#what if there's anger and fear and sadness and wistfulness when he thinks about waking up in that coffin

[crimsonfeatheredraven]

You know what? I think Jason should be a bit more unhinged about his death. I'm not talking about death jokes or "did you die?" comments or even the angst filled moments that we've been getting, which I respect in their own right.... but I'm thinking more along the lines of him carrying dirt from his grave around in a little pendant that he wears around his neck 90% of the time... using his coffin as a table or bookshelf...having a stain glass window in his actual apartment that has a depiction of the angel that stands over his grave...

I wish he would be allowed to actually enjoy his second life more...but I also think it be interesting to see him have a more macabre fascination with his death without linking it to Bruce...

[sabineelectricheart]

Left in the Wake of Rilton

Summary: Nathan leaves Meira behind. She rues the consequences.

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 730 (Minific)

When things end, when all is said and done, people are left with those wistful memories she does not know what to do with it. There is no pain or anger or hurt left in her heart. All there is are those nights she shared with him as they tangled within her bedsheets.

The young woman can still feel the ghost of his fingertips across her skin as he held her close, their bodies moving in sync with their breathing. He was so jealous, so possessive, and he would always express it physically, leaving his mark in every square centimetre of skin, a flaming sensation in every nerve, in such a all-encompassing way it is hard to forget. Even if he is not here anymore to renew the evil, cruel spell that he cast over her, the indelible mark he imprinted on her soul.

He had told her he loved her, way back when. He had said he never wanted to see her unhappy, that he never wanted to be the cause for her tears, but where was he now? He said he would spend his whole life proving to her how much he loved her, to show her that she was beautiful and that their life together was worth the fight. Not as much, as it stands.

She remembers the night they ended it all, and of all things, she supposes that this is the one moment that she would never be able to forget. The world would not be able to accept the corporate heir marrying a sickly, low-class bint, no matter how much they argue on both ends of that little trouble. It had been hard work from the start, and eventually they grew weary of the fight.

His father knew much too well how to push his buttons, the allure of wealth and status was much too difficult to let go, the sneer of those he knew all his life, even if he does not admire them, even as he does not love them, was too heavy a burden to stand. Eventually, after wearing them both down, he faltered. He let his fear get in the way of his happiness, the security of the known tied him down too firmly and he had thought it better to end it before they got any further, before he hurts her in a way that could not be ever reversed.

Too little, too late. She was already tied to him, and she may have been ever since he swung by her small hospital room in a protocolar visit to one of the many, many affiliated institutions to their massive corporation.

She should have tried harder to keep him with her, to convince him she would have taken whatever the world had to say because she needed him as much as he needed her. Instead, she let him go, she made it easy for him to just forget her.

She cannot help that even after all this time, she still thinks of him and what they had. She wakes up and tries to go about her day, but every little thing reminds her of him: placing two pieces bread in the toaster instead of just one, drinking orange juice instead of a cup of coffee, insisting it was healthier with pulp than without. He had changed her life more than she realized until he had left.

Though she wishes different, she knows he is not thinking about her the same way. He is just fine with his wife and new child. He has moved on and left her behind. She is now healthy and is before a long, long life of this sadness. She is not going to die anymore, she is going to live and she is going to rue what she has lost, she is going to swallow those memories and stand them, alone.

There is no way in which she can blame her naiveté, her lack of experience in relationships, the innocence he paraded around almost mockingly. She should have known he would bring her pain and loneliness, and she did, she just elected to ignore the evidences and the sound advice.

She does not regret it, she just misses those times, and she might miss it for the rest of her life, so is the bittersweet taste he left on her mouth. Almost lovers always do.

*_*_*_*_*

Glass Heart Masterlist

[seijorhi]

How about a lil overhaul? Maybe his s/o is just someone from america on a trip and cant speak japanese. But he is like. Mine. She was quirkless and was coming to visit Japan to see a family member. Maybe that family member sold her to overhaul to pay off a debt? She is just so confused and cant understand most of the people here, she wants to go back to America.

So I kinda went a little off track with this request, but I hope you like it!

Overhaul x Reader

TW kidnapping, murder, minor blood/gore

Collateral

It’s a bit of a surprise the day that you get your ticket in the mail. You’ve never been particularly close with your uncle. It’s not that you don’t like him or anything, it’s just… you don’t really know him. He’s lived on the other side of the Pacific Ocean since long before you were born, and you’ve only met him face to face a handful of times. 

And now he wants you - just you - to come stay with him for a little while. As long as you want, the return ticket’s flexible, the email says.

Your family’s just as flummoxed as you, he and your dad have never exactly been close - something about a big fallout when they were younger, but he’s the one to convince you to go. 

“Your uncle hasn’t exactly had the easiest life, sweetheart. He’s all alone over there, has been for a long, long time and he’s made a lot of bad decisions in the past but… you’re his only niece,” he sighs, cupping your cheek with a sad smile. “Maybe he wants a fresh start, to build a relationship with you - he’s missed so much of your life.”

It’s not so much his words that get to you, but the wistful look in his eyes as he says them. Your heart aches for him, for them both, and you find yourself nodding along.

A trip to Japan sounds nice. 

Getting to know your uncle sounds even nicer.

A week later, you’re on the plane flying over the Pacific, the nerves in your stomach growing with each mile that passes beneath you. 

It’ll be fine, you reason, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from your skirt as the plane starts its descent into Tokyo. Things might be a little awkward at first, but your uncle wouldn’t have invited you if he didn’t want to make a genuine effort, and your parents were only a phone call away if anything went wrong. 

Not that anything would. He’s family - that means something.

“If it gets too much, you can always come home,” your dad had whispered as you bid him farewell at the gate. 

But when you get off the plane, grab your luggage and make your way out through the gate, there’s no sign of your uncle standing in the crowd. You frown, scanning the arrivals hall again - he called your parents yesterday to tell them he’d be picking you up from the airport.

A flutter of uneasiness teases at your gut, but you force yourself to keep the smile on your face as you continue to scour the throng of waiting friends and family. You did land a little ahead of schedule, and getting through customs had taken less time than you thought, maybe he was just running late, or trying to find a park. Your uncle had given you a phone number to call if anything went wrong but… you don’t want to come across as panicky. It’s only been a few minutes, after all.

You’re so focused on trying to find him that you almost miss the crisply dressed driver holding a sign with your name just by the sliding doors. He doesn’t say anything when you approach cautiously, eyes still darting around like you’re expecting to see your uncle behind him. He doesn’t look like what you expected - not that you were expecting a driver at all - but the clearly expensive black suit and blank stare as he regards you are a little… off putting, to say the least. From your understanding your uncle wasn’t exactly made of money, so why send a driver at all?

“Um, hi… I’m Y/N, did my uncle send you? I-is he not coming?” you say, praying that the man understands English and you’re not making an idiot out of yourself.

The driver nods sharply, “He was unable to collect you himself.”

Oh. 

Your smile falters just a touch, but you find yourself nodding out of politeness. It’s fine. You have all the time in the world to spend with your uncle. “Oh, alright. Um-”

The driver grabs the suitcase from your side before you can stop him, turning abruptly on his heel and walking away, leaving you to rush after him, cheeks dusting pink.

Except the driver doesn’t take you to the small apartment on the outskirts of the city your uncle had told you about. 

***

You’ve never been more terrified in your life. 

It’s been a week, you think - it’s hard to tell when the room they keep you in doesn’t have any windows and the food they deliver doesn’t come at regular intervals.

A week since the driver pulled you shaking from the back seat of the black and manhandled you inside a dark warehouse. A week since you met him.

You still don’t know his name. 

He’s the boss - you’ve figured that much out at least. He was the one whose feet you were tossed at when you arrived - shaking, crying and pleading.

You can still remember the chill that crept up your spine as those impassive gold eyes stared at you, his mouth hidden behind that ridiculous plague mask. Sitting on an old, worn leather couch, dressed in all black save for the grey tie around his neck and the white surgical gloves on his hands, what startled you the most (aside from the mask) was how young he was - he couldn’t have been more than a year or so older than you at the most, and yet every single person in the warehouse was staring at him with the utmost respect.

He’d ignored your tears and the trembling questions that had fallen from your lips as he’d stood and walked a slow circle around you, eyes running you up and down like a vulture eyeing off its prey. He hadn’t touched you, only gesturing once for his subordinates to wrestle you back up into a standing position before he finished his apparent appraisal. 

When he’d spoken it was an order barked coldly in Japanese, but his eyes had flickered back to you as hands had gripped your arms, and in the split second before you were tugged from the room, you could have sworn that there was the faintest hint of dark pleasure shining through.

He’s come to visit you a few times since. He always keeps his distance, sitting on the sole chair in your sterile room as you huddled up on the bed like a frightened kitten, putting as much space between the two of you as possible. 

He seems to enjoy that; your fear. 

It’s the second time he comes to visit that he starts to talk to you - not in English, no, despite you making it abundantly clear you had absolutely no understanding of the language beyond a few conversational phrases, he only ever speaks Japanese.

He seems to enjoy that too - the blank, nervous look in your eyes whenever he starts to speak with you. His tone could be considered light and friendly, conversational almost, if not for the cruel edge to his words that transcends the language barrier - with every word he’s mocking you, and he wants you to know it.

The first time you leave your sterile room it’s when two of his masked entourage come to take you up into what looks like a surgical suite. There’s a man strapped to a gurney under a bright operating light sobbing, thrashing fruitlessly against his binds and immediately there’s a wave of dread that floods your stomach. The two men who took you hold you firmly in place by your shoulders, but you can’t help but jump a little when that familiar voice starts to speak.

He comes out of the shadows, golden eyes fixed solely on you. It’s a speech of some sort, though whether it’s for your benefit, his followers’ or the now screaming man’s before him you honestly don’t know. Sweat builds at your temple as the masked leader lifts his hands and slowly tugs off the white surgical gloves.

You don’t know what’s about to happen, only that you desperately want to stop it. One of the men behind you chuckles and you bite your lip to stifle a cry - there’s no point, you can’t move, you can’t escape this - whatever it is that’s about to happen.

The screams reach fever pitch, the man thrashing hard enough to make the gurney shake, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. Your heart skips a beat as the auburn haired leader stares dispassionately down at him and with a sigh - places his bare palm against his flesh.

The result is instantaneous. 

The scream cuts off. Blood splatters over the walls, over you, as the man is simply, brutally, torn apart by the Quirk.

And all the while, the monster simply watches you.

You understand him perfectly this time. It’s a demonstration, a reminder of why one so young sits at the head of an illicit organisation and what exactly the punishment might be should you fail to remember that.

They take you for a shower afterwards, and you’ve never been more grateful for it. You scrub at your skin until it's raw, desperately trying to wash the taint of blood from your skin. It doesn’t seem to make a difference, it stays with you every time you close your eyes.

You cry yourself to sleep that night, clutching tightly at the thin, blanket you’d been given and thinking desperately of home and your family.

He’s sitting in the same plastic chair when you wake up, except this time it’s been pulled up right beside the bed. He regards you silently for a moment, watching as your eyes widen and fear slowly creeps across your features, but you don’t flinch, you don’t try and scamper away. You only pull the blanket up slightly, as if to protect what last vestiges of modesty you have from him.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks in flawless English.

You jerk back in surprise. He-

What?!

Of course he speaks English. Of course his continued insistence on speaking a language you didn’t understand was nothing more than a ploy to make you feel vulnerable and inferior. 

Utterly isolated.

A spark of anger flashes through you, but you quickly tamp it down, the memory of blood and disassembled body parts all too fresh in your mind.

He seems to be waiting for an answer to his question, so you give a minute nod. You’ve been here long enough to put the puzzle pieces together.

“Your uncle managed to rack up quite the impressive debt from us - a debt he couldn’t pay when it came due. He offered us you, his niece, instead. A pretty, young American girl, Quirkless… pure,” he sighs.

Each word hits you like a slap in the face and you can feel the unshed tears stinging in the corners of your eyes. It’s nothing you haven’t already figured out, but to be confronted with the truth, that your own flesh and blood (however estranged) had sold you out to save his skin, hurts more than you care to admit. 

Oblivious to your internal suffering, or maybe just indifferent to it, your captor continues. “I had planned on selling you. You’d be surprised what some of the degenerate filth in this city would be willing to pay for some beautiful, defenceless, foreign doll for them to stick their cocks into.”

Something close to amusement flickers in his eyes and he laughs as your face blanches in mute horror. He leans forward, gloved hands reaching for your face and you freeze with a choked gasp-

But he merely brushes at your cheek with the back of his knuckles, collecting a single stray tear that had slipped from your eyes without you even realising. “You don’t need to look so worried, Y/N. I thought you would have realised by now - you’re not going anywhere, you’re mine, and I’ve figured out a much better use for you.” It’s hard to tell with the gaudy mask obscuring half his face, but you could swear that beneath it all, your captor’s grinning. “My pretty little pet.”

[chaoticallysapphic]

the great divide part six

summary:  Who knew that eight words would be your undoing. If you had known then what you know now you wouldn't have signed up for Suyin's dance troupe, you probably would have left Zaofu just to be safe. But you didn't and fate had branded you with a path that chained you to someone who would break your heart.

a/n: The last part! Please remember there is an epilogue, Gif is made by @stelladonna​ and a massive thanks to @medeliadracon​ for beta reading this series! And also a big thank you to @ladyxffandoms​ for helping me figure out what was missing. 

word count: 8k

When you leave her office, Kuvira is filled with rage so hot she fears it may burn her insides. She hears the slam of her doors and the muffled conversation between guards before it’s softly shut once more. “It shouldn’t be a tough decision, Kuvira.”

The malice in your voice, the use of her full name, it shattered through the toughest of walls within her. Ones you’d never breached before. She’s never been good with her emotions, ever since she was a child she warped her sadness, her loneliness, and sometimes even happiness into anger as a way to protect herself. 

She was a difficult child with a temper the size of Ba Sing Se, so difficult in fact that her parents deemed her unfit for their life. It felt like the world was ending when she first arrived in Zaofu, the way her parents spoke to her before they left, making her seem like no one would ever truly love her unless she let Suyin mold her into a model citizen. 

And that was another problem, Suyin always tried to turn Kuvira into a miniature version of herself. It didn’t matter how different she was, Suyin tried to bury who Kuvira truly was with a perfected version of herself, a false one.

Up until her parent's abandonment, she always assumed love would be easy and that she would instantly marry her soulmate. She’d pull her shirt up just a bit and look at the words swirled across her hip bone in wonder. “Would you mind helping me memorize the routine?”

Those words, however minuscule and mundane, proved to her that she was worthy of love. That one day she would be loved. But as she grew older in Zaofu she felt a disconnect regarding those words on her hip, the first time she had sex she had covered it up, as if trying to shield the person she hadn’t even met yet. Hara, the name of the girl who had eyed her since the first day of guard training, didn’t seem to care at all. 

Kuvira feels like she should lie and say she had her eyes on you since the first practice you attended but honestly she hadn’t even noticed the new addition to the troupe. When you had pranced over to her, still light on your feet after the routine, and spoke, she wondered what kind of soft-spoken woman would end up loving someone whose own parents hated her? 

She remembers that night in the metal flower in vivid detail. When you were spinning alongside her in the air she suddenly was consumed with the desire to kiss you, she didn’t even realize she had pulled you close until your soft lips touched hers. 

She knew from the moment you spoke that first day she should have broken up with Baatar Jr. But Kuvira, even though she will never admit it out loud, is a stubborn and flawed woman who can’t stop once she sets her mind to something. 

The fourth night of the second month on the train after she had been uncharacteristically gentle with you, was the first time you said you loved her. She asked you to repeat yourself again and again until you pulled her into a deep kiss, pouring all your love into it. The action left her breathless, and with that kiss, you broke her first wall.

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until she starts to think about you and all her memories of you. You’re most likely in your room erasing any trace of her there may be, completely ready to extract her from your life. 

Kuvira forces herself out of her office and over to her front door, she opens it up just a few inches, enough for the guard nearby to see. She doesn’t care if he can see the tears racing down her cheeks. “Have a guard stationed outside of Y/n’s door.”

Once she shuts the door after he nods, Kuvira walks into her room where she sits on the edge of her bed. If she goes to sleep, will you still be in her life tomorrow? Kuvira shoves off her boots but otherwise stays in her uniform as she lays down and stares blankly out the window, her country needs her. They need her to protect them in a way no one has ever protected her before. 

