deep?

No… no he has seen Hell before—

Hell was watching them swept in a manic crowd and to an uncertain fate.

Hell was screaming, begging through skin splitting open watching her lips whisper a silent “I love you, goodbye.”

Hell was the broken will of a God who would sacrifice every ounce of his pride for his first and only loves.

No. He is Cynbel of the Riedones and he has seen Hell every time they have been beaten and broken against the hard edges of the world. He has walked through those flames and been made molten; hammered into something stronger. This fire, too, will strengthen him.

It has to. For them.

When he reaches out there’s a hand to grab him. To help pull him and the smoldering husk of the rafter up and bat it aside.

The face of the Devil isn’t what he’d expect. But Cynbel doesn’t give himself time to linger on it — some things are a bit more pressing.

They make their way through the chaos; the air like burned molasses. When the Golden Son realizes he is the one slowing them down he only pushes himself that much harder — refuses to be left to die in this… this madness.

Everything is supposed to feel better once he’s left the burning barn behind, so why does he still feel alight? Cynbel looks up and has his answer — eyes stinging the same way they did in the last moments before the mines swallowed them all up.

Daylight.

And if he had hoped for salvation once they were clear of it, he’s sorely mistaken. It isn’t just the barn but the entire field; everything scorched as far as his watery eyes can see.

“What—” gasping for air like he needs it, but what he needs is blood, “—happened?!”

The other vampire scans the smoky horizon with dark eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know. We woke up, everything aflame… the lands reeked of oil. We couldn’t even find cover in the nearby forest — whatever this was it was planned.”

He knows the rage that laces the man’s words. He’s felt that kind of rage — been it incarnate — and were he able to he would feed from it, let it seep into his pores beautiful and righteous.

But even the thought of raising his hand to a sword saps energy from him. His rescuer will have to do.

And if he is as weak as he is…

But Fate doesn’t let him entertain the thought. Perhaps they know the chaos he will reign should such a thought come to pass… should it be true.

“CYNBEL!”

The very sound of her voice pulls him forward on a tether. He breaks away from the man, learns a little too late he doesn’t even have the strength to stand alone—

But she’s never let him fall before. She doesn’t now.

“Iss’…”

Isseya pushes the ash-covered hair from his eyes and the fire that prickles on the edges of his vision is nothing like the fire he just left behind. Cynbel’s lungs are raw but give him the blessed ability to sob in relief. They will burn out here, exposed.

And as they pull back from a kiss of peeling lips and dry tongues they share the same thought. As they always have.

They will not burn without him.

“How did you—”

“I couldn’t —” her voice chokes in her throat, she chokes on the air, “— I was too weak. Too—too weak and…”

She’d fled for help. Even now, especially now, it pains her to admit weakness. His unbreakable darling girl… And she thinks she has to look away, to shed her tears alone?

Their second kiss is harder; more a demand of her. They have demanded so much of one another. To die, to live… to be…

“We must find him.”

“We cannot— not alone.”

But the vampires at her back, stragglers relying on luck as a means to an end? They aren’t worth the time to waste.

Isseya looks over Cynbel’s shoulder, barks an unfamiliar name like an order—like the General she should have been. “Ambrose!”

Cynbel watches as his rescuer turns with a grim face. He recognizes the man, then. How the smoke reminds him of the ash from earlier that night. The leader of the ceremony.

Ambrose waves away a scout and approaches. “You should find shelter before you take to the sun, the both of you.”

“We will do nothing without our own.”

“Not even die, apparently.” Before he can continue there’s a whistle; through the haze they can see the swish of horse tails, the creatures riled and desperate to escape the oncoming blaze but held tight by the vampires clutching at their reins.

Ambrose shakes his head; makes to leave them to their own devices. “Your choices are your own. I have no time to argue with Old Blood! Not when there are others who need me.”

“Ambrose, quickly!” calls one, heaving himself on one of the load-bearing steeds, “The fire’s took up the main house and the well is emptied! We’re wastin’ time!”

The Trinity reach as one — weak as they are but still stronger than the likes of these. Grasp with the weight of ages and bear down on the man before he can take flight.

“What are you—let go of me!”

Cynbel snarls with bared fangs.

“What house?!”

But they already know, don’t they? They already know.

#bloodbound #gaius augustine #kamilah sayeed #playchoices fanfiction #bloodbound fanfiction #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #oc: ambrose #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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wild-moony-joonie · 5 years

Text

Soulmates:

This was inspired by a fic by Ramabear, on Fanfiction.net, called “Continually adapting to stay alive.”

Author: Laura(me)

Warning: Sexual tension, XXtra gay.

Pairing(s): Kakashi/Shisui(Kakasui), Fugaku/Minato(Fugamina).

Synopsis: Kakashi had always wanted to taste the forbidden fruit, it just happened to come in the form of his soulmate.

______

Kakashi had never been one to draw on himself with a pen, or a utensil of any kind for that matter, but yet he found his hips, thighs and shins covered with the black ink markings of a pen. He pressed his thighs together firmly, so to read the words crawling across his skin like small caterpillars forming a chain of black lettering across sinewy muscle. Kakashi leaned in, brushing his hand over the careful writing that most definitely wasn’t his own sloppy and disjointed handwriting.

“My aunt was giving me a history lesson on soulmates this afternoon, and she encouraged me to write to you, if you’re even there,”

A soulmate?! Kakashi’s eyes widened by a fraction of an inch, before quickly masking his expression, despite being the only living being in his apartment. This was of course, excluding his beloved plant, Mr. Ukki.

“So, I wrote to you. I hope this doesn’t bother you, I mean, I don’t really know who you are. You could be my aunt for all I know. Which would be a little weird honestly, but everyone’s got that hot aunt right? And she’s not technically my aunt, she’s like my mother’s cousin eight times removed. Anyway, I hope you have a good day. Or had. I don’t really know. And I apologize if any of this bothers you, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop. Unless you write me back saying to stop, I won’t… Stop, that is”

Kakashi blinked in surprise, taking a moment to absorb his obviously bubbly and over enthusiastic soulmate, who seemed nothing like the kind of person he pictured himself falling in love with, when he had dreamed so vivaciously. He quickly resolved that any soulmate of his, would be wholly better off without his baggage that he had strapped to his chest and shoulders with strings of fate so strong, one couldn’t simply cut through them. So he continued to strip off the remainder of his clothing, and set off to his bathroom for a long scalding shower after his last grueling mission with his ANBU team.

Shisui had never thought he had a soulmate. He thought soulmates only happened to the lucky few who could find true love. But, as it turns out, Soulmates were increasingly common, especially among shinobi above the age of 10. So Shisui wrote. The very first time it vanished, he was ecstatic. So he wrote, and he wrote every single day. A good morning wish, every time he got up at the crack of dawn to train his newly discovered Sharingan. A wish for a good day, everytime he was feeling down. He wasn’t sure when the writing on his skin became a diary of his thoughts and everyday life, but soon he found himself writing spiraling paragraphs down his calves, and over his stomach, the words blurring into Shisui himself the longer and the more he wrote them. One day, he was feeling particularly lonely, so he reassured his Soulmate that they were not alone. He wrote the three most important words over and over again in whispering lines down his forearms, and continued until it snaked around his wrist, and over his hands on either arm, grateful for his ambidextrous gift.

Kakashi had been slipping off his forearm guards for a shower in the ANBU Locker room. His gory mask, and blood splattered armor needing a serious cleaning. As he washes off dried blood, tacky on his pale arms, he notices the words curling around his forearm over and over again, spiraling until is coils around his wrist like a possessive snake. These three words repeated incessantly, and iteration of the mantra he has been told is the best medicine. Or is that laughter?

“Senpai, looks like you’ve got an admirer.” Kakashi turns, to see the smiling face of Yamato greeting him as he steps out of the shower stall. Yamato is smiling, laughing at Kakashi and the words possessively scrawled around his wrists.

“Yeah, yeah. Talk all you want Yamato, you know you’re just jealous.” He says, in a light airy tone, suggesting indifference. Hiding the what little joy he finds in knowing someone cares. Shrugging on a light crewneck sweatshirt, Kakashi ties his sandals, and hurries on his way from the Black ops compound. But soon slows down, remembering what awaits him during slumber.

Shisui was late. So so so late. His team captain was going to kill him. He had been held up watching Sasuke and had forgotten entirely about the ANBU meeting that he had to attend that afternoon. He was sprinting towards the compound, arms pumping as he went full sprint without using any chakra. Streaking across the concrete, he rushed passed a tall gray haired man. Tall, lean and muscular with one open chocolatey eye. Shisui instantly knew who he was. Hatake Kakashi. The Comrade Killer, Cold-blooded Kakashi, Son of the White Fang of the Leaf. He had to admit that he found the silver haired man attractive, but he was too busy to think about anything else but the meeting at the moment.

Kakashi smelled the boy before he saw him, thanks to his Inuzuka mother’s nose, a fragrant and enticing mix of pine, wind, and something distinctly Uchiha. A flash of pale skin, black curly hair, and red eyes bolted past him faster than any normal Shinobi could flat out sprint. Kakashi placed his scent and features in an instant. Shunshin No Shisui, the fastest Uchiha, son of Kagami, the youngest to ever acquire the Mangekyo Sharingan. Kakashi secretly liked the boys smell, he found himself inching closer at every ANBU meeting. Yearning to bury his face into the pale skin and really smell him, really feel him. But the boy was twenty, and he was twenty four. Plus they were both male, not exactly something the Uchiha clan encourages. Since no one he knew was a mind reader, he supposed he was safe to internally eye the boy from a distance. Despite how perverted that may make him, he was only human and when someone looks like Shisui Uchiha, you can’t blame the person having perverted thoughts about such a specimen. Even if he is four years younger than said person and male.

_______

“Shisui!” The shout shook him quickly out of his thoughts. Minato stood staring at him, eyes filled with concern. He hung his head in embarrassment, flushing with frustration at his scrambled thoughts. He was a shinobi, he shouldn't be distracted by a hazy brown eye and gray bedhead.

“I’m Sorry Hokage-Sama. I’m just a bit tired.” He lied through his teeth instinctively, not bothering to think about the words coming out of his mouth.

“No need to apologize Shisui. I’m sure you have a lot going on. Discovering your soulmate and all, speaking of… have you met them?” Minato’s smile was kind, and he was patient with the out of sorts and frazzled Uchiha.

“No… this isn’t even about them… I think. I mean I write to my soulmate every day and they never respond. Anyway, I just can’t stop thinking about this person since yesterday, I saw them and for whatever reason I can’t get them out of my head.” he smiled warily, afraid to say the person’s name knowing the Minato was the silver head’s team leader, and teacher growing up.

“Ah. Having feelings for someone other than the one you are supposedly destined for.” Minato smiled knowingly, wistfully looking at the curly haired boy. “You know… Kushina isn’t my soulmate. We wrote to one another for awhile, but when we found out who we were we realized a relationship was impossible. They then wished me the best of luck and I told them the same.”

“Do you regret it? Not choosing your soulmate?” Shisui is intent now, looking at the Hokage for guidance with wide and hopeful eyes. Yearning for an answer like a man stranded in the desert thirsted for water.

“Sometimes. They are my best and closest friend, and I couldn’t have hoped for more. I devoted myself entirely to Kushina and Naruto. I couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.” He smiled again, turning in his chair in to look out over Konoha from his office.

“Thank you Hokage-Sama,”

“Anytime Shisui.”

_____

Minato was slightly bothered by his conversation with Shisui earlier that day, second guessing his decision to stay with Kushina. He shook his head quickly dismissing the thoughts. He had a son, his son’s future relied on him. He couldn’t afford to disappoint his wife or his son. They were far too important to him, no matter the value his Soulmate held in his heart. His oldest and closest friend. He found himself absentmindedly chewing on a pen when a knock on the doorframe shook him clear of his thoughts.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something? I can leave.” The tall Uchiha clan leader stood in his doorway, broad shoulders taking up most of the doorframe, a frown permanently etched on his features.

“No, but I was talking about you to Shisui today,” Minato smiled at his friend, watching the corner of the older man’s eyes crease in suspicion.

“Oh?” Fugaku’s lips pursed as he said this, one eyebrow rising in both curiosity and masked fear. The blonde waved his hands dismissively,

“Don’t worry he doesn’t know my soulmate is you,” Minato stood up, maneuvering his way over to his friend, and pressed his forehead against the dark haired man’s shoulder. Abandoning his paperwork for the worry wuss standing in his office.

“Shush! Don’t say that so loud! You are the Hokage, and a married man at that.” Fugaku panicked, his deep voice scolding Minato for his negligence. Nervously shoving the shorter blonde away from him, and walking to the door, looking out into the hallway and then closing the door. Minato rolled his eyes.

“Fugaku, no one is here but us. It’s two in the morning. We are the only ones here. Calm down.”

“We live in a village of Shinobi whose specialty is to spy.”

“And I am the best of them, otherwise I wouldn’t be wearing this coat, now would I?” Minato grinned, slinking to his desk and perching on it. Crossing his legs and grinning like the cat who had caught the canary.

“You’re one of the best, and happen to have a pretty face and look good in a jounin’s uniform. I wouldn’t call that much in Konohagakure.”

“Oh so you think I’m pretty?” Minato now folded his hands under his chin and batted his eyelashes, the brunette rolling his eyes at his superior’s childish antics.

“Hokage sama-”

“Please just call me Minato, I hate the titles.”

“I’m afraid if I don’t, certain things might happen.” Fugaku frowned at the blue eyes staring intently into his.

“Scaredy cat,” Minato scoffed,

“Not my fault you’re a flirt,” He retorted, giving him a look.

“What did you come here for? You don’t just drop in to say hello.” Minato was now standing in front of the Uchiha, hands on his slender hips. Suddenly all business.

“I needed to check in on Itachi’s progress in the ANBU. Some of my clanmates are concerned with his behaviour. And despite him being my son, I have to do what the public asks.” He replied, a sadness sweeping over his face. “ I’m beginning to wonder if it was right for me to let him join the ANBU.”

“You did what you thought was best,” Minato was there in an instant to comfort the elder man. He gripped Fugaku’s shoulders firmly in his hands,

“You tried to give him the next task on his path as a Shinobi. No one is perfect Fugaku, you can only do what you think is best.”

“I want the best for him. I sometimes wonder if he should never have become a Shinobi. He is far too gentle, and loving to wear such a heavy burden.” Fugaku had pressed his face into Minato’s neck, and wrapped his arms around his waist. They were so occupied with their tight embrace, Minato’s hands stroking up and down Fugaku’s back to comfort him, that they failed to notice the tall gray haired Shinobi awkwardly half opening the door.

“Ah, sorry Sensei. I saw you were here so I came for some advice. I can leave if I’m interrupting.”

“No worries Kakashi. I was just saying goodbye,” Fugaku released the blonde man, straightening up and giving the gray haired man a small smile. Nodding goodbye to them both.

“Sensei-”

“Please just call me Minato,” The Hokage sighed, retreating to the seat behind his desk. Frowning slightly as he returned to his seat, never getting to ask Fugaku what he had wanted to.

“ I’m having some problems. I’ve found out just this week that I had a soulmate, he writes to me every day,” At this Minato’s eyebrow shot up, realizing in that split second exactly who Kakashi’s soulmate is. Kakashi noticed, and realized he must know. The silver haired man nervously closed the door behind him.

“Do you know who my soulmate is?” Kakashi placed both of his hands on the desk, and leaned forward, anxious to hear whom he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.

“I do know. But I can’t say, they don’t know it’s you either. I had a Black Ops meeting with them this afternoon, which is when they expressed their concern.” Minato folded his hands in his lap, and observed Kakashi. His usually stoic and cool student had fear and hope etched into his very skin.

“Who is it? Please, you have to tell me. I need to know, they’ll be far better off without me.” Kakashi’s voice was firm as he backed away from the desk, slipping both of his hands into his pockets. Suddenly the door slammed open again, to reveal a disheveled curly haired Uchiha. His jounin’s vest was slipping off of one shoulder, his hair was wind blown to one side, and the dark circles under his eyes were nearly as dark as his eyes. Kakashi shied away from the boy, trying to avoid the scent that intoxicated him so much.

“Shisui?! What’s the matter?” Minato stood quickly, instantly serious.

“I came to report right after the Uchiha Clan Meeting,” Shisui stood straight as a board in spite of his messy appearance.

“And?” Minato asked, worry filling his face.

“Fugaku-Sama’s clone managed to subdue them for now. He seems to be protecting someone on our side Sir.”

“Please call me Minato, and I think I know who he’s protecting.” Minato’s eyes narrowed, mentally noting to drop by the compound this coming afternoon.

“Ah. Well then I have done everything asked of me. I will head home, they’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Have Kakashi accompany you. You can say that it is urgent ANBU Business, if they have questions they can come directly to me.”

“Hai!” The two shinobi chorused, turning to make their way out of the door. Kakashi was confused as to how he came asking for advice, and ended up escorting his junior ANBU member home.

They sprinted back to the Uchiha Compound, urgency pressing in every step. Shisui’s face contorted with worry, his eyebrows furled as he leans forward into the wind. His ANBU vest pressing tight against his chest from the wind. The younger boys curly hair a mop of onyx as he hurries home. His companion’s gray bedhead unmoving despite the highwinds from both of their quick speed. They stumble to the front of the compound, Shisui’s grace is monumental compared to the Copy Nin’s slight fumble as he lands.

They are greeted by two guards, who nod to a briskly walking Shisui, Sharingan blazing and whirring. They stop to observe Kakashi, and both of their eyes glance to the covered Sharingan in his left eye socket. In a flash, both Uchiha Guards release their Katana’s and step in front of Kakashi.

“We won’t allow you to enter thief!” Spittle flies from the lips of the smaller one on the right. His lip curling over his bared gleaming teeth. Threatening the Hatake, while the other simply glares at the silver-haired man. Shisui hears the encounter, and freezes in his steps. The two Uchiha Guards turn to find themselves caught in the menacing gaze of a Shuriken-like Mangekyo.

“Leave him be. He’s with me.” Shisui’s voice is commanding, red tones of anger flash in his voice as his hand rests on the katana resting between his shoulder blades. His deep tenor rumbling forward from beneath his ANBU vest, demanding respect and reverence.

“We don’t take orders from you,” Hissed the first one, looking over his shoulder to meet Shisui with his own Sharingan.

Shisui moved his foot as though to take one step forward, and in a blur of black and gray and a whoosh of Shisui scented wind Kakashi found himself swept up by a set of strong muscled arms and whisked away from the gates of the Uchiha Compound and up over the walls onto the roof of the nearest house. The long pale arms tightened around the older man, one arm wound around his waist and the other was underneath his knees.

“I CAN walk if you didn’t know,” Kakashi’s sarcastic jibe bit through the silence clouding the air.

“I can’t let you walk these streets alone. Many Uchiha’s don’t trust or respect you because of the eye that sits in your left socket. They can’t touch you If I carry you.” Shisui looks the older man dead in the eye(s), “Besides, I don’t think you could keep up with me.”

Kakashi merely grunts in agreement as the boy carrying him leans slightly forward, and takes off with the speed of the wind. The air ripples through the mop of onyx curls, and Kakashi has never been so intoxicated. Kakashi is intoxicated by every movement that the boy makes. His swirling and whirling sharingan tomoe pulls Kakashi in, and makes him wish he could ruin this boy.

So he does.

He grabs the front two straps of Shisui’s vest, and in a blinding fast movement that leaves him breathless, he crushes their lips together in a messy kiss. Hands came up and pulled down his mask, Shisui crushed their mouths back together. A mess of teeth and spit, simply pure passion. Neither were inexperienced, but neither had ever felt such strong chemistry. Shisui pulled away, gasping. His eyes glued to Kakashi’s smirking mouth.

“So you’ll stay at my place, yeah?”

#shisui #kakasi hatake #kakashi #naruto #fanfic

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neuxue · 5 years

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Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 49

Rand sees a city and climbs a mountain

Chapter 49: Just Another Man

I feel like it’s been a while since we’ve seen the Avendesora leaf chapter icon. The Dragon and the Wheel have rather dominated this book, which makes sense all things considered.

Chapter title drop in the first few sentences:

He was just another man walking in the streets of Ebou Dar.

All signs thus far seem to point to a more contemplative and therefore a less kill-everything-with-fire sort of chapter, but at this point, with Rand, you really can never be sure.

As long as a person wasn’t able to channel, he or she could find stability here. Safety.

That’s a pretty major caveat.

On the other hand, it’s hard to blame those who can for seeking that stability and safety here, given the whole…*waves hands at the map* situation.

Anyway, Rand finally gets to have the pleasure of visiting Ebou Dar, because you really wouldn’t want any of our protagonists to miss out on that lovely place. Plotline. Thing. Perrin, you don’t know how lucky you are (though in fairness he got Malden, which was just as bad).

They were his enemies. They were conquerors. He felt their lands shouldn’t be peaceful. They should be terrible, full of suffering because of the tyrannical rule.

No, that’s your lands.

Though, again, it’s not quite as simple as that. But as to the overall impression of a place…yeah. Rand’s looking for something that stands out immediately as ‘enemy’. As ‘evil’ or ‘wrong’, as something he can cleanse with merciful fire and feel justified in it.

And they’re not giving him that; it’s like those arguments where one person is itching for a fight and trying to bait the other, who just remains absolutely serene and unyielding so that everything is absorbed or glances off, and it’s both effective and absolutely infuriating.

Not unless you could channel. What the Seanchan did with this group of people was horrifying. Not all was well beneath this happy surface. And yet, it was shocking to realise how well they treated others.

That’s pretty much it in a nutshell. Look too closely and yeah, there’s some horror there (not to mention slavery), but for so many others it’s a shelter from the storm. And what was that Rand said a few books ago? I am the storm.

Enemies are not always perfectly straightforward, not always perfectly evil in every action and consequence. And, conversely, allies are not always perfectly good and perfectly morally aligned with you on every point. Sometimes it’s a choice between atrocities, or a question of fixed-term tolerance, or truly just an enemy-of-my-enemy situation. Sometimes it’s very much a matter of perspective, and a question of what can and should be endured, and to what ends. Sometimes, it’s just…messy and human and complicated.

Tinkers camped outside the city in large groups. Their wagons had not moved for weeks, and it seemed they were forming villages. As Rand moved among them, he’d heard some of them speak of settling down.

Because they’ve found a place of safety. They’ve found what they were charged with finding, thousands of years ago. Considering that, and the history of their people (and who and what they fled from and because of), that’s…not insignificant.

Last night, Rand had listened to them at one of the campfires. They’d welcomed him in, fed him, never asking who he was.