Kuvira doesn’t sleep that night, she stays awake, her gaze focused on a potted plant out in the courtyard, and imagines every possible scenario in her head. These last few years have spoiled her in a way, you were always by her side through it all. You were there cheering her on and making her feel loved and wanted. She doesn’t know if she can go back to how it used to be, to loneliness. 

When rays of sunshine start to peak through her window, she pulls herself up and out of bed. Kuvira goes to the bathroom to smooth out any wrinkles in her clothes but doesn’t feel the energy or motivation to change into a fresh pair. She slept in her bun, it’s a bit frizzy now with a few loose strands that she tries to tuck into her braid, there’s a pesky curl that won’t cooperate. Kuvira eventually gives up on it, letting it stay out and frame the side of her face. 

You love when she has her hair down, when it’s down you immediately run your fingers through the dark curls and let out this content sigh that fills her heart with adoration. Kuvira shoves her feet into her boots on the way out of her room, beyond caring about her appearance. The guard outside her door, the same from last night steps forward when she walks out of her room. 

“Ms. Y/n left her room around one A.M, it’s been reported that she’s staying at the encampment.” Kuvira frowns, did she take too long? Have you given up? 

You were her guiding hand, her moral compass and now you’re gone. “Thank you,” she says monotonously before heading towards the kitchen. Despite her desire to shut herself off from the world, her stomach is cramping in pain due to hunger. She should have eaten the food you gave her last night, now it’s strewn across the desk in her office, cold and gone bad. 

She takes herself the familiar route to the kitchens, growing up here has its perks. She'd seen how you look around in a mixture of confusion and wonder when they had gone to try and negotiate with Suyin. Kuvira knows this place, she ran down these very halls when she was younger. Despite the hollowness that echoes through the halls, the lack of laughter and conversation turns the whole home into a colorless husk of what it used to be.

Kuvira hadn't noticed the lack of life within as she walked into the empty kitchen. Her guards had gotten Suyin's chef to cook breakfast and dinner, and she had given him lunch off. It was for sentimental reasons, all the birthday cakes he baked her and midnight snacks. He might hate her now but she'll keep giving him lunch off in hopes of paying him back for the happy memories. She doesn't like to owe people. 

He must not be in yet, it's barely dawn. The kitchen is empty, giving Kuvira the perfect moment of respite before her dreadful day. She grabs a piece of bread, most likely baked yesterday, and an apple. Part of her doesn't have an appetite, to upset about her fight with you to want to eat. She forces it down with a glass of water, the food helps her slightly, helps her feel stronger than before. 

Kuvira walks down the hall, her feet carried her out of the estate and towards the tram. “I need to get out of the city,” she says to the operator waiting for any passengers by the tram doors. He nods and briskly walks over to the operating booth, she decides to grab onto the pole at the center of the cart and stand. The machinery starts with a jolt but Kuvira remains unmoving, staring straight ahead. Slowly the scenery around her begins to change, it takes her around the outer domes where a few people are toddling about, most likely walking off to work. 

The tram goes under a tunnel before entering the main dome. That towering golden statue of Toph Beifong comes into view and Kuvira sighs as a memory of you enters her mind. 

You’re moving around your room on the train as the view from outside is blurred due to the speed you were moving at. You and Kuvira were beginning to get to know each other in the safety of the night, which brought you such joy. Standing in front of your vanity with only Kuvira’s undershirt on you begin to take the pins out of your hair. “What was your home like?” She had asked. A wide smile made its way onto your face as you set the bobby pins into a small ring dish. 

“Just so cozy. We have a townhouse in the main dome across from the botanical gardens. I had the best view from my bedroom window,” you let out a wistful sigh as you begin to untie your locks. “Our home was directly situated to the center of it, all you had to do was walk across the street to enter. So I got to wake up with a view of every flower Zaofu has curated, it felt like it was just for me.” 

Kuvira watches you fondly from the bed as you continue “my dad and I made a metal planter to hang from our kitchen window by the front door, during summertime hydrangeas bloom from it.”

Without thinking Kuvira rushes over to the emergency brake button and slaps her hand onto it, the tram stops with a harsh jolt that sends her stumbling to the side. The doors automatically open with the lights above flashing red. Kuvira stands on the edge, looking below. The fall isn’t far but it could still hurt her, so she bends two of the metal seats, ripping them out of their places screwed to the floor and warping it into a crud shape of a ladder. 

She bends it to the edge, moving the nails that popped out to screw them into the floor to secure the ladder. Kuvira lets out a deep sigh before beginning her descent below. This is stupid and will most likely blow up in her face, but if you decide to say goodbye to her today, she wants to see the place that you once called home. There are a few inches between the ladder and the ground so Kuvira jumps, She bends at the ladder back into the tram so if it starts whilst she’s away it won’t break any buildings in the process. 

An old man opening up shop stares at Kuvira with wide eyes, watching her walk away as the tram above stays frozen. She’s a block away from the garden she’s heard you gush about, more and more people begin to filter out from their homes to start their day and each one eyes her with disgust. Squaring her shoulders, she stares ahead and away from everyone's watchful gaze. 

The gardens come into view, towering bright green trees with vines growing on the wrought iron fence surrounding it. Kuvira stops at the entrance, looking inside with hesitancy, as if worried she’ll destroy it upon contact. There’s a pond in the center with a few lily pads floating around with two benches across from one another by the pond. 

Flowers of all shapes and colors are scattered around and when her gaze locks on the towering Sunflowers in bloom, Kuvira suddenly remembers once finding you tucked behind them with bloodshot eyes and a raspy voice from crying. That was the second time she had knowingly hurt you, the first being asking you to keep it a secret. Kuvira takes a step back, not feeling worthy of stepping inside such a radiant place, and begins her trek around it to your house. 

Most of the homes don’t have many outdoor decorations, a welcome mat or a potted plant seems to be the theme so when her eyes lock onto that metal planter with blue hydrangeas Kuvira knows she’s found the place. It’s a two-story townhome with some sort of stick figure drawn on the second story window and when she looks over her shoulder she sees how perfectly centered the house is to see all of the gardens from above. 

She doesn’t know what to do now. She never really thought through her plan, which is incredibly unlike her, but that memory came flooding back through her mind and she knew she needed to see it for herself. Slowly she takes a step forward, and then another and another until she’s in front of the door with her fist raised, rapping three times against the metal. 

Kuvira doesn’t know why she does it, maybe it's the sleep deprivation or an act of desperation to feel your presence again, she honestly doesn’t know. There’s the sound of thunderous footsteps from behind the door and a masculine voice calling out “I’ll get it!” 

A man opens the door with the same color hair as you, he’s a bit on the chubbier side and looks to be roughly 6’2 or maybe even 6’3. 

Kuvira can see the resemblance in certain features of his and it makes her long for you even more. Your father scowls at the sight of her, his demeanor has changed from cheery to vexed in a matter of seconds. She shouldn’t be surprised. 

“I’m Kuvi-” 

“I know who you are, you made us kneel before you.” His voice is gruff and his words clipped. Kuvira sighs, right, she did do that. “What do you want?”

‘I’ve come to talk to you and your wife about… well about your daughter.” Spirits this is awkward, your father stares Kuvira down for a few moments before frowning. Slowly he steps aside, letting her in. Your home is warm with family photos framed and hanging from the wall, the entry is a narrow hallway with an archway that leads into a small kitchen. As Kuvira follows your dad down the hall her eyes catch on a photo of you. 

You can’t be any older than eight in it with your arms wrapped around your father's neck as he carries you on his back. Your mother is beside the two of you, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. All three of you are grinning and Kuvira notices that one of your front teeth is missing. Both of you have lived such different lives. At eight Kuvira was being abandoned by her parents for being too out of control. 

Two people who grew up in completely different environments with such clashing personalities are soulmates, in some ways, it seems like a sick joke. But she can’t be upset about it when she loves you this much, just confused. 

Your father clears his throat, ripping Kuvira from her thoughts. She looks over and tenses, he’s looking at her like he wants to say something but shakes his head and enters the room at the end of the hall. Kuvira reluctantly leaves the photo behind and follows after him. 

The room is a living and dining room with a small circular table that has an elegant bouquet of yellow and white flowers in a simple vase with four chairs tucked underneath it. There is a cozy looking periwinkle sofa and an unlit fireplace with a photo hanging above it, this one is larger and is of you before the performance all those years ago. You look so pretty in that costume and so happy. Kuvira swallows. 

Your dad walks up the staircase tucked to the right, leaving her in the living room where she awkwardly stands. She doesn’t think he wants her to go up. Kuvira makes out the sound of aggressive whispering from upstairs, she can’t make out any of the words but soon after two people come walking downstairs. Your father and your mother. 

Kuvira’s eyes widened, you always mentioned your mother being part of the guard but you never mentioned her being the Lieutenant for the main dome. Not only did she help train Kuvira, but she also placed the captain's pin onto her uniform during her ceremony. She had smiled at Kuvira, having seen her as her own, and said quietly “I’m so proud of you.” 

That smile is long gone and replaced with a scowl. “What could you possibly want to say about our daughter?” Your father places a gentle hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down a bit. 

Kuvira gulps as she eyes the both of them, there're so many emotions raging within her now that she doesn’t know if she can even speak. Suddenly this place somehow seems too much like you and she wants to run away from your mother's wrathful gaze. “I’m… Your daughter,” Kuvira internally groans. This shouldn’t be so hard. “ Y/n and I are soulmates.” 

“So the rumors are true…” Your father mutters as he plops down onto the couch with a dumbfounded expression. 

“What rumors?” She had locked herself up in her room all of yesterday and this is her first time having a conversation with someone that’s not you. Your father grimaces. 

“That guards found you in her room, naked,” your mother spits the words out. Oh spirits, this is not a good first impression. Kuvira feels her face flush a deep red “that you imprisoned your fiancé because he caught the two of you.” 

“It’s a lot more than that” she offers, neither seems to care. Your father seems to not want to hear any of this because he quickly stands and walks off towards the kitchen. The sounds of pots and pans being moved can be heard through the otherwise eerily silent home. “I didn’t want to imprison him.” 

“I don’t care, what I want to know is why you were even with him if my daughter is your soulmate. She abruptly left with you three years ago.”  

The explanation floating around her mind isn’t good enough, she can’t seem to figure out how to eloquently explain herself without it seeming like she doesn’t care about you. Suddenly as she thinks over the last three years and she starts to notice how harshly she’s treated you. 

Up until now she always claimed it was for the good of the country, when you both finally got married the world would try to eat you up and chew you out for being with her. She needed you to have a perfect image and be resilient. 

“I-I needed him for engineering and he wouldn’t leave with us unless he thought I loved him,” Kuvira says sheepishly. Your mother looks unimpressed as her jaw begins to clench. “I have always loved your daughter though.” 

“So you hid my daughter, my beautiful, amazing, and sweet daughter away like something to be ashamed of?” She takes a step closer, scowling. Kuvira feels like the collar of her jacket is choking her. 

“No! I have never been ashamed of her, I always told her how much I loved her.” 

“But you turned her into the other woman for your own selfish desires!” 

“They weren’t selfish, they were for the good of the empire! She understood.” Kuvira thinks you understood but right now she’s not too sure. A kettle in the background begins to whistle. 

“My daughter dreamed of the day she’d meet her soulmate, she had everything planned out and I know for a fact that the woman I raised would not be okay with what you’ve turned her into!” Your father quietly reenters the room with a tray that holds three teacups with steam coming from them. 

“I love her, I just want to fix everything! It's why I came here,” that’s the real reason that compelled Kuvira to come here, if anyone knew you better than her, it’d be your parents. 

“How is she doing?” Your father asks, Kuvira looks over at him and notices how sad he looks. His eyes are bloodshot and a few tears fall from his eyes before he wipes them away. 

“She’s healthy but upset with me.” 

“As she should be,” your mother mutters under her breath. He picks up a teacup and blows on it, “why is she upset?” His voice cracks. 

“She wants me to end this, told me it's her or the empire and I don’t know what to do.” Kuvira sighs and runs a hand through her hair, messing her bun up a bit. 

“And why haven’t you chosen her already?” Your father's voice is calm, there’s a sadness to it but he doesn’t shout or rage like your mother who has her back turned to Kuvira as she goes to pick up one of the teacups. She can see how tense your mother is, how angry she still is. 

“Because it's my country, if I give it up to Wu and Suyin then I am turning my back on the people I promised to protect.” 

“You once promised to protect Zaofu at all costs” your mother snips out, he places a hand on her shoulder and softly says “honey, please.” She relaxes just a fraction as she takes the seat beside him at the table, glaring at her tea. 

“These people are vulnerable and need someone to make sure they feel safe again. I’m that person, and your daughter understood that, or I thought she did.” 

Your father sets his cup down and pats the chair beside him that’s situated across from your mother. She shyly walks over to it, she doesn’t want to sit down but she’s already pissed your mom off just by existing and she’d rather not give her another reason to hate her. 

“They were vulnerable, but you have gotten rid of the bandits and raiders. You’ve stabilized the empire as you promised, now it’s time to let go and hand over the reins to someone else.” 

“I can’t do that,” Kuvira says, her heart is racing. Let someone else rule? Give up the control she craves? The idea makes her feel unsafe, like the second she does it someone will destroy not only her but also you.

“You have to, my daughter won’t stay with you otherwise. Are you really ready to give up love for power?” He hands her the last cup of tea, the scent of jasmine wafts up and fills her senses. She slowly goes to pick up the cup, her hands shaking. 

She’s so overwhelmed, none of this is meant to be happening. She’s supposed to win and you're meant to love and support her, then she proposes with a beautiful emerald ring that she’d make herself and you’d say yes. That’s how it’s meant to go, that’s how she has envisioned it since day one. 

“This isn’t how it’s meant to go” she confesses, your father sets a soft hand on her own to help stop the shaking. 

“How do you think it’s meant to go?” And so she tells him what she just thought, and she adds on how both of you would continue to better this country together and maybe, one day in the far future, have a child. 

“Did you ever ask Y/n if that’s what she wants?” Your mother tries to keep her voice calm, tries to keep from yelling at her again. Kuvira stares down at the cup, trying to wrack her brain around the time you’d chime in with the future you wanted, or a time she even asked. “Just because it’s the future you planned for her doesn’t mean it's the one she wants. You can’t just plan everything out without including your partner's opinions and desires into the equation.” 

You once talked about what your wedding would be like with Kuvira chiming in every once in a while, but that was it. That was the only time you mentioned anything regarding the future. 

“Love is about equality, you both should be putting in equal effort. It’s a delicate balance that takes time to learn, give, and take. It’s not always going to be perfect even with your soulmate but you make it work for each other. If my daughter stayed with you all these years then she must love you, but for her to put her foot down shows she has had enough.” Your father's voice is soothing and calms her down just a bit. 

“But…” Kuvira’s voice shakes, “what do I do if I give up control? It’ll never go back to how it was before, how am I meant to go back to everyday life after everything I’ve done? After knowing I probably could have done more.” 

“No one knows what life will be like after. But I think a few years down the road you could get back to the place you were at before, maybe a new and improved version due to all the knowledge you’ve acquired over the years and due to having Y/n with you,” he takes a sip of his tea after speaking and delicately sets it down on its saucer. 

“I know you need control in your life Kuvira, it’s what made you good at being Captain, but you need to let go. Everyone has to let go at some point and this is your time,” your mother says. Kuvira’s eyes glance around the room as she feels her heart begin to pound, it feels like any second it’ll leap out of her chest. Let go? The idea sends her mind spiraling with horrifying scenarios of what might happen. 

“We may not like you, but if you drop this once and for all, and make our daughter happy then,” your mother lets out a deep sigh “we will be here to support and help you.” Tears glisten in her eyes as she stares at the both of them. “If our daughter loves you then that must mean there’s still some good left in you.” 

Kuvira begins to softly cry, a hand comes up to cover her mouth as her shoulders hunch in on themselves. Your dad lets out a soft sigh and says “c’mere,” before pulling her into his arms and hugging her. Kuvira doesn’t hug him back nor pull away, she just sits there and cries into his shoulder. She knows what she must do and it terrifies her, fills her with doubt, and causes her stomach to clench from anxiety. 