There’s no real subtlety to this, but subtlety isn’t really what Rand needs right now—nuance, yes, and a hell of a lot of complicated introspection, but not subtle hints—and I almost read this as the Pattern itself making one last push at Rand to fix this, realise what’s happening, take a step back before it’s too late, remember who you are and what you’re doing. Because it’s falling apart and he’s falling apart and it’s so close to being too late, too far, too much.

Also, this is lovely regardless of whether it’s an obvious morality play or not. For the Dragon Reborn to be welcomed as just another man in need of fire and food and friends by the people his own past life’s actions cast adrift is rather poetic.

And representative of human goodness and compassion and so forth, fine, yes, that too.

He’d kept the dragon on his hand hidden and the access key carefully tucked in his coat pocket, looking at that fire burning down to coals.

I see what you did there.

Fire as something gentle and warming even as it’s allowed to burn down peacefully, rather than as something hard and bright and almost cold, destructive and full of terrible mercy.

Also, ‘dragon’ singular. So which one is it? Once the dragon for remembrance lost, or twice the dragon for the price he must pay? Which one has he lost? (What hand shelters, what hand slays?) Is the one that was burned away representative, even then, of the price he must pay? The dragon marking and his own hand, pieces of himself lost and sacrificed as the cost of what he must do and who he must be? Or has he lost that remembrance once more, lost who he was and where he came from?

He’s lost one of his herons as well—which one? Actually this I could find out, because he got them at different times. Once the heron, to set his path…that was his right hand, wasn’t it? In which case that’s still there, the first symbol of setting him on this path and of his task, but if he’s lost twice the heron, to name him true that’s rather fitting, because it’s almost like how he’s lost his way, lost that certainty of naming, of self, of who he is. He’s faltered without really knowing it, without ever taking his eyes off that path, and he has to find his way back—has to name himself true once more.

Or maybe I have it backwards and you can ignore all the threads of meaning I’ve just tangled up like a cat. I do that. (And then, also like a cat, I look up from this absolute mess I’ve created expecting praise for my beautiful artwork).

He hadn’t ever been to Ebou Dar itself

Oh trust me, YOU’RE NOT MISSING MUCH.

Rand could remember what it was like to live as [the Tuatha’an] had. In the visions of Rhuidean, he had followed the Way of the Leaf. He’d also seen the Age of Legends. He’d lived those lives, the lives of others, for a few brief moments.

He has lived far too many lives (and seen far too much) for someone barely past twenty. Lews Therin’s past, the Portal Stone alternate realities, Rhuidean…

And that’s not even getting into all the people he currently shares his mind with.

In a way it’s no wonder he’s tried to shut down his capacity for empathy, and his capacity to feel at all.

On the other hand, the Dragon is one with the land, and this is a more metaphorical take on ‘land’, but he has experienced the lives of these people, of people other than himself. He walks among them now as ‘just another man’ and he comes from just another village and if he can remember that this is what the whole thing is about, this is what he’s fighting for, these are the people he’s trying to save and he is just one of them, maybe that’s what he needs.

(Let’s just ignore the grammar of that sentence taking a random left turn somewhere in the middle).

The Tinker also gave him a walking staff, which Rand used as he walked, slouching slightly.

Ah. Didn’t Perrin have a vision of this, back in TSR? I had almost forgotten about that.

And now we get to the real issues here.

He had nearly killed his father.

Yeah, that.

He hadn’t been forced to by Semirhage, or by Lews Therin’s influence. No excuses. No argument. He, Rand al’Thor, had tried to kill his own father. He’d drawn in the Power, made the weaves and nearly released them.

This is almost a perfect echo of what I thought when he did it. It’s a different sort of lowest point than when he nearly killed Min, and then killed Semirhage arguably in self-defence, because it was his choice. He wasn’t being controlled or manipulated; he just reached a point where that seemed like an okay thing to do. Because he has let go of so much of himself, has told himself he’s already crossed the last line, that nothing he does matters. So why hold back?

And the fact that he realises this is precisely what shows that there’s still hope for him, still a chance for him to come back.

That, and the fact that for all he made that choice and wove balefire, in the last second he didn’t go through with it.

But YES, Rand, FOLLOW THIS THOUGHT.

Rand’s rage was gone, replaced by loathing.

I mean, fair, but also at some point you’re going to have to deal with the self-loathing and maybe forgive yourself if you’re actually going to move past this.

He’d wanted to make himself hard. He’d needed to be hard. But this was where hardness had brought him.

YES GOOD KEEP GOING. FINALLY.

Lews Therin had been able to claim madness for his atrocities. Rand had nothing, no place to hide, no refuge from himself.

What shelter is there from the storm, after all, when you are the storm?

Still, even mixed as they are with self-hatred, these are some pretty key realisations for Rand, at last, to come to. To look at how far he has come, and where he is now, and what he has made of himself, and to finally question. To look at what he has become and let himself feel that horror, rather than shutting it away and trying to hold together for just a little longer.

He has, for a long time now, needed something to push him to this point, something to break through that ever-harder shell he was encasing himself in, and the longer it took the more impactful it was going to have to be.

But nearly killing his own father, by his own choice, has finally forced him to face what he’s been running from this entire time: himself.

On a much lighter note, I appreciate that Rand is basically ignoring all the sights of Ebou Dar. Good choice, Rand.

Tinkers were safe here, but Rand’s own father wasn’t safe in his empire. Rand’s friends feared him; he had seen it in Nynaeve’s eyes.

And finally he’s letting himself actually think about this, rather than noticing it and letting it just glance off of him. His father is less safe with him than with those he considers his enemies. Nynaeve, who has stood by him through everything, is afraid of him. And finally, finally, he’s starting to let that actually sink in as something that is not simple necessity but something that is utterly, deeply wrong.

Also, ‘empire’ is an interesting word for Rand to use, there. I mean, he’s not wrong. But…yeah.

A man in a colourful silk vest jostled Rand on the street, then offered a lengthy, overly polite apology. Rand hurried on, lest the man want to start a duel.

That would probably not go so well for the man.

But the first thing that flashed into my head here was Charn getting knocked down in the street, in the Rhuidean visions. I wonder if that’s deliberate.

This did not seem like an oppressed people.

Okay, but that’s sort of…difficult to see at a glance. And also there’s the slavery thing. So yes, I get what you’re going for here Rand (and Sanderson/Jordan), but there’s a weird undercurrent of ‘there is no war in Ba Sing Se’ going on here as well. So it’s an effective point, but also a creepy one if you look too closely.

I sort of wonder if there’s another layer to the point that’s being made here, which is not so much that ‘things are better off under the Seanchan than under Rand as he is’, because that’s…dubious, but more…playing off of the chapter title again. Rand is ‘just another man’ here, amongst these people whose lives he so briefly lived and witnessed (and destroyed). And the Seanchan, too, are…just another people. Rand has brought some good to the nations he has conquered, and some destruction. The Seanchan have brought stability and safety and slavery. Neither is perfect; both are deeply flawed, but both are also ‘just another’, in their way. It’s almost like a ‘not so different, you and I’ except the differences are part of the point, to emphasise that different can be both better and worse, but at the end of the day they are allies in the war of humanity against annihilation.

And also that it’s messy and nothing is simple and you can’t just solve all the world’s problems by making moral judgements and executions by balefire.

It’s a point along the lines of ‘we’re all just human’.

And it’s a point that, in a weird sort of way, comes back to the idea of redemption, which is kind of what Rand is struggling with right now in reference to himself—is what he has just done unforgivable? What about everything that came before? This was his choice, and is thus his responsibility, and ‘what am I doing?’ ‘No more than I’ve done before’. On the individual, introspective scale: is there something in him worthy of redemption, something worth saving? On the broader, external scale: is there something in the Seanchan worthy of redemption, something worth saving? Is that kind of redemption possible?

So you get this back and forth where he’s looking both inwards and outwards and while he doesn’t connect them in his thoughts except to hate himself, there’s that unifying thread, which is the concept of redemption and the dualities of good/evil and salvation/destruction, and the questions of how far is too far, and is it possible to find a balance?

The Seanchan have done terrible things, and Rand has done terrible things, and is there anything worth salvaging of either of them? And so we get Rand hating himself but also looking around at the good things the Seanchan have done, which kind of…allows you to complete the rest of that parallel.

He didn’t want to confront what he had nearly done back in the Stone.

No kidding, but at this point Rand I really don’t think you have a choice.

Rand couldn’t focus on that. He had not come to Ebou Dar to gawk like a farmboy.

Rand al’Thor if you shove this away and encase yourself in that illusion of cuendillar again I will reach through the book and also reality to kick you in the balls.

He had come to destroy his enemies! They defied him; they needed to be eliminated. For the good of all nations.

Damn it, Rand, stop it. Look around you again, let yourself actually process those thoughts, stop turning to balefire as an easy solution. One monstrous act does not give you licence to continue with more and you know that.

But if he drew that much power through the access key, what damage would he cause?

GOOD FUCKING QUESTION. MAYBE ANSWER IT BEFORE YOU DO WHAT YOU’RE ABOUT TO DO.

The promising thing, here, is that even if he won’t admit it to himself, he’s stalling. Hesitating. Letting those other thoughts in, even if he tries to push them away a few moments later. Taking the access key out but not quite unwrapping it. He doesn’t want to do this, and some part of him is holding him back with whatever is left of his willpower and self.

It felt so odd to be just another foreigner. The Dragon Reborn walked among this people, and they did not know him. To them, Rand al’Thor was far off.

To Rand al’Thor, Rand al’Thor is far off.

But…yeah, he hasn’t had this kind of anonymity since, oh, sometime in TSR probably, if not even earlier. He’s tried once or twice, but it never lasts and never really works.

And so here, while in mind he’s about as far from the Rand we first met as it’s possible to be, externally he’s almost back where he began. Just another young man trying to find his way in a new place.

We’re getting all these contrasts, all these meetings of opposites, and it’s representative in a way of what’s going on in Rand’s mind and self, and again the surface level of what’s going on here isn’t subtle (and isn’t intended to be), but there’s so much beneath that to dig into and I love it.

They would not know Rand until he destroyed them.

Oh, Rand.

That’s also one hell of a line, but…oh, Rand.

They wont’ know him until he destroys them, but they’ll hate him until he saves them, and that’s part of this hand he has been dealt and this role he must accept.

It would be a mercy, Lews Therin whispered.

Oh.

So we’ve reached that.

Forgive me for calling this mercy as well. Then, at least (and this is grasping at straws here even so), there was a very very clear enemy. A clear evil he could aim at. Now…he names the Seanchan his enemy but he’s walking through these people who are just people, and recognising that despite the wrongs they have committed, the Seanchan have brought some good to some people’s lives as well, and still he allows himself to think that annihilation would be merciful.

When your hero can look at the world—even just a part of it—and think it would be more merciful to just end it…

Well, it’s almost exactly what Moridin has thought. So that should uh…tell you something.

And is it not exactly what the Dark One wants? To turn the Dragon without ever needing him to truly switch allegiances? He must know suffering. He must know pain of heart. And now he does, now he has, and this is where it has brought him. To a point where destruction and annihilation look like mercy, where life just looks like condemnation.

The Dragon is one with the land, and the Dragon wants death, and so it would be merciful to extend that to the land as well.

Death is always a mercy. The madman didn’t sound as crazy as he once had. In fact, his voice had started to sound an awful lot like Rand’s own voice.

Well…yes.

But again, Rand…follow that thought. Follow it, even when it hurts, because these are the things you’ve been pushing away and holding apart from yourself and even now you’re keeping yourself from these realisations that are hammering at the walls you’ve built.

The Daughter of the Nine Moons would be found in there. He could give those walls a purity they had never known, a perfection. That would make the building complete, in a way, in the moment before it faded into nothingness.

Wow, that’s utterly terrifying.

Note that he refers to Tuon by title, not by name. If he is just another man, is not she just another woman? Easier to use her title, to look at her as a representation of the enemy, as an abstract concept he can burn with merciful fire.

And now he’s just planning this destruction, this annihilation, slipping back into that cold and calculating and entirely emotionless place he was in before, forcing himself into it, thinking of nothing but destruction and his plan and Rand, no.

He unwrapped the access key, just another foreigner, standing on the muddy bridge. After destroying the palace, he would have to be quick. He’d send off bursts of balefire to destroy the ships in the harbour, then use something more mundane to rain fire on the city itself, throw it into a panic. The chaos would delay his enemies’ reaction.

The stark contrast here, between ‘just another foreigner, standing on the muddy bridge’ and…everything that comes after it is chilling and so perfect to capture the contrasts in Rand’s mind and situation, and the battle going on within him even if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

But also. Unleashing balefire, unleashing chaos, deliberately using these as tools…well, he’s following very well the orders the Dark One gave to Demandred, all those books ago. ‘Will you unleash the balefire in my service?’ ‘Let the Lord of Chaos rule.’ Why bother turning the Dragon when you can drive him to do this for what he believes to be his own cause, his own side?

What are you fighting for, Rand?

He vaguely remembered scout reports of supply camps to the north, well stocked with both soldiers and foodstuffs. He would destroy them next.

Just like it’s one thing to almost kill Min while being controlled by Semirhage and another to try to kill Tam of his own choice, it’s one thing to leave Arad Doman to starve when there’s very little he can do, and another thing to actively plan to destroy supplies for a city.

He’d Travel quickly, never remaining in one place long enough to be caught by the Forsaken. A flickering light of death, like a burning ember, flaring to life here, then there.

Wow, that’s…an image. Damn.

Don’t do this, Rand.

Saidin makes him even more sick and dizzy than usual, to the point where it’s briefly incapacitating, and I wonder if this is the Pattern’s last play, in a way. One last effort to get him to stop. The world itself resisting what he is about to do, what he is about to become.

He had to strike.

But he could not. The people looked so concerned. So worried. They cared. Screaming in frustration, Rand made a gateway, causing people to jump back in shock.

And so once more he brings himself right to the edge of what might truly be the last threshold, right to the point of absolutely no return…and can’t go through with it, and weaves a gateway in desperation.

Running from himself, as he has been running from and fighting himself for so long. Only now he can’t push through it, can’t brush it aside or silence that conflict within himself. He can’t harden himself to this, no matter what he does. And so he runs once more from himself, from what he wants to do and yet is absolutely terrified of doing, runs from his power, runs from what he has become, because he can’t let himself do this.

Why can’t I be strong enough? He didn’t know if the thought was his or if it was Lews Therin’s. The two were the same.

Because they are the same. Two different lifetimes, but Rand is the Dragon Reborn and the barrier between them has eroded and that’s what it means. Lews Therin’s past and Lews Therin’s mistakes are his, just as Lews Therin’s knowledge is his, because Lews Therin is him.

And I think, contrary to not being strong enough, Rand’s strength of self and will is what allowed him to run, here. To stop himself. He, Rand al’Thor, is strong enough that even when he has tried to push everything of himself away, he could hold on enough to keep from falling completely.

He’s Skimming rather than Travelling, and the ancient Aes Sedai symbol is all very symbolic (tautology is tautology), but where…

But Rand was necessary destruction. Why had the Pattern pushed him so hard if he didn’t need to destroy?

Destruction and salvation, Rand. It’s about the balance. Accepting destruction as a cost so as not to paralyse yourself, accepting that some things must be destroyed or changed or sacrificed, but without forgetting why. Destruction is not the end in and of itself. Necessary destruction, but to a purpose.

But once again he’s actually letting himself think about this, think about the limits he tried and failed to put on himself, thinking about what it means that he must destroy, trying to actually think through this. He keeps shutting some of it down almost reflexively, but now it doesn’t go away, and those questions and thoughts just keep coming back and he can’t run from them.

OH HE’S

THIS IS

HE’S HERE HE’S ON A FIELD OF SNOW AND ICY WIND AND

Here, the world spread before him.

RAND HAS COME TO DRAGONMOUNT.

I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS.

SINCE THE ABSOLUTE BEGINNING.

HE’S HERE.

He must stand on his grave and weep, and here he is on his grave, Dragonmount which was made by the Dragon’s dying, Dragonmount where the Dragon was reborn, Dragonmount which is both beginning and ending, where past and present and Rand al’Thor and Lews Therin meet and I’m. We’re here. This is happening.

Why have we come here? Rand thought. Because, Rand replied. Because we made this. This is where we died.

THAT.

RAND THOUGHT. RAND REPLIED.

All of what he says, as well, but mostly the dialogue tags.

Because it’s just…Rand. Rand speaking in the plural ‘we’, but no longer a separation between them because that barrier is gone. Because here, on Dragonmount, this place of death and rebirth (hope and despair, defeat and renewal, salvation and destruction), it’s as if he finally lets it go.

He’s just…himself.

He’s been brought to the point of catastrophe, the point of almost repeating Lews Therin’s past, and he has run from himself and been at war within himself for so long, and finally, finally it has brought him here, to this place that is ending and beginning, and if ever there were a place and time for Rand to finally truly accept who he is, and let go those walls, and stop fighting against himself and holding himself divided and letting go all that he is…it would be here.

I’ll refrain from quoting every last line of foreshadowing that’s led to this point (well, all those I can remember; no doubt that barely scratches the surface), but I can’t resist one: Rand could not imagine why a man would want to climb a mountain (The Fires of Heaven).

The dun sky was clouded above him. The ground seemed equally distant, barely visible, like a quilt marked with patterns.

The entire world, sky and earth, and fire in the chasm behind him. The Dragon looking out at the land, balanced on this peak that reaches into both his lifetimes. It’s a true point of balance, of unity, of everything drawn together.

He set the access key into the bank before him and wove Air and Fire to keep himself warm.

Then he rested his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, staring at the diminutive statue of the man with the globe.

To think.

Staring, in a way, at a representation of himself. A man made of power, holding the world.

This is such a lovely, lovely image.

And such an excellent scene to finally see play out.

This is something the entire series has been building to, literally from the opening pages. Making a beginning out of an ending. Letting the story come full-circle at last. Bringing Rand along this path, until finally he finds himself here (yes, that is intended to have a double meaning).

And it’s…perfect.

No, it’s not surprising. But it’s an excellent example of something that doesn’t have to be. Something that, really, shouldn’t be. Instead, it’s satisfying. It’s the release of something that has been built up across twelve books, the fulfilment of a promise made in the first chapter; it’s allowing something that has been needing to happen for a very long time now to actually happen, at the exact moment in this long and tumultuous character arc that it most needed to happen.

Next (TGS ch 50) Previous (TGS ch 48)

#there's this gentle sort of beauty in seeing this finally play out #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #The Gathering Storm

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byrantfrost · 5 years

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The best of me, Honey, belongs to you.

So idk how to give this content/trigger warning so I’m just gonna put this right here, family murder? Kin Slaying is the word they would use for what happens here. It’s not happy, its cold blooded murder. Patricide, matricide, fratricide, just nepocide all around. Children are murdered in this story.

very out of character for Byrant but I’ve been listening to NFWMB all night soooo here’s just one version of what happens after the red wedding.

Byrant stalked through the halls of a castle he thought he’d never see again. He could have found the rooms he was looking for with his eyes closed, but that, of course, would have put him in danger of running into someone. There were more people about, even late at night, than had been when Byrant had lived here. Lakehold was not meant to be the hold of a rich man, well not as rich as Byrant’s father was now.

Byrant crouched in the darkness before turning the last corner. He closed his eyes wondering how he’d gotten here. The journey was easy enough, he might have been the son of a Lord, but he spent more time with the common soldiers than was probably propper. He’d learned to march hard and sleep wherever he could long ago. He and Robb had all but trained for this, sneaking around Winterfell at night as boys. Over walls and through woods in the dead of night. No the physical journey from the twins north to Lakehold was not the hard part.

What gave Byrant pause was how could he be here, feet from his father’s door, dressed in black, a dagger at his belt. He’d spent time in front of every wirewood tree he’d seen on the journey north. He could not find an answer, would the gods cast him down for being a kinslayer? His father hardly thought of him as kin, his father had sent assassins after him more than once. His father had conspired to kill the king, and it had worked. He had not stopped at Winterfell, he had not yet dealt with the Boltons. Roose Bolton might be evil, but Byrant figured he was smarter than Byrant’s father. The gods had never answered him, and Byrant took that as answer enough.

Byrant pulled a dried Wirewood leaf from his purse and stood tracing his steps back to the nearest torch and lit the tip of the leaf. He watched it burn down the ashes settling on the floor. A foot soldier’s superstition perhaps, but Byrant wanted any help from the gods he could get. Quietly he walked back to his corner and checked for guards.

Seeing None Byrant stole forward, he knew the door would creak as it opened, or it had years ago, the hinges didn’t look any newer. When he pulled the door open he held his breath, but no- the hinges must have been replaced, all the better he walked into the room and took a breath, but it caught.

Byrant had come prepared to kill his father, his father had killed his king, his love. But there laying next to his father was his mother. Byrant took a deep breath, he harbored no ill will for his mother, none at all, but- Byrant thought about what had been done to Robb, more than just the killing after guest rights had been invoked. The mutilation of his dead body. Many had died that night, more than just Robb, Lady Stark, the young Queen, and so many men, men who had more honor in their sword hand than Lord Frost had in his whole body.

Byrant walked to the bed and took his father’s hair in his left hand, his father woke up but Byrant didn’t give him a chance to even recognize him, he slit his father’s throat and smiled. His smile fell though when he heard a choked shout from the otherside of the bed.

“I’m sorry mother.” Byrant said, and he was, but the put a hand over her mouth as he slit her throat as well. He did not wait to watch his parents die, he only stayed long enough to burn another wirewood leaf. He was not done yet.

Byrant found his eldest brother’s room as if by habit, he’d spent hours here with Derron, reading the history of their land, learning about wars. When they were younger it was always Derron who pointed out how merciful the Starks had been, not executing the youngest son after the war that nearly wiped their family from history. Byrant wondered now if the Starks should have.

Byrant did not even pause, walking up to the bed. He’d not forgotten Derron’s wife, and soon the blood was pooling from both their necks. He wondered if Alisha had been conflicted when the Ironborn had come to take Winterfell. She herself was from the Iron Isles, a match suggested by Lord Eddard Stark to quell difficulties between the North and the Iron Isles. Neither house Frost nor Hose Orkwood seemed important enough to stop Theon. Byrant shook his head, he was going to Winterfell next and then he’d find Theon. The man Byrant had learned to think of as a friend would not die so peacefully.

Byrant felt some regret as he slipped into his old room to see his nephews asleep. He’d been lucky so far, husband and wife sleeping near enough that Byrant did not have to worry about them calling out. That only meant he’d have to work quickly, three boys and then- he supposed Lyanna was in Garrat’s old room. They were all close enough to each other that this could pass for family chambers even if Derron and Alisha did not have a formal sitting room in with to entertain.