“You need to bring her back to us, please,” he whispers, and Kuvira nods. Slowly he pulls away from her and offers her a gentle, comforting squeeze on the shoulder. She desperately wipes at her eyes, suddenly embarrassed to have cried in front of them, and lets out a shuddering breath. 

“You should go find her,” your mother says. Kuvira stands on wobbly legs, her hand placed firmly on the table for support. When she’s fully upright your father pulls her back into a hug, a short one this time. Kuvira awkwardly pats his back until he lets go. 

Your mother stays seated, staring her down. “Don’t break her heart,” she says. Kuvira vehemently nods, her eyes wide. She will do whatever it takes to protect your beautiful heart and if you forgive her she will cherish it every second of every day. 

She leaves shortly after that, your dad gives her a cookie before letting her leave which turns out to be really good and she walks over to the tram station. It’s since been fixed so when she presses the button requesting its presence it zooms by and opens its doors for her. The chairs are still messed up, just laying there a mess of something hardly resembling what they used to be. The tram takes her out of the city and to the entrance where she wastes no time hopping into a jeep and speeding off. 

The midmorning sun beats down, today is incredibly hot and causes little beads of sweat to form on her forehead. When she gets to the encampment Kuvira slows just barely and everyone moves out of the way at the sound of the car barreling through. She abruptly stops it and jumps down before heading into her tent. 

Inside Kuvira marches to her radio, she disregards the state of it and doesn’t even notice the filing cabinet you broke as she tunes into the main radio station the encampment uses. “Radio Freedom, what do you need?” 

“Find y/n and send her to my tent.”

“Of course, great uniter. I’ll tell all my men to search for her.” The voice stutters out a reply before she switches it off. Spirits she feels like she might go crazy whilst she waits for you. She leans against the front of her desk with her arms crossed as she tries to come up with some grand speech of how much she loves you, of how your love and presence is what has kept her sane over these last few years. 

She looks up at the ceiling and sighs, the idea is terrifying but she chooses you, she’ll let go of her defenses and send her men home for you. 

The sound of fabric rustling has Kuvira snapping her head back down to stare into your eyes. You look pissed, you don’t have on your jacket so the white undershirt sticks to your sweaty skin and you have your hair in a messy ponytail instead of the usual bun. 

Kuvira wets her lips before speaking, “I spoke to your parents.” Your eyes widen at that, Kuvira continues “I didn’t realize I knew your mom, she helped train me when I first joined the guard.”  And she hates my guts which I don’t blame her, Kuvira thinks. I let her down, just like I let you down. 

You finally look into her eyes and spirits, even with that furious look on your face you take her breath away. “So?”

“She’s a blunt woman, and when I told her about us neither of your parents were pleased.” You wrap your arms around yourself and frown, she wishes she could know what’s going on inside your head. “But they gave me a piece of useful advice, something I probably could have had use of hearing all those years ago.” 

She slowly walks over to you, hesitantly so. When she’s close enough you look her over and purse your lips. There’s a slight look of concern written on your features and it swells her heart with a hint of hope. 

“That if I love you, it shouldn’t just be me taking from you, but by asking you to hide everything and go along with my plans that was exactly what I did. I realize now I never even asked what you want, what you envision when you see our future.” 

You begin to silently cry and she has to use all of her willpower to keep from reaching forward to wipe away your tears. 

“It should be equal. Give and take and be there for each other. There shouldn’t be punishments or silent treatment,” Kuvira pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What do you want?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut at her words, your bottom lip trembling. You get lost in your thoughts, something you do often but Kuvira decides not to pull you out. She’ll give you all the time you need to reply. 

“I want peace,” you say, your voice a mere whisper. But she hears you loud and clear. “I want this all to end and I want us to finally be able to love one another in front of others. I don’t want any of this, I can’t peacefully live in a world where this… this mission is a success.” 

Kuvira takes a step forward and opens her mouth to pour out all of her feelings, to promise that she’ll end it when something interrupts your moment. A shout and gunfire pierce through the air. Kuvira’s heart drops and she rushes forward to look outside of the tent. 

Her men are scrambling around like ants, stumbling to get to their places. She makes out a clash of fire and earth up ahead and runs out, leaving you behind. She turns a corner and comes face first with one of her men, instead of informing her of what’s going on he shoots a ball of fire at her. Kuvira’s eyes widen as she bends up a wall to protect her. 

“C’mon oh great uniter! Fight me” he shouts. Kuvira’s nostrils flare as she pushes the wall forward towards the man, it hits him and sends him stumbling back. As she advances with hands clenched, ready to activate his bracelet he shoots a spiraling wave of fire out of his foot that has Kuvira jumping out of the way. “It’s even ground now,” he says in a smug tone as he raises her pant leg to show a naked ankle. What?

Her heart races as she stands back up, cracking her neck to the side. She fought the avatar, she can fight this puny fire bender. Kuvira gets into stance, smirking as she shoots out two pieces of metal, one wraps around his ankle and the other around his neck, and with a twist of her wrist, he’s flying backward, slamming into the metal wall of one of the guardhouses. 

“Kuvira!” She hears you spit out, her head turns as she watches you desperately run over with an enraged look on your face. You bend the metal off the poor man, he falls to the floor with a groan. “Leave him alone.” 

“He is defying me!” Her eyes widened in rage, how could you defend him? “He is one of my soldiers and he just tried to kill me.” 

“He was never one of your soldiers!” Your fists are clenched as you try to control your anger, “you forced him into this!” 

With both of you distracted he raises once more, letting out a pained groan before shooting a small, weaker bolt of fire. You shoot up a wall for the both of you, keeping your gaze trained on your lover. “It’s him or me.” 

Kuvira lets out a growl of anger at your words, loyal earth empire soldiers rush past towards the battlefield, ignoring the lover's quarrel as they shout out commands to one another. “Why are you defending him!?” 

“Because Kuvira what we did back then wasn’t right, because I made a promise to myself to protect them and I will not break it!” Her eyes widen, stumbling back a step. There’s so much going on in her head, she just wants to silence all the anger and confusion that burns within this situation. 

“You freed him?” She asks incredulously, you thickly swallow before nodding.

 “I freed all of them.” Your wall begins to crumble, the fire bender has since left, leaving the two of you to stare at one another. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I should have never let you cage them in as you did. You asked me early what I want? I want you to let this war go, I want you to leave them alone and surrender!” 

“I can’t do that!” Not now, not after being attacked, not after seeing that her men are in some sort of danger. Your hands reach up to cup her cheeks, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Yes you can, I know you can Kuvira.” 

She rips herself out of your grasp, suddenly feeling like your touch will poison her. Poison her resolve and burn away all of her control. She needs this war to thrive, she needs it more than air itself. 

A deafening boom is heard from behind her, once more she leaves you behind but this time she feels you hot on her heels as she runs towards the battle. Kuvira vaguely makes out something moving in the air, she squints her eyes to figure out what it is and the object swoops down just a bit to drop down soldiers that aren’t hers. It’s a sky bison she realizes, that must mean Korra is here. 

She sees that one of the people that dropped down is Bolin as he lava bends a circle around him and his team to protect them from her soldiers. He wastes no time as he bends up a chunk of earth and hurls it towards the soldiers, most don’t jump out of the way in time, the force of it knocks them down and causes them to pass out. She hopes they are just passed out. 

The others around him are all different kinds of benders donning makeshift armor under their shaggy and ripped clothes, Kuvira realizes with a stunned expression that it’s the reeducation camp uniforms. Her heart pounds as more of her men fall all around her, the comforting words of your father worm their way into her head as she squeezes her eyes shut. The young dictator stumbles back and pulls at the roots of her hair in frustration, she can’t let this go, can’t give up. 

This is the most in control she’s ever felt, she no longer fears for her life or for her future, it was within reach and exactly what she imagined it to be. With her rule, she thought she erased any chance of reliving her younger years, alone and heartbroken as the longing for someone to hold her ate her up. Suyin’s comforting words never worked, but the sound of her men marching did. 

When Kuvira opens her eyes she sees that more of her men have fallen and Bolin’s group has moved on, she surges forward to eradicate them when your hand wraps around her forearm and pulls her back. She looks over her shoulder with a snarl, not realizing it’s you. 

“Don’t make me choose between you and my country.”

 “It shouldn’t be a tough decision, Kuvira.”

But if she does choose this war, this overabundance of control she will be alone and heartbroken because you will leave her. You made it clear yesterday that you won’t stand by and support this anymore, that you won’t stay by her side if she chooses this path. Your fingers through her hair work too, your soothing words are like a balm to her soul and your smile eases her into this warm state of calmness.

With you, she doesn’t need the marching of her men or the rush she gets when getting someone to sign over their land. You give it to her without a second thought, you give to her because you love her and your love doesn’t come with a price or consequences. 

You tug her to the trunk of a jeep and force her climb onto it. When she stands up on the hunk of metal you grab her cheeks and force her to look at the battle ahead. More and more of her men are falling as air benders use their full force and mecha suits shoot them down. Kuvira then notices the lack of mecha suits on her side and how in the middle of the field there’s a clash of green uniforms going against one another. The field lights up with all forms of bending as each man readily gives their life to her cause. 

“If you surrender your men will be fine! Kuvira be the woman I know you are, stand down!” You pull her eyes away from the scene so she can look at you, look into your eyes that are full of fear and desperation. 

“Bu-” Her heart begins to race, she feels like she may vomit. 

“I need you Kuvira! I need you more than them, so surrender,” you bite your lip. “For us, please Vira.” 

You pull her into a breathtaking kiss that's anything but romantic, your fingers squeeze a bit tighter at her cheeks as you slant your lips against her own, she shakily brings her own hands up to grip your waist in a bruising hold. 

When you pull away, there’s a tear racing down your cheek as you stare into her eyes. “Please.”

“Fine!” She spits out, her throat feels like it’s closing up as her fingers begin to shake. This is everything she’s worked towards for three years, every agonizing day spent pouring herself into documents and threatening governors and mayors into submitting to her will. 

Every kiss she ever gave Baatar, every time she ignored your pleading eyes. 

She’s about to give it all up for you and feels panic scrap through her as if it were wrapped in barbed wire and she doesn’t know what to do, her whole body shakes as she looks around at the mess she created. 

“We need to get to the fro-” Your eyes widen, trained on something behind her. 

“Watch out!” You scream, pushing her out of the way. An icicle bolts through the air, it all seems so slow and yet happens so fast. Kuvira goes stumbling back, barely able to keep herself up, her gaze moved from you during the push so when she hears the sound of you letting out some sort of strangled sound her head whips over to see the icicle lodged in your lower left stomach. Your white shirt begins to turn red as blood spills out. She’s frozen in place as she watches you slowly lift a hand to touch your wound as a pained whimper leaves your lips. 

That terrible noise rips her out of her frozen state and she dashes over to hold you as you begin to fall to your knees. When Kuvira looks over to see where the icicle came from she looks into the wide, terrified eyes of one of the rebels. It’s one of the ones you helped free. 

Before she can even think of all the ways she’s going to kill that woman you croak out “Vira?” Her gaze flickers back to yours, tears are welling up in your eyes and Kuvira feels the warm blood begin to spill onto her hands. 

“I’m gonna save you, gonna find someone to heal you.” Her voice is high pitched and cracking but she doesn’t care. “You are not going to die.” Kuvira looks around for someone to help save you, her one chance at happiness from going up in flames. She feels her vision blur as she desperately turns her head in all directions when it lands on the blue robes of the water benders fighting on Korra’s side. 

One of them has to be a healer, she thinks. “I need to lay you down so I can drive,” you grip at her wrist, your eyes widening at the idea of her letting go of you. “It’s the only way I can save you, I’m so sorry.” 

Suddenly she doesn’t care about anything but you, her fear of losing control has been replaced with the fear of losing you. She can’t lose you, you're the light in her life and without you, she’ll once more be the abandoned, unlovable ward of Suyin.

She quickly leans down to press a firm kiss to your forehead before gently setting you down in the trunk of the car before clumsily jumping into the front seat and turning the key. The jeep roars to life, the only problem is how her pathway is blocked. 

Kuvira stands in her seat and pulls two large walls from the earth, soldiers stumble out of the way as she pushes it through the battlefield, offering a small, clear pathway for her to drive through. She floors it and hears you groaning in the background, causing her to grip the steering wheel harder.

Her hands keep slipping from being soaked in your blood, she fights with all her might to not look down at them, knowing she needs to focus on the road ahead. Her wall ends halfway so with one hand she bends two walls again, it takes a bit longer and these walls are much shorter and less sturdy but it does the trick. 

Suddenly Korra appears at the end of the pathway, her hands once lit with fire extinguish at the frantic look on Kuvira’s face. She makes it to the end of the pathway, Korra jumps out of the way as Kuvira slams her foot on the brakes. The car comes to a screeching halt and without a second to lose Kuvira is scrambling out of the front seat to where she left you. 

Kuvira lets out a loud, strangled sob at the sight before her. Your skin is so pale and there’s so much blood, the floor of the trunk is coated in the deep red and Kuvira bites back a sob. You look up at her, softly saying “Vira?” 

Kuvira’s wet hands go to rest on your cheeks, she looks up at Korra and screams “I need a healer!” Her scream snaps Korra out of her daze and she rushes over to the jeep, when she opens the door of the trunk and sees blood begin to trickle off the edge, her heart drops. 

She’s never met you before but Suyin told her enough to know you're the one who helped them. She climbs into the truck, her brown pants slowly sticking to her skin from the blood. 

The icicle has melted now, leaving in its wake a gaping hole as she summons water from one of the vats they brought for the benders and encases her hands in it. She’s only ever healed herself and it was never something so severe. 

“Please,” Kuvira says to the avatar, her wet words scraping out of her throat as she continues to cry. “Please save her.” Korra nods, keeping her gaze on your wound as her hands begin to glow and hover over the gaping hole.

Neither of them notices how the fight has halted, Kuvira’s soldiers waiting for her to end the avatar due to how close they are. Their leader begins to sob as she desperately holds your neck so she can lift your head and set it on her lap. The metal probably isn’t very comfortable. Your cheeks and neck now have bloody handprints on them as Kuvira repeats like a mantra “You’ll be fine, you’re gonna be fine. I love you so much, you’re gonna live.” 

Korra calls over her shoulder “I need another healer!” Two waterbenders rush over, water already bent around their hands as they climb up to help. All of their hands glow as they hover over your wound, “she’s lost a lot of blood” one of them says to the other.

“Just fix it!” Kuvira demands, her heart dropping at his comment, neither of them acknowledges her as they continue to work on her soulmate, one of your hands weakly grab at her wrist so she’ll look at you, her gaze snaps to yours and she softens in an instant. “Everything’s gonna be okay, my love. Okay?” 

“Okay,” you weakly reply. Kuvira rests her forehead against your own, trying to keep from screaming out. “I love you, Vira.” 

“I love you too, y/n. I love you so much.” She continues to repeat herself, you look up into her eyes with a small, adoring smile. 

It feels like hours go by as they work on you. Whilst the three water tribe members try to save your life, Suyin walks up with a solemn look on her face. “You need to end this, Kuvira.” 

Her eyes pull away from yours to look into those of Suyin’s and she angrily spits out “I don’t care, end it. So long as Y/n lives I don’t care.” Her men at the very front of her army hear her though and all let out differing noises of surprise. “I surrender.” 

Suyin begins to spit out orders on how to arrest her men, she sends the other Beifongs back to Zaofu to clean up Kuvira’s mess whilst everyone else stays on the battlefield to help her arrest and detain the earth empire loyalists. Kuvira places a kiss on your forehead and closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to watch it all be ripped from her, she focuses on your breathing as she tunes out the youngest Beifong sister. 

Every once in a while you groan out in pain and Kuvira’s heart clenches with fear each time. “We’ve done all we can for now,” Korra says softly from behind her. Kuvira looks over her shoulder at the Avatar and sees Suyin walk up to the edge of the trunk with her arms crossed over her chest. “You can send me away to prison once she’s better, just don’t take me away from her just yet.” 

“I made a promise to Y/n and I may not like it but I will stand by it. By ending this war you will be put under house arrest, we need Y/n awake before we can do that though.” Suyin sighs, Kuvira’s gaze shifts to your own at Suyin’s words but she finds them shut. 