The twins Robert and Brandon were closest to the door, young enough to still share a bed, it was almost too easy before Byrant padded over to his eldest nephew. The boy had always talked about wanting to be a swordsman, Derron had never said it, but Byrant knew it hurt that the boy looked up to him more than his father.

“Uncle Byrant?” Byrant looked down at his nephew and almost put his dagger away. The boy did look something like him with his unruly blond hair. “Why are you all bloody?”

Byrant couldn't find it in him to answer, could not even tell the boy sorry as he slit his throat. Like the other rooms he stayed only long enough to burn a wirewood leaf. He was not yet done, he wiped the dagger on his nephew’s bed linens as he walked out. It was a shame, the older one would have made a good honest Northman.

His neice died quietly and Byrant found himself outside the room of his baby sister. She had been five years old the last time he saw her, before he had gone off to Dorne. Watching her Byrant could see she had grown into everything her older sister was not. Byrant felt regret, Ellya, Jorran, and Artor had not survived the massacre at the twins. Byrant could not help but wonder if Lord Bolton had meant for that to happen. No matter how much Lord Frost had put his support behind Lord Bolton, he was just a tool.

Byrant closed his eyes and he slit his youngest sister’s neck. A single tear fell as he burnt the wirewood leaf. His father, his older brother, they deserved this but Alerie did not, she was only twelve years old, but there was nothing to be done. Byrant had one more stop to make.

This time he did put his dagger away, he pulled a folded note from his purse and shook his head. Warrek had been just two when Byrant had left for Dorne. This boy, a boy who Byrant could not even say he knew, was Lord Frost now. Byrant unfolded the letter and laid it on Warrek’s desk. It explained the whole thing. There were only three Frosts left in the world, Garrat, who had given up his name when he joined the citadel. Byrant who Lord Frost had disowned, struck from the family. And eight year old Warrek.

“The Frosts had been purged before” the note explained “and at the Starks were merciful to leave just one. Let this be a warning, to the Houses of the North.”

Byrant did not claim to work for the Starks, this- this was just vengeance, he had a considerable amount of work to do before he could claim to work for the Starks.

He did not go to the Lakehold godswood, instead, as he slipped out of the castle as quietly as he had slipped in, and headed south, he knew of a wirewood that grew near the shore of Long Lake, he needed to cleanse himself before he could continue south.

Bathing in the lake, washing the blood from his hands, and changing into new clothes Byrant let his thoughts stray to Robb, for a moment he thought that Robb might disapprove of killing unarmed men, women, and children in their beds. But the sight of Greywind’s head on Robb’s body chased that thought out. He’d seen his father’s men in the crowd cheering. And what good had that been for Ellya, Jorran, and Artor, where they not his father’s children? Or had they gotten too close to Byrant, too far out of Derron’s reach? No, no matter what, Byrant knew he’d done right by Robb tonight.

He wanted to stop to rest but knew he needed to put as much space between him and the castle as he could. He only knew of two living Starks, Jon would make a good Lord, Byrant knew it, he’d grown up with the boy but he would have to be a last resort. So he set out south, he’d need a horse but he’d steal one when he got further away. He didn’t want to get too close to any houses, even if they were just solitary farm houses, yet.

Stealing the Princess, The Queen from the Red Keep would be difficult, but it had to be done. It was a shame, even with Queen Sansa, that the Stark name would die out. Robb had been sure that Theon had not killed the young boys but all Byrant had to go off of were Robb’s feelings. Byrant loved the man but his feelings were what got the North into this mess in the first place. No Sansa would have to do and if the boys showed up that would just be icing on top of the cake.

#stories of Byrant #long post #nepocide #i guess #violence cw

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ghostmartyr · 6 years

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Pokémon Black 2 Randomized Nuzlocke Run [Part 9]

All eight badges earned, so what does that leave?

Pirates.

Team for the task?

Vertex (Luxray)

Caspet (Gengar)

Stormy (Metagross)

Photon (Rayquaza)

Nessy (Milotic)

Diego (Gardevoir)

...Those who did not participate in the last Gym, raise hands or whatever you have in place of hands for grinding.

#LET ME LEAVE THE GYM WITHOUT A CONVERSATION GEN 5 CHALLENGE.

Colress, I swear, if you pull a Euicine and make me fight you for the honor of not fighting the Terrakion...

He does not. He gives us a toy and basically says to check out the cave that I need Strength to go through more thoroughly. The Giant Chasm pirates are still blocking my way, so.

Siiiiiigh.

Box crew! What have you got for me!

I will take out Bessy, the level 33 Miltank, and teach her Strength.

Bessy is Modest and somewhat vain, but that doesn’t matter because she’s just here for HMs. She’s temporarily taking Vertex’s place, since Vertex isn’t in need of more experience.

Ah. Actually, Strength just lets you get Toxic. Which is fine, but sorry Vertex, guess I threw you out of the squad for nothing.

Hey we found the boat!

Marlon lets us aboard. Thought: I should go put Bessy back in the box and grab Vertex in case something goes wrong. Except that would take time.

...I am going to go put Bessy back in the box and grab Vertex.

After shifting a boulder on Route 22. And grinding for a bit.

Okay. A few hours later, I am more comfortable entering the pirate ship. Team levels are now 56-60. That is absolutely a balanced assessment of my current team. It is in no way misleading.

Me!

...This is the greatest grunt ever. He calls Marlon Smiley Swimsuit. Yes. You have perfectly boiled down his character essentials.

Oh wait, he has a Watchdog.

Sorry pirate friend. We can’t be friends.

Russell, my actual friend, is trying to go on his roaring rampage of revenge. Only as a responsible big brother, not a Sasuke.

I used to have a Sasuke. No more.

...I should have named Russell Itachi. If there’s ever a next time...

I continue to find it delightful that after N leaves, Team Plasma ditches their knight theme for a pirate one. I don’t even know why, I just love it. I love knight aesthetic, I love pirate aesthetic. My castle was right next to my pirate ship for most of my childhood, and it rocked.

Though my pirates wouldn’t steal people’s pets. A key difference. Pirate in name only. Well. And clothing. Pirate is just a more fun word than sailor, and pirates have looser fashion.

Mook time over?

Technically this one isn’t stealing.

Just animal abuse.

The villain of this game is just a salty old man who spent so much time in a refrigerator he decided the rest of the world should spend time in a refrigerator, too. Then he found out his region has a legendary Dragon/Ice type, and the rest is history.

Only history I have to repeat.

Because the villain of a Pokemon game decided his winning strategy would be shooting bolts of ice down at the world below.

Video games are the greatest.

...Wait. How did me and Russell get down here? Did Team Plasma just throw us off?

Also, yes Cheren. They use everything for evil. They’re the bad guys.

And then Cheren asks where the people Zekrom and Reshiram recognized are and. I wonder if he misses his friend. his best friend, [last game protagonist]. How much does it suck that he spent a full game with [person], and now they’ll never see each other again because [person] is bound to a different dimension. A world Cheren can’t touch.

Canon has, what. Red who comes back? Every other protagonist kind of just. vanishes as far as future references to that world are concerned. And Red spends quite some time up on a mountain. Alone.

These games are all about people who swoop in and birth legends, then vanish.

I made myself sad.

Anyway, to the Giant Chasm!

Totally bro.

Aw crud. Do I need Strength? I think I might need Strength. Can I mayhaps avoid that?

Oh. I could just go down the giant stairs.

Wow. Talk about your parties.

ONE MORE TIME ON THE BOAT.

I hate password games. At least the ship supplies a doctor early on. I wasn’t to the point of active concern, but I was feeling a bit itchy about using up healing items. I haven’t grown out of my usual standard in these games where I just let everything in my party die to avoid spending money.

Agreed, let’s roll you.

This guy just keeps throwing Cryogonal at me.

You know, I don’t have a lot to complain about regarding these games and their choices. I whine about everything, but all in all, I find all of them very solid and enjoyable. Even if gen 4 has too many HM requirements wtf just stop.

This isn’t really a complaint, but it is a confusion. Zinzolin is fought multiple times in a relatively small window, and his team never changes. We just keep beating him. I get the sense that they wanted a villain, but as a sequel game to a gen that went all out on that, they didn’t really have anything they were willing to turn into a threat.

Really, I feel like a better path to pick would have been giving one of the Plasma grunts a different hat and having them be the captain of a very confused and angry crew. But eh, whatever.

....Oh. You.

Why is the most anime hair dude in the game so gosh darn forgettable?

For the sake of my flawed memory, he wants to bring out the full potential of pokemon, and is willing to us whatever means are necessary. The only question is which approach actually yields results.

I like you, Colress. I am never going to remember you, but I like you.

Good grief his theme sounds like it came out of Phantasy Star.

First up is a level 50 Magneton. Caspet’s an okay choice, so I’ll just Shadow Ball it. Magneton Thunder Waves Caspet, then uses Volt Switch to swap in Beheeyem (also level 50), who takes a Shadow Ball and dies instantly.

Sorry, ‘faints.’

A level 50 Metang is switched in next. Out of twitchiness over Caspet’s paralyzed state, I put Nessy in and go with Surf. Metang uses Agility from the red. Colress uses a Full Restore. Metang hits a Zen Headbutt, but Nessy has the last laugh.

Ugh. Colress is going to send in a Magnezone. Stormy’s the best answer to that, I think. Stormy knows Hammer Arm. It hits, but like everything I hate, Magnezone has Sturdy. A Bullet Punch handles that.

A level 52 Klinklang is next. His only thing over 50. Stormy is paralyzed thanks to Magnezone, but a Hammer Arm that hits should end it, and I don’t think Klinklang knows anything that’s a threat.

Even if Stormy feels like being paralyzed.

Only once, though. Hammer Arm + Bullet Punch does the job, and we only have that pesky Magneton left.

Hammer Arm and we are done.

Please don’t make me fight another one of these clowns. I don’t wanna.

Aw heck, Russell’s having his moment with Purrloin drama. And I guess I’m not fighting robe dude. It’s all ninja for now. With my four pokemon who aren’t paralyzed. Maybe I should have fixed that.

For real though, our rival’s plotline here is pretty dang sad. He wants his little sister’s pokemon back, and by the time he finds it, it isn’t hers anymore. It’s had an entirely different life without them, probably committing crime. Because it’s been told to.

This is why you get the pirate Plasmas and the knight Plasmas. It’s fantastic that you, the protagonist, has a crew of pokemon perfectly happy fighting and doing whatever you want. But living things being forced to do whatever you want them to because you happened to throw a ball at them is pretty screwed up.

There’s not really a satisfactory conclusion to all of this, since critique of a game mechanic that is never going to stop being a game mechanic doesn’t get to start dramatic revolutions regarding that mechanic, but it’s all very sad and sobering.

That pretty ice tho.

BUT WHERE IS THE PROTAGONIST FROM THE LAST GAME.

No, but thank you N. I was not ready to die at the hands of Kyurem. Your assistance is much appreciated, and pretty great in your sequel. Props.

Gee, that looks bad.

Cue dramatic anime battle sequence.

Followed by anime transformation sequence.

Welp. Time to kill you. Let’s just hope I can.

...Stormy. I think I might want you to tackle this. To the front you go.

But really.

So damn cool.

It’s dead now, but so. cool.

There are too many fights going on. I think I wouldn’t mind in a normaly playthrough, but for a Nuzlocke, this is needlessly stressful and I am not a fan also I beat Ghetsis in the last game and it wasn’t fun then, either.

He has six pokemon, and he opens with a level 50 Cofagrigus. That is not Stormy’s friend. Nessy, if you would. Hydro Pump hits. Toxic hits from the other side, and I will deal with that in a moment, after the Cofagrigus is gone.

Ghetsis, naturally, uses a Full Restore.

Nessy handles it in the end, but is down to 73 health. Eelektross is coming out next. Time to switch. To... uh. I’ll give Photon a whirl. Feeling lucky, I use Outrage, and Eelektross faints.

Ah. Hydreigon is out next.

That is a nasty type combo for my team to deal with. I think. Geez, mark this where I have all the regrets, but Photon’s staying in to murder the Hydreigon with Outrage. Ganbatte.

IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE AND A CRITICAL HIT, GOOD JOB PHOTON.

Seismitoad is next. Diego, time for you and your Magical Leaf to shine. Shine they do, and we’re on to Drapion, which I will leave to Photon. Two Air Slashes make their mark, and all that’s left is Toxicroak, so in you stay Photon.

AND WE’RE DONE HERE, SCREW YOU GHETSIS!

But where is that certain Trainer, N????

Anyway, with that, it looks like the plot portion of this Nuzlocke is over. All that’s left is heading up to challenge the Elite Four.

I think a battle like that can have its own part.

#Pokemon #Nuzlocke Challenge #Nuzlocke

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estboss4life · 6 years

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Women’s booking till Mania

Fantasy booking Becky vs Ronda Rousey

- so Becky picked Charlotte to face Ronda at Survivor Series. Charlotte would want to avenge her best friend this Sunday but Ronda gonna send a message to Becky. Charlotte will be defeated by Ronda and Ronda will cut a promo on Becky.

-Build to Ronda vs Nia will happen. Nia will play up her injuring Becky and being an unstoppable force that will beat Ronda. Ronda vs Nia will happen a TLC. Meanwhile Paige will announce shortly that Becky will have to relinquish the Smackdown Women’s championship. Becky will be so distraught because she finally defeated her best friend and proved everyone wrong. She worked two hard years a to get back on top... and like that... it’s gone. Concussion, Broken nose and no title. Becky will say she will be back and better than ever. She will get her revenge and face Ronda at any cost.

- Paige will set up Charlotte vs Mandy Rose for the TLC for the SD women’s title. Charlotte would win the SD women’s title. Charlotte would dedicate her win to Becky redeeming their friendship. Meanwhile on the Raw side, Nia vs Ronda has been playing up Nia knockout punch. Punch vs Armbar. Ronda taps out Nia.

- Rumble time, Charlotte and Ronda sitting to watch the women’s rumble match. Nia is in the ring after taking out most of the women 5.4.3.2.1... (number 29) Becky’s music hits and she’s a suprise entrant in the Rumble. She’s out for revenge on Nia for injurying her. Becky is clubbing Nia, giving her all. Nia clocks her and starts beating her down. Number thirty hits and Ember moon comes out.She runs and try’s to take out Nia but Nia catches her and immediately throws her out. Becky is back up and sees Nia. Nia grabs Becky and attempts to eliminate Becky. Becky reverses and Nia goes over the rope and gets eliminated. Becky wins the Rumble. She’s celebrating and in shock that she made history. As she celebrating and crying, her former best friend Charlotte (SD women’s Champion) and the Raw Women’s Champion (Ronda) climbs into the ring. Becky stares at both and them. She grabs a mic and says “Nothing feels amazing like performing in front of all of you. The past few months have been hell for me. Losing the SD women’s championship that I worked hard the past two years to get was devastating. But I trained harder. I worked faster and I put everything to prove to everyone that I am the best in this division. I wasn’t gonna let nepotism end me and my moment. And what I just did just proved that. No one beat me for the SD women’s championship (glares at Charlotte). But there was a certain person I was suppose to face and now I want her title. The supposed Survivor Series main event is now gonna be the Wrestlemania match. Ronda.... you’re mine”.

The next night on Raw, Ronda opens the show and congratulates Becky on making the worst mistake of her life. She said that she should have “tucked her tail and chose Charlotte because at least you can beat Charlotte. You won’t beat the baddest woman on the planet. I’m undefeated.” Becky comes out and doesn’t say a word. She just stares at Ronda. She whispers “Say it again”. Before Ronda can say anything, Nia Jax comes out. Nia is irritated that she took out Becky Lynch and Becky took how Mania moment. “You should have stayed out home. I could do a lot worse than a concussion and broken nose, Becky. Especially since you took my moment. So let’s make something interesting. When I beat this quitter, I get to take Becky’s place in the Raw women’s title match at Mania.” Becky responds with:” If you want that fine but you don’t have to put in the work I did. You didn’t put on great matches I did. You didn’t have fans root for you due to how good you are in the ring. You’re coasting on your families name. You’re coasting on the fact you’re a big girl. You want fans to cheer you just because you’re plus size. You can’t wrestle. I had the best women’s match in wwe history meanwhile you had one of the worst last year. You aren’t charismatic and you’re related to the Rock. You’re only good at being WWE PR team for body positivity however there’s nothing positive about you. You’re everything like most girls with makeup, crying, complaining, and being a bitch. So if you want this, Nia. Look at what I did to someone that I respected in Charlotte. I don’t respect you. I want you to suffer like I suffered for three months. After I’m done with you, you’re gonna be irrelevant and walk out again.” And at that moment, Nia attempts to slap Becky but Becky grabs her hand and flips her over. She attempts to put Nia in an armbar but Nia escape. As Nia escapes and Becky turns around, Ronda gets in her face and says:”Bring. it. Bitch”

At Fastlane, Becky vs Nia happens. David vs Goliath. Nia is trying so hard to injure Becky. Working on her arm and everything. Ronda is at commentary and studying her future opponent. Becky is fighting back but Nia breaks her back down. Nia has this in the bag until Becky craftfully brings Nia down to size. As Nia is on her stomach, Becky grabs Nia leg and hooks in the clover leaf. Her old finisher she hasn’t used since NXT. Nia tried to get the rope but Becky drags her over to the middle of the ring. She looks at Ronda as Nia decides to tap. Ronda vs Becky is official at Mania for the Raw Women’s championship. Becky holds on the clover leaf on Nia to bring more pain. Becky was humbled but ruthless. She wanted to send a message to Ronda. She has nothing to lose. As the refs and security try to get Becky off Nia, Ronda slowly works her way to the ramp and says “That ain’t be enough. “. Becky runs behind Ronda and starts attacking her. They start brawling all over the arena until Stephanie threaten to suspend both of them.

Next night on Raw, Stephanie has a contract signing for this rivalry. She calls Becky to the ring first then out comes Ronda. Becky and Ronda both take shots at each other. Ronda signs the contract first. The tension could be cut with a knife. Stephanie (being a history maker and a pain) said the following: “ Becky. Ronda. This feud is too good to pass up. This was originally suppose to be a champion vs champion match last year. However, the opportunity has gotten bigger. So bigger that this match will be the first ever Main Event women’s match. The baddest women on the planet versus The Man at Mania. Who is truly the face of the company? Now, to preserve that this match actually happens at Mania, you guys signed a contract. In that contract, it says if any of you have physical contact with the other, both of you will miss Mania and worse reprocussions.” Becky and Ronda look shock but disdained. However, Becky grabs a mic and says “I never signed the contract.”, then pops Ronda in the face. They brawled until Becky put Ronda in the armbar. Ronda actually starts tapping. Becky lets go and Ronda escapes the ring. Becky grabs the contract and signs it.

During this on SD, Charlotte is still the SD women’s champion. She’s addressing the fact she want the best challenge. She defended her title and retained against Sonya at Fastlane. It was a coming out for Sonya. She seeing Becky and Ronda tearing it up on Raw. She still wants to establish she’s the Queen. Naomi comes out and says that her and Queen never got to establish who was the best between them two last year. Ever since she lost the SD women’s championship, Naomi has just been fun and laughs. Naomi wants more than that. So Charlotte and Naomi agree to a match for the SD women’s title later that night in the main event. The match is lengthy and Naomi gives Charlotte good competition. However, Naomi wasn’t enough to dethrone the Queen. Charlotte retains the figure 8 with natural section off the top rope. After celebrating, Naomi and Charlotte shake hands and hug. This is until someone blindside Naomi and Charlotte. Someone in a mask. She throws Naomi in the steps then goes to Charlotte. She decimated Charlotte, raise the SD women’s title, then reveal herself as ... the Queen of Spade. Shayna Bazler is on Smackdown. She smiles and walks off.

Back on Raw, Riot Squad is in the ring. They aren’t amused that everyone is talking about Becky Lynch and Ronda Rousey. They call Becky “a lucky loser” but tonight Becky won’t have luck when she loses Ruby. Becky comes out. She says nothing and just pummels Ruby until Liv and Sarah attack back. Stephanie comes out and says” Becky. I want to test you. I want to see if you can handle everything. So tonight Ruby vs Becky won’t be a singles match. This will be a handicap match. Riot Squad immediately pounced and the match starts. Liv, Ruby, And Sarah take turns dominanting Becky. “You gonna wish you stayed on Smackdown “, said Ruby. Becky would come back, knocks off Liv and Sarah. Ruby tries to take control but Becky hooks her in the cloverleaf. Sarah and Liv try to get involve up Sasha and Bayley (the current Women’s tag team champions) comes down to stop them. (Becky never attacked them last year during the Survivor Series build. Fellow 4HW history). Sasha takes out Liv and Bayley hits Bayley to Belly to Sarah. Meanwhile Ruby finally taps to Becky. Becky celebrates while Sasha and Bayley get in the ring. They pose with the 4HW signal.

Back on Smackdown, Shayna is in the ring. She says” Queens. Queens. Charlotte Flair isn’t a queen. She is a fallacy. This company presents you as the best of the women’s revolution. Presentation matters when it comes to you. You coaster along your fathers name. You’re a Flair. You have everything spoon fed to you. You get by by doing the bare minimum meanwhile I am your worse nightmare. I’ve been training and scratching to take your career. I want to expose you for the fraud you are, Charlotte”. Instead of Charlotte coming out, you hear Naomi music. She’s serious and isn’t in her glow gimmick. “Who are you? You suppose to glow, right? Well I can crush that glow right now.” Naomi just punch the shit out her. Shayna gets the upper hand and puts Naomi to sleep. She throws Naomi body to the steel steps again. She then takes her up the ramp and towards backstage. She she puts Naomi on one of the tables with a note saying “This will be you, Charlotte”. After Shayna leaves, Charlotte sees Naomi laid out and see the note. She becomes enrage and ask Paige to give her Shayna. Paige just nods and Charlotte leaves.

Back on Raw, Becky, Sasha and Bayley are hanging out backstage. They last were together on the same brand in their NXT days. Sasha and Bayley praise Becky for challenging Ronda at Mania and getting the women’s main event. They praise Becky for her heart, determination, and mindset. They even joked that maybe they can fight for the women’s title after Becky beats Ronda. As they hugged, Stephanie comes in and says” While I love this hugest, Becky, Sasha and Bayley... you guys will put y’all friendship and strength to the test tonight against the Riot Squad. They want revenge for next week. Good luck. Don’t let this distract you from Ronda, Becky. She might be lurking”. The match goes underway and while Riot Squad had the unity for months, Sasha Bayley and Becky tapped them in stereo in their submissions. As they celebrate, they are attacked by Ronda and two debuting females in Jessamyn Duke and Marina Shafir. Ronda starts beating down Becky while Duke and Shafir drags Sasha and Bayley to watch their friend be destroyed by Ronda. (Heel turn). Ronda grabs a chair and hits Becky in the back multiple times. She then takes out Becky in her armbar and Becky yells in pain. Becky refuses to tap. Ronda holds the submission for a good minute. Then Marina and Duke deck Sasha and Bayley knocking them out. They raise the tag titles and Raw women’s title while Ronda call them the “And with Shayna taking out Charlotte, we are the real Four HorseWomen”

On Smackdown, Paige makes Shayna vs Naomi happens. She advises Charlotte to just study Shayna for preparation. Shayna dominates and squash Naomi. She then puts Naomi to sleep. Charlotte just studies Shayna from the back. She planning something and seeing what happened on Raw, things are gonna change.