Frantically, fearful that you won’t ever wake up, she places two fingers on your pulse. It’s weak, but there. “She’s just sleeping, she’ll need lots of it.” 

“Y/n said she’ll choose the city for herself, for now, we’ll need to cuff you and take the both of you back to Zaofu so she can get the rest she needs.” 

She pulls your body up and into her arms so she can hold you, your head lulls onto her shoulder and you let out a soft groan at the movement. 

She places a kiss on your forehead and closes her eyes as she hears orders being given by the younger Beifong sister. She doesn’t listen, too focused on your breathing to care. She has willingly given up her army for you, and she’d do it again if it means saving your life. 

[bombshellsandbluebells]

Deadheading (The 100 WIP)

Have an unfinished Murphy & Monty centric fic following the season 5 finale that I can’t figure out how to finish but don’t want it to go to waste. Partially inspired by @boomheda‘s post about Murphy choosing to live because Monty gave his life for him, but honestly it never even really got to that part.

Deadheading

Deadheading (v.) the act of cutting spent flowers off a plant, encouraging the plant to bloom again and extending the bloom period

--

When Murphy wakes up, Bellamy tells him that Monty and Harper are dead. 

“No,” he says, angry and sore and aching from more places than just the holes in his shoulder. “No, I just saw them. They made it on the ship.” It feels like it’s been five minutes. Bellamy says it’s been decades.

“No,” Murphy says.

“Fuck you,” Murphy says, because anger is always the easiest emotion and he’s worn it so long and so often it fits like a second skin.

Bellamy shows them a video. 

He shows them a kid that looks so much like Monty Murphy squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking at him, who has the same quirk to his lips that Harper did when she smiled. His eyes light up when he sees Murphy, excited in a way Murphy doesn’t know how to accept, and he wants to cry so he punches the wall instead. He doesn’t even flinch when he feels his bones break, just pushes past Emori and Echo and Bellamy and Raven when they reach for him in turns and past the kid that fills the space where the other two should be, looking so much like the perfect mix of them, a sad, cheap replacement with a hand-me-down name.

The others want to hold a memorial. It’s only right, they say. It’s what they deserve, they say. What else can we do, they say.

Murphy curls tighter in his anger, tending the flames until they’re hot enough to burn the grief away. He holds it around himself like a shield when he tells them he won’t come, that if Harper and Monty wanted to kill themselves so badly he wasn’t going to waste time feeling sorry for them, and he can see it hurts but he doesn’t care. If Harper and Monty wanted out, then good riddance. The people they left behind didn’t need them, and they didn’t need to stand around speaking kind words and sad stories into the spaces they left behind.

So when the others have their memorial, Murphy hides in a deserted hallway of an alien ship, feeling the buzz of machinery under his skin and the fluorescent light on his face. He’s gained two bullet holes and lost two people and maybe that’s an even trade because it’s like nothing’s fucking changed since he was on the Ring two weeks ago, feeding on anger like it was algae and the only thing still keeping him running.

Maybe Monty should have left him behind after all. Surely burning alive is better than rotting away from within, scooped out and hallowed into nothing but an empty shell.

Maybe if Monty left him behind he’d still be here. Maybe that’s the even trade, then – a life for a life, and the universe or Monty or just dumb, shitty luck choose Murphy, and the truth of the matter is an ugly thing lurking in his thoughts: it was the wrong choice.

--

He haunts hallways.

He yells at Emori when she tries to follow, chipping away at the peace they’d started to build with every angry word, knowing somewhere deep inside of him that doing so hurts so badly he can hardly stand it, but doing so anyways. Maybe he’s the one scraping his insides raw, hollowing himself, and maybe if he doesn’t stop there will be nothing but anger left. And maybe he can live with that. 

The anger numbs everything else.

Emori leaves with tear stains on her face and doesn’t come back. Neither do the others. Murphy feels so alone his very bones ache with it. He hates Monty and Harper for it; he hates them with a ferocity he can barely contain.

He wants to keep hating them forever so he never misses them.

--

There’s an algae farm on the ship. 

It should be less of a surprise than it is because Monty was nothing if not an expert in algae and while they hadn’t needed food in cryosleep, the ones who stayed awake certainly had. Still, when he stumbles upon it one day, it steals his breath away.

He stops walking and stays where he stopped for a very long time. Eventually, he wades between the glowing tanks and finds a place on the far wall to sit down. Strange, ethereal reflections dance across the floor as the algae drifts gently in the water. The lighting is dim, and the whole place has a soft, green, and almost peaceful, glow.

He sits there for hours watching the algae sway.

His feet carry him back the next day, though if asked he wouldn’t be able to say why. He hates algae. He hates the way it tastes. He hates the slimy texture. He hates that there is nothing you can do to make it taste any differently than the last hundred times you’ve eaten it, and he hates that it makes him think about the Ark.

And yet, he returns.

He wouldn’t say that it makes him feel any better; it doesn’t. The hollow, rubbed-raw feeling still sits in his chest where his lungs should be.

Maybe duller is the word for it, everything inside him just a little less sharp, muted by the soft green glow and the gentle lights.

It’s a kinder ghost than Jordan was, at least.

--

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” the kid says when he enters the algae farm and sees Murphy sitting there. He’s a mess of awkwardness, hovering at the entrance, averting his eyes like he’s caught Murphy doing something he shouldn’t.

The kid hasn’t approached him since Murphy threw a shoe at him, nearly taking his head off with the force of it.

He can’t quite muster up the anger this time, even if the kid’s face does make him want to drive his fist into it until it rearranges itself into something different. The effort required to do so just isn’t there, though; somehow the algae farm has dulled that too.

Murphy closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall. He could almost sleep here just like this, the soft, green light of the farm flickering behind his eyelids. “I can leave,” he offers, voice hoarse from days of disuse.

“No, that’s ok,” comes the answer. “I’m just going to check the algae really quickly.”

Murphy can still remember Monty’s words from the video, when he’d told them they’d raised Jordan on stories of their family and Murphy was his favorite. He doesn’t think he’s ever been anyone’s favorite before; it’s a title he’s unsure how to wear, and it feels uncomfortable and itchy and tight.

Murphy opens his eyes. In the dim light, he can see Jordan moving confidentially from tank to tank, studying each one with a careful eye. He looks so much like his father that Murphy feels like he’s been struck, and the words are out before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Your dad teach you how to do this?”

Jordan startles. He eyes Murphy like a skittish animal prepared to flee at the first sign of trouble. The shoe must have done a great job of changing his opinion of him.

“Yeah. Mom always helped too, but Dad was the best with plants. Mom said that’s why his name was Green.” A grin teases at his lips.

Murphy snorts. He directs his gaze to the algae because looking at Jordan too long makes his eyes burn. “Him and this fucking algae.” He doesn’t mean to say more, but his mouth carries on without him. “He had this stupid apron that said ‘make algae –“

“Not war,” Jordan finishes for him, then tenses as if expecting another shoe. “Sorry, just, he said that a lot.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s cheesy,” Jordan admits in a fragile voice. “But that was Dad.”

He looks too much like both of them right then, Monty in the shape of his face, Harper in the curl of his smile, and the space behind Murphy’s ribs aches dull and hollow. It’s not a quick pain like the bullets had been; it’s slow and creeping and clawing like hunger is.

Murphy flees.

Maybe Monty was right; maybe he is a coward.

----

It’s been over a year in space, nearly a month longer than the entire time he’d spent on Earth. Already, his skin has forgotten the heat of the sun beating against it, his lungs the cool touch of fresh air. His muscles are growing weaker, his body whittling away with lack of nutrients. With each passing day, the Ring feels less and less like salvation and more like a coffin.

The algae taunts him, both a perfect phantom of his childhood and a pale imitation of Earth. He wants to rip it out at its roots, shred it until there’s nothing left. But he doesn’t. He won’t. He still fears death more than memories.

“I like plants,” Monty says once when it’s only the two of them in the algae farm. “But I really hate algae.”

“What’s the difference?” Murphy asks, more to fill the silence than out of true curiosity.

“There were different plants in Farm Station than just algae. I miss having a variety. And on Earth –“ Monty stops. His voice is awash with wistfulness. When Murphy glances up at him, it’s in his eyes too. “There were so many plants on Earth. It was amazing. So many I’d never seen before. I helped with the gardens in Arkadia, and we planted so many different kinds. I wish we could have brought more with us.”

Murphy shrugs, at a loss for what to say. “It’s not like it would have helped all that much. So we’d only eat algae every few days then instead of every meal, so what. We’d still all miss eating meat.” Earth had spoiled them for space, he thinks, even those of them that grew up here.

“I guess. It would have been nice to have more plants to tend, though. I think it would have just helped give me more to do.”

“It’s not fun.”

“Algae isn’t. Gardens are different though. You start with a patch of rough dirt and then over time you actually have something impressive. I like the work. And it’s,” Monty pauses, eyes caught on the algae. “It’s rewarding. It made me feel important, I guess. I was helping something grow. The garden wouldn’t have existed without me.”

Murphy doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

Monty brushes off the memory and straightens. “Nevermind. I think space is just getting to me.”

He never mentions gardening again, never voices that gnawing need that Murphy knows so well. Not even years later when he calls Murphy useless and strikes at something in his very core, shoving his fingers into Murphy’s chest like he did with the dirt of his garden and shoving that word in, over and over again, like it wasn’t there already, a vital part of him that’s rooted so deeply he’ll never be able to fully rip it out.

Murphy doesn’t know why, years later, he still hasn’t forgotten that conversation, but he thinks maybe it’s because it’s the only time he’d looked at Monty and seen something familiar. Maybe rescuing Murphy in the end had been like tending a garden, something to prove his worth to the world.

Or maybe, he considers, Monty just is and always has been a better person than him.

---

And that’s it. I’ve been trying to add more to this fic for ages and just nothing has really worked out, but I really love what I’d written so far. There’s so much more to explore with Murphy and Monty’s relationship and I’m still so disappointed the show hardly ever touched on it.

And I’m still upset it never touched on Murphy’s grief over losing Monty - and Harper of course! But I think they built up an interesting and significant enough relationship with Murphy and Monty onscreen that it was a shame we never saw how he dealt with that loss.

[lynsunrise]

After episode 8. Feelings...

Again thinking aloud. Expressing what I am feeling at the moment. Forgive me for causing pain. For many spoilers (I must warn you) that will be in my flow of thoughts. I have never found it so unbelievably hard to start writing what I feel. At first on Monday I thought I should type every word of pain and anguish squeezing my heart, I should have typed 100 pages of my most fierce ache, I should have done it, but the pain was so mortifying that I could not sit down for a long period of  time to write just because I was absolutely restless and I still am. I never found it so hard to raise my hand above a keyboard to press those letters. Just because inside of my heart the weight of feelings was crushing me. I don’t remember if I ever was so deeply wounded and moved by a cinema creation. I have given it such a power over me, I put myself in its power. And must suffer the consequences.

I feel bitter that I could not write earlier but maybe as they say time is the best judge. And days pass, a million sensations of different caliber are flashing through my mind and heart but what is adamant in its absolutely unchangeable persistence is the deep dull pain that speaks incessantly even when the sharp one subsides a bit. This dull pain inside, it is like in the core of my heart, it reminds me of what I didn’t say, of what I should say. I am balancing among three things: anger, sadness and denial not knowing which of them really dominates. Maybe all three are there together, equally wild and implacable, and that is why it is so hard to pull myself together. This week passes as in delirium, I can hardly recognize myself. But what I have been listening to all the time inside of me, what I have heard very distinctly and clearly was the cry of my heart begging the reason to start saying something, otherwise it would simply wither because of everything it is keeping inside of it. This was like a soft painful whisper haunting me. My thoughts at first were shouting in my head, my soul was covered with heavy clouds, it was such a rainy day in it, not a glimpse of light, and now I feel like even my thoughts discourse in whisper not to disturb my perturbed spirit.

But this happens when I am at some denial stage, and it is enough for me to remember the scene of Charlotte and Sidney before he left for London to start realizing that I still am in the most prominent anguish phase of feeling.

I see so clearly, I see that scene before my eyes no matter what I do, no matter where I go. I see that it contains the message of centuries' experience of being in love of millions of people. I see in it everything... The legacy of the most beautiful books and films about true love. The visual side. Contrasts own my heart. Black and white, strength and tenderness, wistfulness and trust, agony and hope, the captivating height difference, powerful statuesque tall figure of the man and beauteous charming fragile figure of a woman, broad shoulders and narrow shoulders, hot strong hands and tender small ones… And the way they close their eyes. The longing to kiss, to embrace. To remain like this forever. To stay close like this forever. Forever. Forever. This is echoing in my mind. Always when I watch them being together I have one thought “To remain like this forever”. There is such a powerful essential deep-rooted trueness of Feeling and beauty in them, they are the quintessence of how I always imagined a true romance that I do not question myself why I have given them my heart and a weapon to destroy it or redeem it. I am a hopeless romantic. And I sense in them the true essence of Love that “moves the stars”. Man and Woman, eternal force of life and beauty. The energy of romance, of never ending infatuation, of feelings that will never feel worn out, the picture in my mind when I am completely sure that they will be as passionate and in love every day of their life as at this moment. I am looking at them and I see this image so clearly, I see them always enchanted, always feeling the incandescence of affection, every day of their life ahead, I see: they wake up every morning, they smile at each other and there is never triviality, there is never just habit, there is never dullness. There is always intensity, hot intensity of feelings. It is like the sensation of putting freezing cold and the wave of heat together, this electricity of touch, this feeling when warm skin touches cold marble and even marble becomes calescent. Eyes look in eyes, hands in hands, the perfection of face falling in love with the perfection of another face. Faces like Narcissus fall in love with themselves reflected in each other’s eyes but aren’t punished for that. Firmness soft inside and softness strong inside. A fuse of the most alluring sensations. And so much more… This is only a small extract from an endless range of most fiery thoughts running through my mind and heart. It is like trying to capture the lightning in the middle of its path. In its motion.

The most prominent evidence of my being totally under their spell is that no matter what I do I never stop feeling that dull pain in my heart talking to me all the time, pleading to be expressed at least somehow. Time passes but the pain is not moving anywhere. It is as if it has always been there, with me. Maybe it is there partly because of ever existing fear to encounter the  possibility to see with my own eyes the harsh reality trying to make us more severe by “teaching us a lesson”. But if they chose Sidney and Charlotte to teach us the harsh lesson of the “reality” that often is different from what the heart wants they could not make a worse choice. Sidney and Charlotte are not the ones who should teach us that. NOT THESE TWO PEOPLE should pay the price of “portraying the cruel reality”. Not after what we sensed in them, not after what we saw, not after we saw them even for the first time. And I cannot believe they are not together. They are created for each other. In my head and in my heart they are already searching for a way to be together again. And all the Universe must help. They cannot be let down by it again.

First of all Sidney, because to not be saved this second time would be so cruel that I can hardly express it through words. What the creators were trying to tell us when posting the clip of his conversation with Tom in London and saying that Charlotte has healed him and this new man could not but save his brother? What are they trying to say to us through it now? Charlotte healed Sidney and now Sidney sacrificing himself will still be healed??! Or the thought of sacrificing himself must make Sidney content with this illusion of life? I consider that Sidney is a victim here. He saves Tom but does Tom know at what cost?.. Even if he does not, Sidney deserves happiness. Sidney sacrificed his Love for them. But why not give Sidney one more chance? Why to give these second chances to everyone besides the one who truly deserves it? They can say what they want but to leave Sidney like that just DOES NOT FEEL RIGHT. “Reality or not reality”, it does not even matter. Who cares for “reality” when such a man must be trapped? He had his portion of sadness, punishment and anguish of love in his life. Give him time to breathe. Give him happiness. He had already gone through hell, he cannot just go through it endlessly, all his life! This is what bothers me very much, very.

And I agree with what I read on Tumblr that Eliza just does not care about him, his opinion. Nothing. She only wants to win. It is an enigma for me. Cannot she see that the man is in agony near her? How cruel or absurdly indifferent in a way she is! We did not see it (scenes in London in search for money) but as it was brilliantly written on Tumblr, and I agree with it, it was like a deadlock for Sidney, he used every opportunity to avoid such a disaster I am adamant sure. Now imagine his despair… I imagine and cry. He loved E. long ago, she passed him over, he suffered ten years, he let her go. He let all the illusions of the past go. He found his true love. Love that he was waiting for all his life. And he realizes that in order to save his family he “voluntarily” must return to the hell on earth. He has an excellent heart. “The same man but much improved”. The same: willing to save, kind-hearted, honest, brave, witty. Heart able to love as few can love. Sensitive and vulnerable. Surrounded by walls to save itself from devastation. And now what? To throw this very heart in fire. For all his life. Charlotte I believe was too wounded by the fiercest pain imaginable to see that Mrs C. does not love Sidney. Now what is torturing me very elaborately is a devilish thought that if Charlotte had seen how little Mrs C. loves Sidney she could have told him not “You must not speak like that. She loves you…”. This is a hellish torment. What if…What if! But we understand it is impossible and that she was in so much pain. Poor girl!!!! Our sweetest Charlotte. Charlotte will never marry anyone else. It is either Sidney or nobody. So, with such a “realistic” end nobody gets happiness. I want to curl up in a ball and hide somewhere, when I imagine her pain after returning home and clarifying her thoughts a little more. She made him to be not a better man, she made him be himself, kind and soft. I am sure she forgave him, she is wise and she knows he had no other choices at that moment. He did not choose money. He chose the welfare of the beloved ones of the family and Charlotte understands everything. But to understand is one thing. When she will realize that Mrs C. cannot love him, does not love him, this will be agony indeed. Because his heart is in the prison of a woman that does not love him and will torment him. So there is no such illusion of consolation that Eliza loves Sidney. And I am sure Sidney feels how much Charlotte loves him. She loves him so much that she wishes to believe Eliza loves him. To know that you leave the love of your life in the prison of sadness is unbearable. He may try to lull the pain by making himself to believe that Charlotte will move on without him. She did not stop him then… But it is because she understood his situation too well. She loves him for who he is and this is torture again. Who he is, is the man who sacrifices his life basically for his close people. She knows, she sees. She loves him for all he is. And to love him so much but being forced by understanding to let go…it is like to cut the heart in two. Sidney was ready to abandon everything if she had only said but I guess we can understand why she did not. As was said by an amazing person, she is absolutely selfless. They both are selfless. Pure souls. They both are people who cannot love by halves. It means that no matter how well they understand each other, they will suffer all their lives if being apart. And this I cannot forgive. At least in my imagination I have portrayed episodes 9 and 10 and s2 when facing all deadlocks they find a way to be together.

The thought that he saved Tom and the family won't be able to “support” him all his life! Am I not right? The same situation is with Charlotte. The thought that she did not let him not to save his family…It is all sensibility, but what about the heart? The soul slowly dying inside. Shattered totally to pieces. No, it should not be like that. The creators must see this.

Also about Tom. I also understand clearly now that Sidney could not ask anybody for that money. Neither lord Babington because even he is not so rich and I cannot imagine Sidney at all asking his friend to do that, nor Georgiana because they did not reach that stage of their relationship when it can happen at all, because she does not trust him and I sometimes even think that even for Charlotte she could not do it because we simply did not have the time to pass through different stages of solving the conflict between her and the society around her, nor Esther yet because money belongs to Lady D. He must have gone through hell during that week in London. I remember Sidney's tense features of the face and intense gaze in the carriage when heading to London, he had a gut feeling but in his worst nightmares could not he imagine what will happen. As a fan was writing on Twitter “£80k would be £4.5 million”…now this sum is like a sword of Damocles over my soul. Poor Sidney! Poor Charlotte!  The bright side indeed is that we have Lady Susan that I believe haven’t played her major part yet. And Georgiana who still has a lot to say. There are so many loose ends, so many stories to tell!

I am as all admirers so crushed by the end and I am also sad that Sanditon might suffer because of the low ratings of its last 20 minutes. Otherwise, the ratings are good. The acting there is outstanding as in every second of the show.  It must not suffer because of its plot in the end. But I hope all this activity will help to make the creators know HOW much we love it.

Acting is superb. The quality, the power of it. It is more than one can ever dream about. Each feeling and each emotion is multilayered. So complex. There is not a single empty glance or phrase or movement. Every look, sigh, flutter of eyelashes, movement of body is charged with a lot of meaning and spiritual fire and energy of emotion. You do not feel betrayed or deceived when you stop at every step just to savour the beauty, complexity and genuiness of every emotion, every feeling. You know you can discover layer after layer, you know that each emotion has such a powerful inner background and of course it has such power because of the aesthetical perfection of the main characters.

Theo James is like a Jewel. He is Sidney, Sidney is he. He is simply created to portray him. The most mysterious, sensitive and long-suffering Austen male hero, the last Austen male hero…He is so brilliant that I lack words. His eloquent eyes, his voice, his figure…Regency era gentleman indeed. I was walking along the passages of history and came across a perfect man and never returned to the 21st century. His presence is what made Sanditon such a hit. As well as Rose's. She is so brilliant that I always lack words!! The way her voice broke in the last scene…It felt like earthquake for me. Also the way he was looking at the carriage being forced to stay behind… 💔

Whoever chose them for the role is Genius. I hope that when reading all heartbreaking comments they see how much we LOVE them and this is only the not happy ending that we are angry with. Not the show itself of course. 🙏🏻I am praying for season 2, because Charlotte and Sidney deserve to be happy, and this feels like the rightest thing on earth.✨🔥

Also I find it absolutely amazing how our thoughts complement one another, as if we fill in the possible gaps when searching for answers. Reading many outstanding analyses of my friends here, summing up thoughts, weighing opinions, reaching some unexpected depths of conclusions due to comparing my own thoughts and the wisdom of other amazing people. I am grateful for that. The Sanditon fandom is a place where my heart is at ease, all lovely beautiful supporting people, my friends are here, always ready to help. Thank you, Sanditon fandom. I learn so much from you.  I love you.

Also they wrote that Sidney and Charlotte are divided for now, this FOR NOW gives me so much hope. I will cling to it with all my heart. Still cannot watch the last episode from the beginning to the end. The kiss scene is my salvation. And what a scene!.. God... 😩🔥I wish we had more!!💔😩✨

Those two most heartrending scenes deserve all possible acting awards too because they just fracture one's heart: when Sidney tells Charlotte they cannot be happy and the last scene. Their eyes say it all. The tears, broken voice, heavy sighs, crushed chests. I hope that both Theo and Rose will be nominated many times and for many awards for their outstanding performance.

😩💔

It is hard not to think about Charlotte and Sidney every time time because there is this feeling that they are ALONE in their grief and there is nobody close to know about it and who can really ease that pain and comfort them. They need each other. And we need them. 😭

Can never forget their scenes. And that last scene.

“But after all the days of despair

I will meet you up there

Between the sky and heaven”

There on that clifftop where we first kissed

That was like a miracle, a heavenly bliss

Promise me you will never forget

The day when we first met

We are divided…for now

But I believe, I am sure

We'll endure every hardship

The cruel fate has in store…

“I will be right here waiting for you” season 2!!! Come quicker!!! We need happy Charlotte and Sidney in our lives.💔💔💔 We need that. To make the world a better place. Thank you.

[awkwardnessandbaseball]

This might, honestly, be one of my favorite chapters of this story. It’s very simple and (imho) very sweet :)

Once again, so many thanks to: @cspupstravaganza, @sherlockianwhovian, and @lassluna

Tag list: @quirkykayleetam, @squidvisious, @carpedzem, @kmomof4, @revanmeetra87, @capnjay21 (Message me to be added!)

AO3 if that’s your jam: Prologue | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7

I’d Pick You (and Your Little Dog, Too)

A Captain Swan Pupstravaganza Story

Summary: According to everyone in the known universe, Emma Nolan’s dog is supposed to lead her to her soulmate. But she’s not even sure if she wants that. Soulmates are pretty idealistic, don’t you think?

Chapter Five:

Six Months Later.

It shouldn’t be a surprise when David brings up the topic of his moving out when they meet for lunch, just the two of them. Emma should have seen the conversation coming, really, but she’s been so caught up in her own romance, in having someone to share her innermost thoughts with, in Rascal having a playmate besides Princess… that she’s completely caught off guard.

“Mary Margaret and I are going to move in together,” David tells her, spaghetti sauce lingering in the corners of his lips. Emma opens her mouth to interrupt, but he keeps going before she can. “And we were thinking that maybe we could just… keep doing what we’re doing. I’ll move into the loft, and Killian could move in with you--”

“I’m sorry, what?” Emma nearly yells, but then lowers her voice, remembering that they’re at Granny’s, in the middle of the Saturday lunch rush, in a town full of gossips. “You moving in with Mary Margaret… sucks, if I can be selfish for a second, but... it makes sense. But why would you think Killian and I would move in together?”

David looks at her like she’s grown an extra head.

“Because he spends literally every single night at the apartment with you?” David offers, but Emma sits silently, staring daggers at him, so he continues. “Emma, you spend nearly every waking moment with him. You’re soulmates. It just… makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Emma thinks about it. She tries to remember the last time she slept alone, one side of her bed cold, with only Rascal at her feet instead of the extra weight of a second dog. Or the last time she woke up to the smell of her brother’s burnt coffee (or worse, nothing at all) instead of the delicious pancakes Killian’s taken to cooking for her.

It had happened so naturally that Emma didn’t even notice. One night, she was sleeping alone in her too-large bed, her brother snoring away in the bedroom down the hall, and the next, David was away at Mary Margaret’s and Killian had taken up residence against Emma’s side.

And then it just sort of stayed like that.

More often than not, they fall asleep on the couch, watching movies and old TV shows, Rascal and Procella curled up together in the armchair. Usually, they wake up together and the four of them trudge to the bedroom and resume their snuggling in a much more comfortable way. Occasionally, when Emma’s had a long day or hasn’t been sleeping well, she’ll fall asleep on the couch and wake up in her bed, with no recollection of getting there. Killian blushes whenever she asks him if he’s carried her down the hall, telling her that she just must not remember waking up.

The man carries her to bed.

All told, dating Killian is simple. There’s no grand gestures, which tend to make Emma self-conscious, and there’s no begging for sex, which Neal had done constantly. It’s exactly like it was when they were meeting for lunch every week, except that they’re together almost all the time.

Plus she gets to see a lot more of that chest hair.

It’s actually kind of gross - the sickeningly sweet relationship, not the chest hair - and Emma is constantly surprised at how comfortable she is with it. Must be a soulmate thing.

But still. Moving in together? It just seems so fast.

“I don’t want to scare you, Emma, but you’ve got a really wistful look on your face.��� David is smirking now, and Emma knows he’s right, really. That swapping out names on a lease won’t change anything, that they’ve already been practically living together for six months.

At that exact moment, just as she’s weighing her options, debating the fear she’s feeling versus the idea of something more permanent, Killian and Mary Margaret walk in the door of the diner.

Any stress Emma feels completely dissipates when her eyes meet Killian’s, and she knows she’s lost the battle. And she can’t even be that upset about it.

“We’re not here to interrupt,” Mary Margaret chirps, all heart-eyes as she looks at David. “We’re starting our own Saturday tradition, but it also involves Granny’s. So… we’re just taking it to go.” She leans down to give David a chaste kiss, and then looks at him meaningfully. “We’ll let you get back to it.”

Emma watches the two of them, and imagines the conversation they must have had that led them here. Or, more likely, conversations. Plural. Because Emma knows her brother, knows that he knows all of her insecurities and her fears and she’s sure that it would have taken ages for him to work up the courage to talk to her about moving out.

Especially after last time.

But, Emma rationalizes, this time is different. For one, Mary Margaret is clearly David’s soulmate. There’s a reason they’re together all the time, a reason they practically live together. Moving in together isn’t just the logical next step in their relationship: it’s literally the only next step. Emma’s seen David looking at rings online during their many hours of downtime at work. She’s not stupid.

Plus, she thinks to herself, I’m not exactly alone, am I? She looks up at Killian again. At this man who chose to get to know her agonizingly slowly despite knowing full well that they were meant to be. Who’s never pushed her or made her uncomfortable.

Her brother is right.

After an uncomfortable amount of silence and meaningful looks on both sides of the table, Emma rolls her eyes and grabs the end of Killian’s jacket sleeve. He settles in beside her, casually throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“You can join us, Mary Margaret. We’ve already talked,” Emma says.

“We have?” David asks, eyeing his sister carefully.

“Yeah, we have.” She smiles and David seems to catch her meaning because he smiles back, crinkles forming in the corner of his eyes.

************

As Emma climbs into her brother’s truck, she’s struck with the strangest sense of deja vu. She turns around, sees the piles of furniture and boxes tied up in the truck bed, and she realizes that she’s done this before.

She knows, obviously, that her brother moved out before. She’d helped him move. But those memories are so surrounded by darkness, loneliness, and downright sadness that she’s shoved them out of her mind until right this moment. But this time, she feels a little hopeful.

Just a little.

“Ready?” David asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” Emma says, and it’s not a lie.

When they arrive at the loft, Mary Margaret and Killian are waiting outside. Just the sight of him makes Emma smile, which then makes her cringe.

Sickeningly sweet, she thinks to herself. But she can’t bring herself to be upset at the simple happiness she’s feeling. She surprises him -- and herself -- by wrapping her arms around his neck when she steps out of the truck.

“Hi,” she says, followed by a soft kiss on his mouth.

“Well hello, love.” He’s smiling. She smiles back.

“Uh, are we moving today or are we all just making out on the front lawn?” David asks, his arms folded across his chest, but there’s no anger on his face. Just a small smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, Dad,” Emma groans, separating herself from Killian and grabbing a box out of the truck bed.

When it’s all over, and David’s moved into the loft, and Killian’s moved into the apartment, Emma collapses on the couch. Rascal hops up beside her and situates himself with his head in her lap.

“Tired?” Killian asks her.

“Are you not?” Emma knows he must be. Her muscles are screaming, her eyes closing of their own accord.

“Oh, certainly. But I’d hoped we could celebrate.” He pulls out a bottle of wine from behind his back.

“Celebrate what?” Emma snorts. “You know we’ve been doing this for six months now, it’s just that now your stuff is in my closet instead of all the way back at home. You can actually get dressed in fresh clothes in the morning.”

“And that’s not cause for a celebratory glass of wine?” Killian asks, putting the bottle down and walking back to the kitchen to get two glasses.

“One glass, Jones.” She holds up a finger to emphasise her point. “And then you can carry me to bed like the gentleman you are.”

“Oh, I think I can handle that.”

It turns out living together is exactly like practically living together, in almost every conceivable way. Emma has to make room in her closet, but they’ve got a spare room now, so she just moves her shorts and her summer dresses into David’s old closet and leaves her thick coats and heaviest shirts in her own room until the winter chill finally subsides.

There are still pancakes every morning, and most nights they still fall asleep on the couch for a few hours before slowly migrating to their bed.

Their bed.

It’s all very domestic, and Emma slowly stops waiting for the other shoe to drop. She stops waiting for the morning she’ll wake up and there won’t be a handsome Englishman waiting for her, stops hesitating before she opens up the door for fear that his stuff will all be gone.

She stops being afraid.

[redrisingreaper]

Ichor (fic preview)

Here's an excerpt/preview to the time-travel fix-it fic where (most) everyone lives/nobody dies, I'm currently writing. I'm trying to write it in snippets that when slappes together should form a decent-sized chapter (3000-4000 words). Hope this technique will work for me :) also this is totally not so i can give each snippet a title

So yeh Darrow's mind travels back on time into his body when he's buried post-execution, before the Sons of Ares find him. If you think it's written ambiguously, fear not, it's intentional (probably).

I'm not sure on the title yet. might change it later to something equally aesthetic lol

Unburied

Darrow wakes up buried.

Dark, red dirt surrounds him, chokes him. Blind panic engulfs him, but he retains enough sense to claw his way out, breaking his nails in the process. He gasps for breaths when he breaks out, damp air filling his desperate lungs. Through the haze of pain -his neck hurts, his back bleeds, but his head, oh his head is killing him- he sees the old tunnel he's in. The old tunnel. There's a flare next to his grave. The situation, as absurd and unbelievable as it is, slowly starts to make sense.

He's back.

He's back.