Back to Raw (final Raw before Mania), Ronda, Jessamyn, and Marina cuts a promo destroying Becky, Sasha and Bayley.

“Sasha Banks? The woman who can’t retain a title. She has the biggest hurt ego. She’s too busy crying about history than actually winning. Then there’s a hugger? Bayley her name? What happened to her. She’s too busy being Sasha’s friend and hugging everyone. And then we have Becky “Bitch” Lynch. You should have stayed as Charlotte friend and in her shadow because now I’m gonna give you the biggest beating of your life, Rebecca. And once Shayna takes care of female Flair over on Smackdown, we will be unstoppable.”

Becky musics hit and Ronda and the other gets guarded. That’s when Becky, Sasha and Bayley run from behind to attack them. There’s a brawl coming out. Shayna runs down to help her fellow four horsewomen. But then Charlotte runs down to take out Charlotte. There’s a huge brawl escalating from all members of each 4HW groups. Sasha and Bayley attacking Marina and Jessamyn. Shayna and Charlotte are brawling up the ramp with Charlotte spearing Shayna off the stage. Becky and Ronda are fighting in the crowd. Stephanie and Paige order security and the locker rooms to separate the women. This was getting crazy.

After finally separating all the women, Stephanie and Paige have made some decisions together.

Stephanie announced that at Mania that

Sasha and Bayley will defend their women’s tag titles against Marina and Jessamyn.

Paige announces that Charlotte will her Smackdown women’s title against Shayna in a I Quit Match. Queen of Spades vs Queen of Flairs

And finally Becky will challenge Ronda Rousey for the Raw Women’s championship in a Iron Women Match in the main event.

“This is to see who is the true Four Horsewomen and who stands behind the women’s revolution. Who’s gonna take it all? Who’s gonna make history?”

From then till Mania day, all the women studied each other’s work. The MMA girls studied the WWE 4HW best matches and their styles. The WWE 4HW were at a disadvantage since Jessymin and Marina hadn’t had a full match besides NXT house shows. Social media banters and interviews escalated to so much press mainstream wise.

At Mania,

- The Womens battle royal is won by Ruby Riott. Ruby will get the next shot at the women’s title.

Sasha and Bayley vs Marina and Jessamyn for the Women’s tag team title. M and J used their strike game to decimate Sasha. They use heel tactics to keep Bayley from tagging. Eventually Sasha fights them off and Bayley gets the hot tag. She going crazy. Marina and Jessamyn tried to back and even tried to play up something big. “You really think Sasha cares about you. She’s using you for gold because she couldn’t keep gold. Hug N Boss connection is a farce.” Sasha gets back in the ring and questions Bayley. Her and Bayley start arguing when then M and J tries to capitalize. They have the match won until Bayley kicks out. Sasha takes out Marina with the meteroa off the top turnbuckle. Sasha then gets back in the ring, grabs Jessamyn, hits the backstabber, then releases to have Bayley by the Bayley to Belly. Bayley goes for the pin. 1 2 3. Bayley and Sasha retain the Women’s tag team titles. As M and J crawl up the ramp, Sasha and Bayley celebrate with the 4HW sign.

WWE 4HW-1

MMA 4HW-0

Next is the Smackdown women’s title match. Shayna Bazler the challenger vs Charlotte Flair the champion. I Quit Match. Hard hitting match that esculates verywhere. Charlotte used the figure 8, moonsault, natural selection. Shayna ask Charlotte to quit everytime. Charlotte refuses. Shayna would put Charlotte with the rear naked choke submission. Charlotte tries to fight out of it however there’s no rope breaks. Charlotte tried fighting but it made it worse. Shayna adds more pressure. Charlotte starts to fade away. She is out of it and the ref ask Shayna to get off Charlotte. Shayna holds the summission for a few seconds and the ref holds Charlotte hand to see can she respond. Charlotte doesn’t answer back and the ref signals for the belt. Charlotte didn’t quit by verbal communication but her body did. Charlotte quit. Shayna is the new SD women’s Champion. Shayna has beaten Charlotte and asserted her throne on WWE. After the match, Charlotte feels defeated but the fans start applauding her. She’s getting an standing ovation for her performance. Her dad comes out and gives her a hug.

WWE 4HW-1

MMA 4HW-1

Not all comes down to this. The main event match. A rivalry that turned personal. The challenger Becky Lynch (2019 Rumble winner) vs Ronda Rousey ( UFC fighter, history maker who won her first Mania match in an 30 minute Iron Women Match. Becky is 0-2 at Mania. They countered most of their submissions. They studied each other so wellFirst fall goes to Ronda within ten minutes when she catches Becky from the top rope into the armbar and Becky taps out. Second falls goes to Becky when reverse Ronda’s judo throws into an Dis-Arm- Her and Ronda taps. 1-1 so far. Third fall comes when Ronda and Becky are battling outside of the ring. Becky hits Ronda and Ronda throws Becky into the steps. She grabs Becky hand and place it in the steps. So gets back in the ring and tells the ref to count. The ref counted and Becky made it back by 9. Ronda tried to get the upper hand but Becky rolls her up for a three count. Becky scored a fall. 1-2 Becky is in the lead up not for long. Ronda is angry and knocks out Becky. She grabs Becky’s arm and place her in the armbar. Becky taps out and now it’s tied 2-2. Five minutes are left in the match. Ronda just have to run down the clock and she will win. Ronda taunts Becky and plays with her. She starts trash talking with her. She keeps hitting her until Becky fights back and dominates Ronda. Two minutes left so Becky and Ronda fight it out till Becky reverses Becky’s armbar to her coverleaf. Ronda tried to get out it but Becky won’t let go. Ronda after being on the hold for a seconds finally taps. She taps to Becky Lynch. Becky Lynch has won the Raw Women’s title. She has done it. She has done it all. She can’t believe it. She is handed the Raw Women’s championship. The crowd is singing her theme song and calling her Iron Women. She raise the title over her head. As she celebrating, Sasha Bayley and Charlotte come out to celebrate with Becky. The WWE 4HW have taken over.

#wwe #wwe becky lynch #nia jax #wwe ronda rousey #wwe sasha banks #wwe bayley #wwe charlotte #wwe four horsewomen #wwe naomi

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lovelyfictional-imagines · 6 years

Text

Small Hands (The Eleventh Doctor x Reader)

This has been the longest I’ve written, my first Eleven(with brief Twelve, of course), and my first transition fic all in one. Keeping it short because it’s longer than usual! Hope you enjoy!!

Until next fic, - Ashley Inspiration: Small Hands - Keaton Henson Word Count: 3413

Miss you terribly already, Miss the space between your eyelids, Where I'd stare through awkward sentences And avoid through awkward silence

Large, tired eyes rolled to the back of her head as she woke to another exhausting day. Lethargy held her down, traveling through her very bones like a leaf on a quiet river. (Y/N) sat up, gently lifting her heavy legs from the quilt’s protection, and felt the cold floor beneath her toes. The sun was pale, peeking in to tell her it was a new day, and she felt it laughing at her inability to even look it in the eye.

Going through her routine had become difficult since the Doctor had gone. Not a word from him in quite some time left her faith dwindling, causing her to settle back into the sad, lonesome life she’d had before. She hadn’t even realized just how boring she had been until she was forced to go back to her old life. That raggedy man with the funny bow tie and the fez fixation had forsaken her to remain on earth alone. Tears had fallen freely for weeks, before devolving into moisture around the corners of her eyes, until one day she felt the pressure behind them, but nothing came.

It was if even her tear ducts were spent, fed up with her constant use like the Doctor must’ve been with her. Often, she wondered if he’d forgotten her, if she ever crossed his expansive mind. Intentionally unremembered, pushed to the back of the closet in his vast mind like baby shoes or old photo albums.

That gangly, awkward spaceman simply left her on earth to fend for herself after months and months of travel. After being too close to such a gorgeously tragic creature for too long, the sudden isolation deeply affected her. Like taking a thriving plant and shoving it roughly into a dark room. She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to see him again, she was so angry at first. But the rage subsided, it melted into heartbreak. Then the pangs in her chest dissolved into nothing. Any trace of what once a feeling was, it was stolen from her.

Miss your teeth when they chatter, When we smoked out in my garden When we couldn't sleep for all the heat, Soft talk began to harden.

It was getting harder to leave her apartment. The empty husk she lived in was cold, dark, desolate. The opposite of her warm corner of the spaceship. Anytime she spoke anymore, a ghost of the powerful voice she’d once had escaped. It had been so long since (Y/N) had spoken, truly talked to someone.

Many conversations she’d once had involved the existence of all the odd creatures she’d met with him along the way. Cybermen, Daleks, those “cute little marshmallow aliens”, and more. Most nights instead of sleeping she’d be looking into those hazel eyes, watching them crinkle in laughter or glaze with seriousness, guarding something deeper. Something they both shared. Even as he attempted to dance around her and their feelings, she felt fine. Knowing he felt the same was enough.

Until he was gone.

Their last conversation hadn’t been a pleasant one. It still haunted her at night. Months of tension built up to their last meltdown, leading to the Doctor flying her home at her demand. All her odd feelings about Amy’s brashness and Rory’s ignorance had boiled to a head. The redhead’s flirtations had finally pushed her over the edge, and (Y/N) couldn’t stand feeling like she was in the way of something larger than her. With her feelings that she, in the heat of the moment, assumed were unreciprocated, it was better in her mind that she left. In a blind fury she’d stomped to her room, throwing her old clothes in and slamming the old suitcase. Dragging it along, nose high in assurance of her decision, she passed them by on her way out. One by one their faces went by, expressions more shocked than any, until she moved by the Doctor.

Confusion and unmasked pain were evident on his face, and she couldn’t find the nerve to meet his eye.

The large doors slammed shut behind her, and (Y/N) was well down the street until she heard her name being called. Already halfway through some anonymous neighbor’s backyard, rooted in a bed of begonias, she halted her plodding, waiting for her childlike companion. Of course she’d stopped. Knowing she shouldn’t have but hearing the desperation in his voice instantly glued her in place. And there he was, in front of her as suddenly as he had been the first time they’d met.

Tall and bright and looming over her, he grinned sheepishly. Long hands fidgeted before tucking into his pockets, and then he removed them as soon as he’d moved them. Suddenly they were warm and wonderful, surrounding and cradling her face as his drew near. Then he kissed her. Kissed her silly, just about, taking her breath away. Everything she’d wanted had come true in that moment. Suddenly she felt appalled, pushing him away. Once she’d fantasized about the day his mouth found hers, a physical confirmation almost, but at that time it was the last thing she wanted. What was he playing at? A pity party for wee (Y/N), who just simply couldn’t keep her feelings as inconspicuous as she thought?

“You can’t just... just do that... and expect me to not be upset anymore. You have to... I’m sorry. Find me when you mean it.”