Or is he? What if this is some elaborate ruse? What if this is a dream? Darrow doesn't remember ingesting anything suspicious -Obsidian mushrooms, Purple drugs or other weird cosmic shit- but the solar system is vast and he is a man with many enemies, and many willful friends who wouldn't hesitate to mess with him and slip something into his food and drink.

His fingers dig into the red earth. Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Darrow. Calm down and wait to see what happens.

When the tumbler comes with the men in Octobernacht masks, he stays silent, choosing caution over that weird mix of hope and dread it drudges up in him. Shut the slag up and analyze the situation, as Victra once aptly said.

Where once he would've balked at strangers helping him, this time Darrow quietly curses as they haul him by his upper arms in the tumbler. His small, broken Red body is a foreign vehicle. Seeing Harmony again, even with her half-scarred face behind the mask, makes his sword hand twitch, but unlike their first meeting he doesn't say anything.

Silence, he has learned, invited curiosity. Which led to information.

"Lazarus," Harmony says finally, after a long stare, "You're a damn mess."

Darrow takes the scarlet headband out of his pants pocket and clenches it in his fist. He looks down at it and tries to calculate how many years it has been since he last saw it. Decennia. They feel like centuries.

"Home sweet home,” she says after they pass the checkpoint. And when they pile out of the tumbler, “Now time to meet Dancer.”

Dancer is as handsome and as old as Darrow remembers him. It takes all of his control to blink away the tears, to gulp down the words stuck in his throat. If this is a joke, it has to be the cruelest of them all. He's missed his steadfast, eternally burdened friend.

"You must be wondering who we are." Dancer says.

"The Sons of Ares." Darrow answers, and is infinitely glad his voice comes out steady, if toneless. Let them think him still shaken by Eo's death, by his execution. Better than they know the truth.

Dancer studies him, "You need a patch-up. Harmony, take care of him." Then again to him, "We'll talk when you're not bleeding all over the bloodydamn floor."

He ignores all of Harmony's attempts at smalltalk, and when those fail, at provocation. He doesn't know what to think of her, the indirect cause of Fitchner's death, Adrius and Roque's betrayals. Avoidance is working well so far. And her less than gentle treatment grounds him into the present. Present. He barely smothers a snort.

Right.

The antinac and the shower make all aches recede, save for the migraine plaguing him. It feels like his head is being split open. Darrow is gripping his hair when Dancer comes in with food.

"Bet you got a lot of questions."

Darrow frowns and forces himself to think past his headache, tries to remember how past him would act. Grieving. Angry. "Do they matter? Eo is dead. I should be with her in the Vale."

Well, that might be laying it on a little thick but they'll both survive his melodrama.

It's Dancer's turn to frown, "We saved your life, Darrow. So your life is ours. No dying for the dead today. Or tomorrow. Or any day from now on. You owe us. You owe Ares. Your uncle does too and he knows this."

"Is he dead?"

"No."

Darrow nods, but another lump has settled in his throat at the mention of his uncle. Uncle Narol. Long dead, shot by the Jackal. His last words resonate in Darrow's head, momentarily driving away his headache.

Dancer is studying him again. His bright eyes read him like an open book, drawing conclusions from the sorry sight he makes. Hopefully his align with what Darrow wants him to know. Then, like the first time, Dancer proposes the card game.

Darrow wins, although he's tempted to lose. Let another take his burden. Let another suffer in his place. But those are wistful musings, like how he sometimes wishes he could fly, or that he could breathe in space.

Dancer tells him about Ares, about the Conquering, about Rhea. He still uses the same damn flea metaphor as last time. Everything fits, except that this time, Darrow is an old, wartorn soul trapped in his first body.

Dancer talks about Eo, the martyr of hope, the symbol of the rebellion. Of more import in death than she ever was alive. "They call her Persephone."

"She’s not coming back,” he snaps, "So what does it matter what they call her?" Eo doesn't ever come back. But he does. Darrow, the reaper -unworthy, undeserving- does. Not for the first time, Darrow marvels at the unfairness of it all.

And then Dancer takes him to the view that had torn his world apart, once upon a time. "You tried to die before,” he says. “Do you want to do so again?”

"I want..." to go back. To stay. He wants Mustang and his children and Sevro and Victra and the life he fought so hard for. He wants Ragnar and Roque and Cassius and Quinn and Tactus. He wants to change history, wants his dead friends to meet his children. He wants to do it again, but better. Can he? Will he? There's only one way to find out. "I want a world where girls like Eo don't have to die for a dream."

It earns him a sad smile. "Justice. I feared you'd want only vengeance."

He shrugs, careful to not stray from his young, impulsive, brash self, "Whichever comes first."

Dancer shakes his head but continues to lead him towards the upper floors. Finally they reach it. He turns to him when they near a door, the door, "Don't let this break you."

They enter.

And the city of Gold that sprawls before them brings him to his knees.

Darrow cries then, all his pent-up fear and guilt and anger pouringout of him. A dam with its floodgates opened. "A lie," he says brokenly, "It has to be a lie." He means his miraculous disastrous return, the lie he keeps on telling himself, but is grateful when Dancer thinks it's about the lie they've both been fed.

He watches the bright city through hazy eyes -eyes that are so lacking compared to his Gold ones- barely listening to Dancer as the latter explains.

Every Color has a purpose. Every Color props up the Golds. Red lowest of them all.

Darrow is inclined to agree. This body is... less. Nothing is as easy, nothing is as clear, nothing is as good as his Gold carved body. He feels like a wolf trapped in the skin of a rabbit.

The acrid smell of smoke fills his nostrils. Dancer has lighted one. The same bloodydamn Pixie with his gaggle of girls flies by. Darrow makes a stiffled noise. Madness. This is madness.

"What will it take to take it back?" He recites dully from memory.

Dancer smiles, "Blood."

Darrow stares at that smile, fatherly, but hiding a fierce beast. He thinks of what this means, a second chance,or something else. Something damning. A gift? Or a lie hiding behind the farce of one?

"Eo was right. It takes violence." He takes Eo's headband out of his pocket, lost so long ago. He feels the weight of it. Of Eo's dream. Live for more. A burden he thought shed in the years following Virginia's coronation. Now again his task is to bear it and make it come true. He looks up into Dancer's bright eyes, and realizes that it's quiet inside his head. His mind is free of any pain, and when he speaks again, it's with the clearest sight he's had since crawling out of his grave.

"What is my mission?"

[ahvie-voidsinger]

[RP] Same song, second verse, a little bit darker and little bit worse

The night should have been cold. It usually was cold. It is supposed to be cold this far north, this close to the mountains. Although she probably never felt it for long enough to admit it, she remembered what a midnight breeze felt like. A refreshing caress upon her face in contrast to the near-constant Inner Fire she once drew upon to channel the Light.

She shivered, and not because she was cold. She stopped feeling cold months ago. Years ago. The Light. Sunwell guide her dreams, she thought she could remember what it tasted like to draw on the purified stream of arcane life to help her friends. Only now, amid everything seeming to go wrong around her, that memory was as distant as the nostalgia for a fruity wine she'd shared with... with... her friends. Light, it was a funny thing.

The pale-skinned elf shivered in her shroud of shadows and dimly glowing blue hair, not from discomfort or unease or fear. She knew better than to let those seeds of emotion bloom for long. Lor'danel was still... too painful. The blanket of midnight deeper than a cloudy evening upon the sea had wrapped itself around her as a second nature, a companion, a stray kitten longing for purpose. She might have done more than just dabble in the shadow and the void in her time with the Highguard, but she never claimed to understand it. Iggy warned her about giving into the dark as opposed to the more knowable flame within.

A flame was elemental, primal, but studied and basic. A void, a sentient emptiness, however, was as inscrutable as the reasons why this Light-forsaken war even began. Why it continued. That same conscious quilt of flowing inky violet wreathed around her in a reassuring embrace, warming her in a way that still made her shiver. She knew she should not enjoy it, but a grain in her mind was distictly, begrudgingly aware that she did indeed enjoy her her condition. Or, at least, its silver lining.

Breathing out a sigh, she shook her head slightly, crouched atop a snowladen branch deep in the mountain slope brush, but mere meters from the lonely campfire she'd prepared between both sides. Here, in no-mans-land, only the spies and scouts dared tread. And, maybe, kindred souls who were sleepwalking in a waking dream of days long past when a bouncy, cheerful, short elf in bright crimson silks would ferry food and camaraderie between the commoners of both factions, oblivious to the war.

She had hoped that Vyndoriel would find her missive and maps, and... yet, she also hoped deep down that other souls would dare to shirk the division and distrust that had rent Azeroth asunder worse than any grumpyface dragon aspect could have. Any soul brave enough to risk stepping into the unknown to share soup and break bread under the sky -- the only thing yet untainted by this tragedy of a whirlwind engulfing them all.

Ahvie waited, and watched with unblinking, glowing cerulean eyes that Finryx might once have pointed out as becoming of a voidtouched Ebon; eyes that still caused Vyndoriel and Adriel to instinctively reach for their weapon before hearing her voice marred by the reverb of the void; shimmering azure orbs that once were green to have easily marked her place alongside Iggy, only to now produce anger and disappointment. She didn't blame them for their reactions, their judgment. It was well-founded. She had been reckless, curious, stupid and naive in her hubris, and invoked the attention of the very ethereals that had nearly stolen Alleria and her ren'dorei nutjobs from free will.

Ahvie watched with hope, curiosity and wistful nostalgia as her void-enhanced vision granted her nightsight of the approaching armored blood elf. Unfortunately, or perhaps understandably, the familiar young woman beyond the barren clearing stopped short of exiting the Horde encampment entirely, and the void elf's ears twitched several times.

"a FrIeNd or EnEmY?" the shroud around her asked as it pulsed around her tight black leather catsuit.

Ahvie shook her head, her thoughts forming in her mind's eye as a telepathic bond with the symbiotic and sentient voidcloak the old gods had gifted her with. Was it really alive, or was it her own mind conversing with itself? "Friend. Don't you remember her? That's Fey Fey, one of the first and only Highguard to not immediately see me as an enemy."

The voidcloak around her rippled, her body warmed from the inky mass as suredly as if she were beside that unoccupied campfire beyond. It wafted quietly in the breeze in response. "wOnT yOu SaY hElLo?"

Ahvie risked a smiled and snorted. "That would only put her in danger. We're on a mission tonight."

The needles of the frosted pine jingled lightly to her shadow-enhanced (or corrupted?) ears, but the feminine and childlike drawl of her voidcloak was unmistakably clear in her head. "hMmMmmm... tHe OnE wItH fIrE eYeS. yOu LiKe HiM..."

It was a statement, not a question, and Ahvie huffed, reluctant to admit it. Having a bond with this outcast of the void comforted her at times to know that she and it had something in common, but she could hide nothing from it. The voidcloak rustled again, a childlike giggle in her cognizance, blossoming as though she only just remembered. Even her memory was no longer infallible, and she often worried how much of her unique position in SI:7 was being exploited by N'Zoth.

"bOtH oUtCaSts, BOTH LIKE US," and giggling descended into a chittering that Ahvie was grateful to be masked partially by the whipping winds at this altitude.

"He has a familiar bonded to him, too, yeah. And yet we don't want this war. We're trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum on both sides," Ahvie replied, whether to herself or to her voidcloak was unclear.

The chittering abated, and the cloak settled in around her body, framing it snugly, as though hugging her reassuredly. She got used to that months ago, as it had saved her ass many times in her dawning and growing experience as a double-agent. Or was it a triple-agent? The warmth of the empty void was... was... was it supposed to be comforting? At least it didn't get grabby with her chest or thighs.

"HoW aRe YoU sUrE tHiS iSn'T wHaT N'zzzzzzoth WaNtS?"

She'd considered that, too. And oft wondered if it would be better if she ended her own life rather than not know if she was secretly a pawn or sleeper agent to the great deep. But, she often reached the same conclusion as now -- when Fey Fey turned back to the tents with a sad look in her glowing gold eyes -- that it was better to live and keep trying to do good with the cards she was dealt. She had brokered alliances, trade deals and friendships between factions before. She could be patient, and hoped against hope that her friends had not grown as corrupted as she had during this costly and intensely personal war.

Whatever the cost, however, Vyn and M had to be informed. Ahvie oft weighed the risks of investigating whether the interim head of SI:7 operations really was Maiev, but time and again decided against it. She already was being closely watched by Alliance brass... or, at least, as closely as those clumsy kaldorei could. They trusted her enough to give her a modicum of power and freedom, and those were two gifts she dared not gamble with. Especially now, with the whispers in her head.

Ahvie suddenly grinned and chuckled to herself as Fey Fey disappeared back behind a tent flap.

"dEfInE iRoNy," came the childlike but girlish voice.

"A servant of neither the void nor the alliance nor the horde, exchanging and trading information between what likely once was former jailor and former prisoner."

"wHeN wE tOo ArE uNsUrE oF wHiCh We ArE."

Ahvie gave her cloak a tug, wrapping it around her back and neck as she relaxed... grinning goofily as she once had -- And quickly perked up as a shadowy figure not ten paces behind her roost approached the trunk of the pine tree in utter silence. She could simply *feel* him at the edge of her mind. Unwilling to give the illidari the satisfaction or belief of having 'won' this game of cat and mouse, Ahvie raised her voice only just so, the slight echo in her voice mimicking that of her visitor's warchief.

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

A gruff male voice as sharp as a glaive fresh from a wound replied, wry amusement in its edge. "I only just dropped my demon's shroud of concealment. I did not want to alarm you."

Ahvie pursed her lips and sulked, grateful he had not yet rounded the trunk to see her pouty expression. Her voidcloak rustled in her ear: "tHiNk ThAts JuSt A bOaSt?"

She grinned and nodded silently, waiting for Vyndoriel to come into view. Her partner in crime had arrived.

She risked an old saying, "For the night is dark,"

To which a dark, not-quite-sinister chuckle emerged from the demon hunter below her, "And full of terrors... like us. Ready to talk business?"

[ichikonohakko]

For your villain deku au you're doing on ao3, its clear that bakugou suffer's from a severe mental illness. Since he's living in the dorms, I wonder if anybody else catches on? I would love for you to write one about him and his mental illness being discovered after trying to kill himself or something. I just thought that would be a cool way to add his dorm mates into the drama.

Thank you for taking your time to message me about this! I wrote a little something, I hope you’ll like it! 

Bakugou Katsuki does not eat in other people’s presence.

Such was the norm for Class 1-A and nobody questioned it. He stayed well on his booth near the garbage disposal at the cafeteria eating alone in the company of no one.

But such norm could not last when they live together in the dorms, 24/7.

Kirishima has always been the only person in class who had vested interest on the class’ resident explosive boy, others were too lazy or unbothered to befriend the prickly Bakugou. Though Bakugou himself never seemed like he wanted any friends. He didn’t play well with others, so others didn’t want to play with him. And he was fine with that.

But Kirishima was interested. Bakugou was… off. Different. Kirishima couldn’t explain, but sometimes he would feel as if Bakugou was not present with the rest of them in class. Though he was supposed to be the loud and angry Bakugou who loves to threaten people, sometimes he would stop abruptly and left as if he couldn’t say another word.

(And it’s always like that whenever anyone brought the topic of suicide. Kirishima remembered that Bakugou had excused himself to the toilet and never return during the hero-response lessons to deal with suicidal people.)

Kirishima noticed many things about Bakugou, but the most recent one was happening before his very eyes.

It was already late at night, almost everyone have finished their dinner and was frolicking around in the common area, but Bakugou just appeared in the dining area right when everyone was leaving. He looked at the food with contemplative look that screamed ‘I don’t really want to but I have to’, at least to Kirishima, but then he ate very little and went over towards the drink area.

He served himself a cup of steaming tea, a rather odd choice because Kirishima was sure that Bakugou was the sports drink type, before he took out a few different pills out of his pocket and onto his mouth.

Kirishima’s eyes widened. What the fuck…?

Bakugou stayed in front of the drinks area, gulping down his tea and he just… stood there for a while. Kirishima walked over towards him, worried, but then Bakugou just… left. Kirishima followed him, not particularly hiding his presence or anything, but Bakugou didn’t seem to notice him. He seemed… out of it, somehow, and Kirishima definitely noticed that.

When Bakugou reached the door of his room, he looked left and right, as if checking if anyone was near. Kirishima hurriedly hid himself behind one of the lockers placed outside their rooms. And he was absolutely sure that if it was the normal Bakugou, he would have noticed him immediately. But the explosive hero didn’t notice him and just went into his own room.

Kirishima contemplated knocking, asking if the other was okay. Just because they weren’t close, didn’t mean that Kirishima couldn’t talk to him, right? They were dormmates, after all, not just a normal classmates at school. His hand was already on the door when he heard Bakugou’s voice talking.

“—you real or are you fucking with my head?”

His voice was shaking terribly, as if afraid, but he was talking. Kirishima narrowed his eyes, frozen in place as he tried to hear more. “Fuck, Deku, answer me!” Was that panic? In Bakugou’s voice? Kirishima pressed his ear to the door, his heartbeat thundering over other sounds. He was scared. Is there an intruder in Bakugou’s room? And can Kirishima handle it if it ever comes to that? Bakugou was obviously shaken and if Bakugou was shaken then can Kirishima handle that?

Then there was a voice, tired, out of breath, scared, and it was heartbreaking. “Help me, Kacchan,” And Kirishima paled as Bakugou screamed in fear or frustration or anger, he didn’t know. But there was also sounds of explosions. Kirishima’s heart sank. They’ll just think it’s Bakugou being Bakugou! So Kirishima braved himself and knock on the door.

“Yo man, you okay?” Kirishima’s own voice was shaking.

“No, Deku, DON’T!” Bakugou was screaming again and Kirishima decided that the intruder must be hurting Bakugou or threatening him or putting his classmate’s life in danger. He hardened his hand and broke the door, eyes alert on any impending threat that may endanger their lives, only to find… nothing.

There was only Bakugou on the floor, eyes unfocused and hands uselessly trying to grab hold of something that did not exist. He was pleading to thin air and Kirishima was honestly scared. He crouched on the floor near Bakugou and waved his hands in front of Bakugou’s face.

“Oi… Bakugou!”

“Deku, please, dammit I’m sorry! You’re my friend I don’t want you to die I don’t want you to jump I’m sorryIwaswrongDekuforgiveme!” Bakugou was shaking so hard and Kirishima was sure that he’s having trouble breathing. Bakugou didn’t seem to notice him as he pleaded and pleaded and pleaded for someone to forgive him. “You’re the worst, Kacchan.” Bakugou said, his voice sounding entirely different from his usual voice as his hands went over to his own neck. Kirishima gasped as Bakugou tried to choke himself.

“BAKUGOU!” Kirishima tried to pry the other’s hand off of himself, but Bakugou was somewhere else entirely and Kirishima had no idea what to do.

Suddenly, there was someone in front of him, on the other side of Bakugou’s form, and he remembered him as the guy that ate his lunches with Bakugou a few months ago. “You…” Kirishima began as the boy sat next to Bakugou, expression wistful and sad, but somehow… flattered? Kirishima didn’t know. Tired green eyes met his own red and the boy smiled. “Red Riot…” he whispered, awe and wonder oozing from his voice and it was mesmerizing. Gloved hands went to Bakugou’s face as he caressed him with a gentleness of a mother, murmuring nothing and everything under his breath. “Could you please hold him down? I have just the thing to make him calm down.” He commanded gently.

Kirishima nodded dumbly as he held Bakugou’s arm down. The green-haired boy then sat on Bakugou’s pelvis and popped one of the pills similar to Bakugou’s own from his pocket and onto his mouth. He then kissed Bakugou’s lips and the effect was instant. Bakugou calmed down, slowly drifting to sleep.

“He won’t wake until tomorrow morning. Could you please lift him to bed? I would do it myself but I don’t want to get him dirty…” Now that Kirishima realized, the boy in front of him had blood all over his clothes and face and he trembled, but he complied and put Bakugou on his bed anyways.The green-haired man had a sad smile on his face as he sighed.

“Thank you for being there, Red Riot,” he said with a smile. “I hope… you’ll take care of Kacchan. He’s so stubborn, you see?”

“Who are you?” Kirishima blurted, earning a blank stare from the person in front of him. “I am… an enemy.” He decided with another resigned smile. “Please be friends with him… he may think he doesn’t need anyone, but he does. When he kills me for real, I expect that he’d need people to comfort him….” Before Kirishima could ask another question, the boy had disappeared.

Kirishima turned his gaze towards Bakugou, who was sleeping with an almost calm look on his face. He’d be Bakugou’s friend, he decided, even when Bakugou did not want him. Because Kirishima was absolutely sure that Bakugou would need him.

(And Kirishima made sure to remember about the boy with the messy green hair and tired smile, so when he and Bakugou became friends, he could ask him about that guy.)

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Always and Forever

a loose retelling of the myth of Eos and Tithonus 

The first time Castiel saw Dean he knew he was lost.

He’d fallen in love with humans before, of course. He was the god of the dawn, bringing light to all he touched, and sometimes when the light of dawn fell on a human his heart just exploded with love for her. Or him. So he’d appeared before them in his winged glory, and (with a few, notable exceptions) they’d loved him in return. It never lasted, of course. Human lives were fleeting, like the sparks that flew upward from a fire and then vanished into the darkness. Castiel, being a god, was eternal.

But then there was Dean.

Dean was a hunter. Castiel first saw him on a summer’s morning, his brown hair turned golden in the sunlight. He had an arrow nocked on his longbow, the string drawn back to his freckle-kissed cheek, aimed at a small doe a good distance away. Castiel knew before the arrow was loosed that the shot would fly true. His hunter--for he had already begun to think of the hunter as his--could be nothing less than perfect. The hunter smiled when the doe fell. “Good,” he said to himself (for he could not know Castiel was listening), “she will feed my brother and I well.” The sound of his voice was as music to Castiel’s soul.

He knew he should approach with caution, but Castiel could not hold himself back. He leapt down from his perch in the treetop, landing lightly on his feet, brilliant white wings unfurled behind him. He smiled his beatific smile.

Before Castiel could speak, the hunter had a knife at his throat.

Even then, Castiel felt his love grow. Such bravery! He knew, of course, that no mortal blade could harm him. The hunter must have known that as well, for almost as soon as he’d begun the motion he was withdrawing his weapon.

Falling to his knees, the hunter spoke. “Forgive me, Bright One. These woods are not always safe. It was only instinct that caused me to draw a blade. But I would never harm you. I could never…” His voice trailed off as he stared into up into the face of the god.

Castiel drew the hunter to his feet. “I am Castiel.” he said simply.

Dean’s eyes widened. “God of the dawn? I have aptly named you Bright One! You bring light wherever you go. Flowers bloom for you. Birds and bees fly in your wake. Mortals…” He paused, blushing. “Mortals sing songs of your beauty.”

“What is your name, hunter?” asked Castiel, smiling.

“I am called Dean,” the hunter replied, and Castiel’s heart leapt again.

“Dean,” Castiel said, savoring the taste of the name on his lips.

“Would you like to see the mountain, Dean? The palace of the gods?” Castiel asked.

For a moment Dean could not speak. Then, “I have to take the deer home to my brother, in the village. But after, I would love to see the palace. You would take me there?”

Castiel gently ran his thumb along Dean’s jaw; Dean trembled at the touch. Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes and whispered, “I would take you there for a lifetime.”

One visit became two, and two became many. Anyone who saw the two men together could see their love shining brighter than Castiel’s wings.

On Dean’s third visit, standing beside a gurgling stream, he had taken Castiel’s hands in his and said, “May I kiss you, Bright One?”

“You don’t have to call me Bright One, Dean. And you don’t have to ask.” Castiel had answered with a laugh.

When their lips met that first time Castiel swore the birds burst into song.

“Okay...Cas.” said Dean, when he had his breath again.

“Cas?” He tried the shortened name out, unsure.

Dean wilted.

Castiel smiled, pulling Dean into his arms. “It is perfect,” he said. “‘Cas and Dean’ sounds just right.”

There were more kisses on that day.

On Dean’s sixth visit, Castiel asked him to stay.

“I love you, Dean. I ache when you leave. Stay with me on the mountain. We can laze by the fountains, run in the trees, bask in the sunlight--”

“I only want to bask in your light, Cas,” Dean interrupted.

Castiel held Dean’s hands, eyes full of hope. “You will stay with me, then?”

“Always and forever.”

The next day, people the world over spoke of the glory of the dawn. Many said it was the most beautiful sunrise they had ever seen.

The love of Castiel and Dean was full of light and joy.

Their days were filled with flowers and sunshine. Dean still hunted when the fancy struck him, although the animals weren’t needed for food; the gods kept their table filled with whatever any of them wished to eat. They swam, they ran, they danced. They enjoyed every moment.

Their nights were filled with love and starlight. They wrapped themselves in each other, and neither wanted to ever let go. Castiel had to leave every night to banish the darkness and bring the dawn, but he always kissed Dean’s forehead before he left, and was back in his lover’s arms as soon as could be.

Castiel and Dean visited Dean’s brother often; they saw his brother marry and watched his nieces and nephews grow. It was after one of these visits that Castiel noticed a look of wistful sadness on his love’s face.

When asked, Dean smiled sadly. “They’re growing up,” he said. “Sam, Eileen, the kids. I’m getting older too. Time is passing. One day I will die. And you, my perfect Bright One--” he cupped Castiel’s cheek in his hand. “You are immortal.”

Castiel nearly wept. “I will love you forever, Dean,” he whispered, holding him close. “Forever.”

That night, a bit before it was time to awaken the dawn, Castiel kissed Dean on the forehead and slipped away from their bed. Quickly he flew to the very top of the mountain, to a place he didn’t often visit.

The throne room.

He stood before his father. “Please, my lord Fath--”

“Castiel. You know I don’t stand on formality. At least not among the gods.”

Castiel grimaced. “Of course.” He started again, internally reminding himself not to laugh at his father’s ridiculous (for a god) name. “Please, Chuck, I have a request.”

“Ask, then.”

Castiel stood tall, looking Chuck straight in the eyes. “You know how much I love Dean. We have been together for many years, years full of joy. But he is growing sad, because he is mortal and I am not. Please, Fa--” A glare from Chuck reminded him, and he corrected, “Please, Chuck, give Dean immortality. I have never loved another as I love him, and I never shall again. Give us eternity together.”

As Chuck considered, a single tear made its way down Castiel’s smooth cheek. There was very little hope, he knew. Chuck did not, as a rule, give gifts to mortals.

After a few moments Chuck smiled, as if to himself. Then he said, in an almost amused tone, “Very well. Your Dean will live forever.”

Castiel couldn’t help himself. He threw himself at Chuck, hugging him around the neck. “Oh, thank you Father! Thank you!” He flew around the throne room, laughing with joy, and then was off to wake the dawn.

Dean was still asleep when Castiel returned that morning, flush with sunlight. He snuggled behind him, kissing his ear and whispering, “Wake up, love.”

Stretching, Dean mumbled his good mornings and rolled over to face Castiel. When he saw him, he hid his eyes. “Cas,” he said. “You’re...glowing.”

“Oh. I apologize,” said Castiel, and the light from his wings dimmed. “But I’m overflowing with joy. Dean, Father has granted us--granted you--a gift. He’s given you immortality, love. I told you I would love you forever.”

Dean’s eyes filled with tears when he realized what Castiel was telling him.

“Forever, Cas?” He kissed Castiel gently, and then more forcefully. Then, with a wink, “You’re sure you won’t grow weary of me?”

“Never.”

They didn’t discover what Chuck had done until several years later.

They were again visiting Dean’s family in the village. They stood with Sam and Eileen in the shade of a tree, watching the children playing in the sun.

“They’ve grown so much,” Dean said, nodding toward the children. “The baby is nearly what, now? Six?”

“Seven,” said Sam proudly. “And speaking of aging…” He grinned, brushing the hair at Dean’s temple.

Dean’s face paled. “But that’s not...that can’t be.” he said. He looked to Castiel. His face swept from confusion to fear and back again.

“It’s just a little grey hair,” said Sam, clearly bewildered.

“But I shouldn’t…” Dean started again. They hadn’t told Sam and Jess about Dean’s immortality. Again he looked to Castiel, pleading. “Cas?”

Castiel was there, an arm around his waist, lips brushing his cheek. “We’ll figure this out,” he said, his voice low. Louder, to Sam and Eileen he said, “I apologize, but I have to take Dean back to the mountain now. We need to visit my father.”

Sam and Eileen automatically bowed their heads at the mention of the god of thunder. Dean’s knees went weak. He’d lived on the mountain for many years, but Castiel had kept him away from Chuck. Everyone knew the god of thunder was unpredictable and easily angered, and no one wanted to get on his bad side. Not even the other gods.

Castiel’s voice was edged with pain. “Father, what have you done?”

“Castiel, I told you to call me--”

“NO!” Castiel spat out the word, glaring at Chuck. “You told me you gave him immortality!”

“And so I did,” said Chuck calmly. “You asked me to make him immortal. You forgot to ask for his youth. He will indeed live forever.” He looked at Dean, who had sunk to the floor, clutching at Castiel’s legs. “You will live forever, but your body will continue to age.”

Castiel’s wings whipped out, fury sparking from his feathers. “What have you done?” It was only a whisper, but the sound carried throughout the throne room. Tears of rage and sorrow fell from his eyes.

In a flash of lightning, Chuck loomed over them, filling the room with his presence. “Go.” he said. “Live. Love. And next time, Castiel, ask the right questions.”

“There will be no next time, Father.” Castiel said. He pulled Dean to his feet, protectively wrapping an arm around him. “Dean is my forever.

And so they lived, Castiel ever as fresh as a flower kissed by the morning sun, and Dean a growing tree: for many years he grew strong and vibrant, but soon enough his leaves began to turn red and gold, and some began to fall. Dean’s love for Castiel was bright and undaunted, but his body became thin and weak. More years passed, and although his heart never faltered, soon he could no longer walk. Every day Castiel gently carried him from their bed to a soft bed of grasses and pillows along a brook, in the sun. Castiel sang to Dean, and whispered stories he’d heard the stars telling when he awoke the dawn every day. Dean gazed in wonder at his beautiful sunshine, or just listened to the melody of his voice, or slept safe in his arms.

Their love never faded.

But as the years and years flowed past like the water down the brook, Dean grew weary of his ancient body. “Please.” he whispered, “Cas. Find a way to let me go.”

So Castiel asked Chuck for one more thing.

One more night Castiel held his love. One more time he left him alone to call the dawn, leaving tears as well as a kiss on his forehead. One more sunrise.

And one more time Castiel carried his love away from their bed. On this morning he did not take him to their bed by the brook, however. Instead they flew to Castiel’s flower garden, where they laid, Dean held gently to Castiel’s chest, in the center of a field of wildflowers.

“You will live forever,” Castiel said, “and you will always have my heart. But today you will leave this body behind. I think you will like this place, when you change, although if you want to leave I will understand.”

There were tears in his eyes when he whispered, “I love you. Always.”

Dean’s whispered back, ever so faintly, “And forever.”

Gently Castiel laid Dean on the ground. He kissed his lips one last time, then plucked a single feather from his wing and placed it on Dean’s chest. When he backed away, Dean began to shimmer, then rapidly he grew smaller and smaller, until with a faint pop, he was gone.

In his place there was a small, round bumblebee.

At first his flight was erratic, but soon enough he found his way to hover a few inches from Castiel’s nose.

“I thought you’d like to be able to fly.”

The bee bobbed slightly in the air.

“I know that you are only a bee now, and you will not hold onto the thoughts of a man for long. So hear me now: I wish you joy, light of my heart. Wherever you go, you will be also with me.”

The bee buzzed, and bobbed, and flew away, to find his way among the flowers.

Castiel stood alone, wiping away his tears.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

Castiel still wakes the dawn, of course. Without him we’d live in a world of darkness, with only the moon and stars to light our way. But even the most breathtaking sunrises of today cannot compare to those that graced the sky in the days when Castiel held his forever in his arms.

Inktober with the Bunker || Day 4: Mythology

[izazov]

FIC: Soulmate Equation

Summary: Having a soulmate can be a blessing and it can be a curse. For some, it can be both.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark

A/N: I’ve never been much of a fan of Soulmate AUs. And then I got into stony fandom. This fic is fill for the soul mate square of my Stony Bingo card. It is greatly inspired by this amazing fic. 