How the Doctor resembled a kicked puppy more in that moment than in any other they’d spent together, she would never know. Every single day since then she regretted her decision. Sometimes she’d be so eager, so prepared to hear him knock on her door and whisk her away again, that every bump heard outside sent her rushing towards the door.

Disappointment filled her every time. The suitcase remained by the door, tightly packed, and she passed it frequently, knowing a good deal of what lay in it were many articles the Doctor had worn himself. How she missed seeing him bundled in her own oversized jumpers, sleeves rolled up as he tinkered away with any and everything. Always with that smile. That stupid, goofy smile that lit up her dreary world and pulled her into one where nothing bad could happen, that one she’d seen before being lulled to sleep after a terrifying day, that one--

Stop it.

To this day she still felt the rough surface of his chapped lips that were sweet to the taste, his ever-present warmth beneath his skin, and the weight of his melancholic gaze softening like butter when they settled on her.

Miss your small hands in the palm of mine The fact they're good at making, Miss your sitting up incessantly, And the fact you're always waking in the night, night.

Sleepless tendencies that (Y/N) had kept under wraps for years were impossible to hide from the Doctor. Until one time she’d been too tired to move but too exhausted to sleep and he’d been so frightened for her that he tucked her into his lap and read to her through the night. Old habits die hard, but the Doctor seemed to be excellent at laying hers to rest. Never in her life had she slept so well. Shadows beneath her (E/C) eyes had faded considerably, bags had grown smaller and smaller. Her skin had been radiant, her need for coffee constantly diminished, and her mood overall had been improved.

It came as no surprise that she grew worse after her departure and the absence of him at her side as she slept. An average four or five hours that had grown to eight or nine abruptly reduced to one or three, if she was lucky, with prescription medication that only worked half the time. When respite was nowhere in sight and any hope she had was dashed, she’d sit at her desk and write. Pen down her thoughts, that often revolved around her extraterrestrial almost lover. Paint intricate pictures of her memories of him, wiry and tall and beautiful in his recondite sort of way. He could’ve started his own artistic revolution, his own stylistic movement in history, with all the indescribable sensations and colors he carried in his vivid personality.

Other restless nights when (Y/N) lived on the TARDIS, she would bake. Whip up delicious, fluffy treats that always appealed to the Doctor’s more puerile side. For hours she would remain in the kitchen, bowl in hand and a wicked look of concentration on her face. There she would lay in wait.

Then the Doctor would come sneak in, surprise her with his silly faces and odd voices, eat her cupcakes or cookies, and they’d burst into childlike laughter and whisk flour through the air. She would chase him through the halls, following his powder trail and clouds until she found him and pounce on him. And then he’d do this funny sort of motion where he pressed his forehead to hers, crinkle up his nose and they’d watch each other for ages. Even as flour fluttered and settled around their bodies, like dust in a war zone, they would go still and lose themselves in each other, in their moment of silent communication.

Should he choose to return for her someday, (Y/N) would have something sweet prepared for him. All her letters and treats would be thrust into his arms, like an offering, a material plea. Sincere, profuse apologies would sputter from her mouth, for fighting, for not listening, for being so immature and emotional. On her knees she would beg, urge him to take her with him again. Anything to escape, to be back in his presence. The humdrum of her day to day life ate away at her insides, leaving her yearning more and more for the adventures from before each day. Yearning to see his face, feel his hearts, and heed whatever it was he’d tried to tell her that day, months ago.

And I, I hope for your life You forget about mine Forget about mine

Knowing the Doctor too well, (Y/N) concluded he likely wouldn’t come back. More often than not when someone he cared for told him to go away, he actually listened. The knowledge that he probably locked himself away at some point and blamed himself for her frustration killed her. Guilt gnawed at her constantly, remorse at the thought of him beating himself up over a pathetic human such as her. But he was so wonderfully empathetic, this face.

He always thought so lowly of himself. (Y/N) knew it, from the way his shoulders slumped when he thought he was alone to the sad stare on his idle face. Everything he did plucked at her heart strings, the lowest ballads and the most exquisite symphonies. She hated herself for becoming so attached, for caring so much for this unobtainable, exotic being.

Only in her limited dreams she was normal, an ordinary girl content in a bland life. In some alternate universe she’d never crossed paths with him, rarely wishing it had been this one. Self-loathing set in when she felt this way, because the Doctor was and always will be the greatest thing to happen to her. She couldn’t live a life without him being in it. His life was her life’s favorite part.

Miss your teeth dug in my shoulder, As we rolled in early morning, Miss your arm dying beneath me, As I lay there simply yawning

Waking up alone in her too-large-for-only-her bed became the norm for (Y/N). Prior to her leaving, she and the Doctor often shared a bed, constantly straddling the line between platonic and romantic. A line the Doctor played jump rope with, always dragging her into the game. Not that she minded.

Naps galore and numerous nights were spent sleeping together, hands intertwined, or arms draped around each other. In the plush bed, piled high with blankets and pillows, (Y/N) would usually wake after him, only to find he had been awake for hours stroking her hair or rubbing her back. When she’d ask him why he hadn’t woken her, his face would go pink and he would give her a look that was so tender that it caused her to choke up even if only thinking of it. Something about the gentle way his eyes crinkled as his flushed cheeks rose as his thin mouth curled into something so absolutely perfect in her mind, and it stole the breath from her lungs and brought tears to her eyes every damn time he did it.

Even as she attempted to hoist her numb limbs from around him, rubbing clumsily and quickly, she felt his gaze on her. From behind he would curl his lanky limbs around her waist, push his nose into her messy hair and they’d remain in that position until he would leap to his feet, off on some train of thought before it had fully left the station. (Y/N) would giggle to herself and linger behind, moving off to dress and wash her face before joining him on his daily death wish.

Please forget me, you were right dear, I am cold and self-involved, And though I'll miss you, recent lover I am weak and therefore fold

Throughout their time together, it had mostly been pleasant. (Y/N) could seldom think of a time where she had room to complain. The Doctor was kind and understanding, attentive and caring. Though during periods after near-death experiences, he would shut himself off, sulk privately in the confines of what she assumed to be his room, hidden away deep in the maze of the TARDIS.

Upon his emergence he would always be different. Dissimilar in subtle ways, from the gold freckles in his eyes to his posture. Thinking himself so clever, she knew he assumed she hadn’t noticed. But of course she noticed. When he changed demeanors, she felt it. His mood was like the charge in the air before a severe storm. Before the rain poured until it flooded, the lightning flashed until it hit an unsuspecting tree, and the thunder rolled with a force that knocked pictures from walls.

And for once she would see a sliver of the side he hid away from his companions. That cold, calculating side that was easy to irritate, quick to anger. A dark area everyone had in their personality, but with the Doctor it was so much more intense. With the centuries he had spent in pain, in complete and total anguish, either alone or watching those he came to care about die, stuck in moral battles with himself, it was only natural for this to happen. For it to be so much more than what any human was accustomed to, like everything else about him.

Get distracted by my music, Think of nothing else but art I'll write my loneliness in poems, If I can just think how to start

Attempts to move out of this depression (Y/N) had dove headfirst into seemed futile. Roaming out in the streets until late at night, sitting up in her room until unconsciousness finally took her. During her off days from work she’d weave in and out of bookshelves, sit in the corners of coffee shops and watch the customers, and wander through art galleries, hoping to find some inspiration or eccentric stranger to draw her out of this slump. The most detailed paintings, attractive streetwalkers, and profound of books left her stumped, feeling silly for even attempting to get better.

The only solace she’d found so far was writing, naturally, to the Doctor. Or about him. Or sketching him. At this point it had become obsessive, and it embarrassed her immensely that she allowed this person take over her life. This person who wasn’t a person, who probably wasn’t even sparing her memory a mental second glance.

Overall it felt nice, relieving almost, to express how she felt through some outlet. She resented herself for allowing him to become so ingrained in her life, for letting him in to see her vulnerable soul. A soul she poured across the pages in a cobalt blue diary’s pages. One that she would never be able to fully expose to anyone human, not without thinking of the Doctor’s sorrowful expression, betrayal splaying across his face.

Maybe writing was a beginning for her. A beginning for the closure she needed to resume a somewhat normal life. Closure she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted.

Dot my I's with eyebrow pencils, Close my eyelids, hide my eyes, I'll be idle in my ideals, Think of nothing else but I.

All she could see. All she could feel and hear and taste. What was wrong with her? Could she ever more on?

I, and I

Returning from her supermarket run, (Y/N) found her door wouldn’t open all the way. Upon the first attempt at flinging it in, she huffed when it bounced back to her, latching once again. Slowly she pushed it, sliding in the small gap she’d managed to make, barely fitting her grocery bag in with her. Once inside, the bag and its contents were littered all over her entryway as she released it.

There she was. That wonderful blue machine, tall and just as boxy as ever, that she had searched high and low for every time she went out. Her home, her actual home, was there, somewhere in the funny contraption that she’d missed so terribly. All he had to do was come out.

Maneuvering cautiously around the edge of the TARDIS, (Y/N) eagerly waited. Desperately wanting to see the Doctor, her Doctor again, she couldn’t hold herself back. With the intentions of flinging herself into the awkward Time Lord’s arms, she reached to open the door, but it pulled from her grasp. Shocked, she exclaimed and leapt back instinctually, prepared to run. And then she saw who had opened the door.

Short, wispy strands of silver were whipped into curled peaks atop his head. A thin, wrinkled face with annoyance etched into his features and unruly eyebrows set above those eyes, with a large, long nose in between. She would always recognize those eyes, no matter their color or shape. Whatever swam in their depths, (Y/N) had seen before. In that moment she almost saw her Doctor’s hazel eyes, recognition floating there.

He was magnificent. In a broken, mystical way that no words in any language could ever even begin to describe. Enchanting in the way only the Doctor could be, as if it was in the very nature of his people. It was something in the way he held himself, the way he naturally leaned down to her level when they were near, the way familiarity flashed on his face. Like finding your new favorite painting, or hearing a new song, being instantly drawn to it despite not knowing why, but knowing it’s your favorite without having to compare it to others.

“Who... Doctor?”

“I usually get it the other way around, pudding brain.” He smirked at her, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Doctor?” She asked again, more serious and sure this time round. Anticipation forced its way through her veins. It had to be him. Please.

Sighing dramatically, he smiled. A foreign but handsome expression, standing out on his previously serious face.

“That’s me. Hello, (Y/N).”

Immediately she was in his arms, face in his neck. (Y/N) buried herself into him, taking in his new scent and feel. Suddenly he was awkward again, hands hovering out before hesitantly resting on her back. Suddenly she was crying, thick tears flowing down her face and soaking into his black jacket. In the moment she was carefree, she had her Doctor back. He was here in her arms.

He hadn’t forgotten her.

He didn’t hate her.

There was hope.

“I’m not quite a hugging person now.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

The Doctor exhaled loudly, hands slowly starting to rub her back in an attempt to comfort her. (Y/N) completely missed the countenance he’d made, oddly positioning his head against the top of hers. A certain tender look, warm and content. He’d found her. She wouldn’t let him get away this time. Not that he’d allow her to, anyway.

And I, I hope for your life You can forget about mine Just forget about mine Oh, mine.

#the 11th doctor x reader #the eleventh doctor x reader #the 12th doctor x reader #the 12th doctor #doctor who #whovian #the doctor #the doctor x reader #fandom imagine #fanfiction #fandom #romance #keaton henson #songfic #doctor who imagine #reader insert

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