Soulmates exist.

Not every person has one, and those who do are gifted with a black mark on their right wrist.

However, black mark doesn’t necessarily guarantee one is to meet their soulmate. It just means there is a possibility. No one knows the specifics, but it takes a certain event – sometimes it’s something mundane, sometimes dramatic, sometimes even violent – to trigger the mark turning red, thus signifying presence of one’s soulmate.

Thus far, there is no scientific explanation behind the existence of soulmates, and most religions have incorporated it into their teachings.

As for the human race in general? Some think it is romantic. Some think of it as inconvenience. Some see it as a joke, and some even as curbing of their free will.

There is one thing most people agree upon: having a black mark upon your wrist can be a blessing, or a curse.

But there is also this: for some unfortunate souls it can be both.

***

Steve is six when the mark appears on his wrist. It is charcoal black, the shape and size of a button. It doesn’t look like much. It’s important, though. Steve knows this.

His mother covers her mouth when Steve shows her his wrist, tears welling in her eyes.

Steve’s heart lurches in his chest, his eyes widening in fear. He didn’t know it was a bad thing. “I did nothing,” he sputters, reflexively trying to scrub the mark off his skin. “It just happened. I didn’t-”

“Hush, Steve,” she says, gently prying his fingers off his reddening skin. Clasping his face between the palms of her hands, she smiles. “Steve, look… look at me. You did nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t?” Steve asks, the nervous fluttering in his chest calming fractionally.

“No, my boy, you’ve been blessed.”

“Blessed?” Steve repeats. He doesn’t know what that word means, not truly, but he knows it is a good word.

His mother’s laughs; a clear and bright sound. Her eyes are still gleaming with tears, though. Steve doesn’t understand it. “It means there is someone out there who will love you with all their heart one day.”

“Like you love me?”

“Yes and no,” she says, laughs when Steve’s face creases in a deep frown. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“And why will they love me?”

“Because they will be yours.”

“Mine?” Steve repeats. He understands what that word means. It means something precious and rare. Something he needs to care for and protect.

“Yes, my boy, only yours.”

It’s only later that a thought occurs to Steve.

“Ma?”

“Yes, Steve?”

“If they will be mine,” Steve says, points at his marked wrist. “Will I be theirs?”

His mother smiles, glances at her own wrist. Steve blinks, confused, when he sees that the familiar round shape on his mother’s wrist is not black like his own, but red.

“Yes, Steve, you’ll be theirs.”

Steve smiles, brushes his fingers against his mark. He decides he likes the sound of that.

***

“There are hundreds of pretty girls out there, just waiting for us to meet them, and you’d rather stare at that thing? I’ll never understand you, Stevie.”

Steve sighs, reluctantly pulls his shirt over his mark. When he glances at Bucky he sees him leaning against the wooden railing, his hands crossed over his chest.

“I don’t want hundreds of pretty girls,” Steve says, shrugs. His fingers twitch with the need to feel the familiar round shape. “I just want whoever is on the other side of this mark.”

Bucky snorts. “Even if she’s ugly?”

“Buck,” Steve admonishes. “Whoever it is, is my soulmate. My own. Why should I care for how they look?”

“You’re such a sap, Steve,” Bucky sighs, comes to sit next to Steve on the stairs, bumps their shoulders together. “It’s awful.”

Steve smiles innocently a second before he elbows Bucky in the ribs.

“You little punk,” Bucky exclaims but allows Steve to dodge his hand and move out of his reach.

“You never wonder who it is?” Steve asks, glancing at Bucky’s right wrist.

Bucky frowns, looks down at his hand. “No,” he says without missing a beat. “When I’m older, maybe. Not now.”

Steve looks down at his covered wrist, presses his lips tightly together. “I just wish-” Steve breaks off, pushes himself to his feet. “I thought I’ll meet them by now, Buck. What if it never happens? What if-” Steve swallows the rest of that sentence. He doesn’t care whether his soulmate is ugly or pretty. He doesn’t even care whether it is a man or a woman. But he’s not a fool. He sees the way other people look at him; he sees pity, and dismissal. Notices how their gazes never return. What if Steve Rogers; skinny, sickly, with not much to his name but a burning need to matter, is simply not good enough?

“Steve?” Bucky asks, concern evident in his voice.

“What if they don’t like me, Bucky?” The words leave Steve’s mouth in a shaky exhale, leaving the flesh of his throat tender and raw.

Bucky is on his feet and squeezing Steve’s shoulders before Steve has a chance to blink. “Now listen to me, Steve. Whoever your soulmate is, they are going to stand before you and see just what I see.”

Steve’s eyes widen, his heart clenching painfully. For a moment – terrifying and exhilarating at the same time – Steve wonders how it would feel if his mark turned red now.

“And what is that?” Steve asks, his voice strangled.

Bucky stays silent a moment, his eyes staring intently at Steve. The entire world fades into the background, drowned out by the pounding drum of Steve’s heartbeat. Then, the moment shatters. Bucky smiles; wide and carefree, and ruffles Steve’s hair. Something inside Steve’s chest flickers and fades.

“Trouble,” Bucky says, grinning.

“Jerk,” Steve says and pushes at Bucky’s chest.

Bucky just laughs.

***

Peggy is brave and fierce and clever and kind and beautiful, and Steve falls for her the moment he sees her.

Steve has never thought the sight of an unblemished wrist could feel like having your heart ripped out of your chest.

“Do you ever regret not having a mark?” Steve asks one night.

They are alone in the HQ, sitting next to maps and markers, and Steve is tired and aching all over and Bucky is dead, and nothing will ever be right anymore.

Peggy merely looks at him for one moment, her face unreadable. Steve opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but then her face softens with a wistful smile.

“When I was younger, I drew a black circle on my wrist with charcoal. It ruined my dress. My mother was furious,” she says softly. Steve finds it easy to imagine a little dark-haired girl with smudged cheeks and ruined dress, holding her chin up proudly. “It was rather disheartening to be the only one without a mark when all other girls spoke about meeting their soulmates and having a fairy-tale wedding.”

“And now?”

“I’ve spent too much bloody time having to prove myself over and over again, going against the world that only had one thing to say to me: no,” Peggy says in a gentle but firm voice. “If it has taught me anything it is to believe in myself and my choices. Not… not some mystical force no one understands.”

Steve looks away, his jaw going tight.

“Oh, Steve, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Peggy says, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s elbow.

Steve smiles, shakes his head. “There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s just… I’ve always found it comforting. To know there is someone out there you are meant to be with.” Steve breaks off, shrugs. The smile on his face feels brittle. “I suppose it’s a foolish notion nowadays. With the war on… doesn’t really matter anyway.”  

“No,” Peggy says, voice hardly above a whisper. There is sadness in her eyes now. “Not foolish at all.”

Just a few days later, flying a plane to his own death, Steve is for the first time fiercely and unquestionably relieved there was no mark on Peggy’s wrist.

***

The future is filled with bright lights and technical wonders, and Steve hates, hates, hates it.

Everything is too loud, too fast, too foreign.

This is not Steve’s world, his world is gone, along with everything that he knew. Everyone he cared for.

But there is still the mark on Steve’s wrist. Steve looks at it, traces its shape with trembling fingers.

What if.

Those two words are tearing his insides apart and clawing at his sanity.

What if his soulmate is dead? What if they are not?

What are the rules for waking up seventy years in the future? Are there any?

Many fear death, but Steve now knows there are far worse things than death.

Things like feeling like you are drowning every minute of every day. Only without the mercy of sinking into oblivion.

***

His new teammates have marks. Not everyone – Thor doesn’t even qualify – but they do.  

And why shouldn’t they? It’s not like the world has stopped turning when Steve went into ice.

But still. There is something almost jarring in the sight of a red mark on Natasha’s wrist. Even more so in the black one on the wrist of one Tony Stark.

Steve cannot say what is it about Tony Stark that rubs him the wrong way. Is it that feeling he gets all the time – seeing something that is both familiar and terribly foreign – or they simply have that effect on each other. Whatever it is, Stark gets under his skin faster than anyone he’s ever met, bypasses all Steve’s control and reason, and goes straight for the core. Unfortunately, only anger resides there these days.

“Oh, come on. This bullshit again? Seriously?”

Steve blinks, frowns at the report he’s been trying to read, finds that he has only a general idea of what he’d read, shuts his eyes. Steve has learned to filter through noises during the war, but in this too, Stark proves himself an exception. Admitting defeat, Steve puts away his data pad – they have finally stopped giving him printed copies – and looks toward the common room.

Stark and Barton are sitting on the couch, watching something on a truly gigantic TV screen. They look like children. Bickering, unruly children.

“What?” Barton says in a deceptively innocent voice. Even though they have not been together for long, Steve’s learned to expect the worst when Barton used that tone of voice when addressing Stark. He half rises from his chair, not interested in watching another rendition of the duo’s particular brand of crazy. “You don’t believe in soulmates, Stark?”

The word ‘soulmate’ stops Steve mid motion, his entire body freezing on the spot.

Stark snorts, disdain plain on his face even from where Steve is standing.

“In that crap? I know you’re an ass, Barton, but come on. What normal person would-” Stark breaks off, follows Barton’s gaze which leads him straight to Steve. “Oh.”

Steve blinks, straightens fully; notices that his hands are clenched into fists, forces them to release. “How can you say that? You have the mark, too.” The words are out of Steve’s mouth before he has a chance to stop himself.

Stark blinks, rises from the couch, his head tilted to the side. There’s a condescending expression on his face that makes Steve’s jaw clench tight. “Because I have a brain?” Stark says, breezily. “Seriously, Cap, I know you’re from the grand ol’ times, but even back then no one could explain the nature of the mark. And these days,” Stark pauses, waves a dismissive hand, “it’s nothing but a marketing ploy. Very good for Valentine’s day cards and an occasional rom-com.”

“Just because the society has warped an idea it doesn’t mean the idea is wrong,” Steve insists hotly, holds Stark’s gaze as if in a dare.

Stark’s eyes narrow minutely. He glances away for a second, a wry smile curving on his lips. “You want to know how many mark triggering events have been classified as violent in nature, Rogers? JARVIS?”  

“18%, Sir,” the AI offers promptly. “The most recent case that of-”

“That’s fine, JARVIS, we don’t need gory details,” Stark says, his eyes not moving an inch from Steve’s. There’s a spark there, something hot and relentless, burning just under the surface. Steve cannot even begin to guess what it is. “It’s a sham, Cap. Some big, cosmic joke. It means nothing.”

“And who are the rest of us to argue against the wise Tony Stark?” Steve sneers, his voice all sharp edges and ice. “Because you, clearly, know the best.”

“For fuck’s sake. Fine. It’s destiny, this thing,” Tony spits out, sticks out his right wrist. “I’m going to meet my soulmate and we’ll live happily ever after. But tell me this, Rogers? Who decides who gets the mark? What makes you special enough over Barton here? Does he not having a mark mean he’s destined to an empty life?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say, Stark.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Steve takes a deep breath, grips at the last threads of his control. “Having a mark means that there is someone out there who fits you perfectly. Someone who is unequivocally yours. You may never get to meet them, but even the very presence of the mark should mean hope and comfort. Not offense,” Steve forces out, his mouth curving distastefully around the last word.

For a second, Stark stands unnaturally still. As if very breath has been stolen from him. Then, after a beat, he blinks, his face drawing into a grimace. “Jesus, it’s like listening to a Harlequin novel. You actually believe that crap?”

Steve takes another deep breath, releases it through his nose. His entire body is drawn tight and quivering with bright-hot anger. He’s not thinking anymore. He cannot think past the fury and hurt inside him. His chest has been one barely healed wound since the moment he woke in the future, and Stark is now merrily clawing it open. “It’s fortunate your mark is still black, Stark. I pity the poor soul who gets to have you as their soulmate.”

Steve doesn’t stop to wait for Stark’s response, nor does he take time to examine the shell-shocked nature of his expression. He merely turns on his heel and strides out of the room.

***

Steve used to fear his appearance and sickly nature would be a burden, a detriment. These days, he can jump out of airplanes without a parachute and run miles without exerting himself.

But there are hollow places inside him now. As if some parts of him haven’t thawed yet.

He is adjusting, slowly, but something inside him fears he will never quite catch up.

He still thinks about his soulmate; not so often, with wariness seeping into his thoughts despite his best efforts.

But he still thinks, still aches. Still wants.

Thinks how it would feel to run his fingers across their skin and whisper ‘mine’. Thinks how warm their breath would be on Steve’s face, how soft their lips.

How right the thought ‘yours’ would echo within Steve’s mind.  

***

Bucky is alive.

He is looking at Steve with vacant eyes of a stranger, but it is him.

Steve’s entire world shifts off its axis, changes in such a fundamental way it feels almost like an insult when a single glance at his wrist tells him what he’d already known.

It is not Bucky.

***

Empty space instead of a home.  

Was Ultron… was a machine right? Is war… is death all that it is to him? All that he’s good for? All that he wants?

“It’s a bit late, I know, but I was out of line.”

Steve whips his head in the direction of that voice. Tony is sitting on the floor on the other side of the room, moonlight casting a silvery glow across his face. It’s an attractive face, Steve realizes with a sort of detached, almost dream-like certainty.

Steve blinks, pulls his thoughts into safer waters. “You should have told the team what you’re planning to do.”

Tony blinks, his forehead creasing. “You mean Ultron? Well, okay, I fucked that up too… but I meant that,” Tony says, inclining his head toward Steve’s right hand.

Confused, Steve looks down, sees that he’s been unconsciously rubbing at his mark. He used to do that often; a small gesture of comfort and assurance. Frowning, Steve pulls his hand away, ignores the tug in the pit of his belly.

“What do- that was years ago, Tony,” Steve says, perplexed. “And if I remember correctly, I gave as good as I got.”

Steve expects a joke, a deflection, but Tony merely smiles; a small, wistful smile, his gaze darting towards his own wrist. “Pepper, she… she doesn’t have a mark,” he says, his voice softer than Steve has ever heard from Tony Stark. Sadder too. Steve swallows, his heart giving a small lurch. “I always thought she would be the one.” Tony lets out a low, mirthless laugh, shrugs. His eyes, when they meet Steve’s, are glazed over. “You were right, Cap. I’m too much of a mess for anyone to be shackled to me. Mystical forces or no.”

“No, Tony. No,” Steve exclaims hotly. He shuffles down onto the floor, sits across from Tony, his eyes not for a second leaving Tony’s. “I was the one out of line. You’re… a handful, yes, and you need to learn to trust other people, but you’re a good man, Tony. Despite everything.” Steve breaks off, glances down at his mark, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “And I’m starting to think you were the one who got all this soulmate business right.”

“Nope, that won’t work,” Tony says. There is something jarring about his voice. It sounds too light, too casual. Steve’s head snaps up, his gaze zeroing in on Tony’s face. There’s smile there, yes, but it goes nowhere near his gaze. “There’s space for only one cynic in this charming room in Casa Barton, and, let’s face it, we both know it’s not you, Rogers.”

Steve smiles, takes the offered bait. “You’re a genius, Stark. Tell me what are the chances my soulmate isn’t already dead?”

“Giving how good you’re at beating the odds, I’d say pretty damn high.”

Steve snorts. “Pretty damn high? That’s what passes for genius these days?”

“Don’t sass me, Rogers, or I might tell the future Capmate how you tend to jump out of airplanes without a parachute.”

“Stark, you think you’re the right person to lecture me about safety protocols?” Steve says, deadpan. “Seriously? You invited a terrorist to your home on National TV.”

Tony merely shrugs. “Not one of my finer moments, I admit.”

Steve cannot help himself, he laughs, incredulous and exasperated and fond. And, for a moment, it’s almost easy for him to pretend they are alone in this room, and not crowded by the ghosts of good intentions gone wrong.

And a secret a dead man revealed.

***

Bucky is back.

This time, it is really him. Twisted and bent into a new shape, but the core of him remains the same.

There is also a red mark on his right wrist.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, and there is something helpless in the way he shrugs, his mouth twisting into a poor semblance of a smile. “I can’t remember.” Nodding toward Steve’s wrist, he asks, “You?”

“Still black,” Steve says, finds that the truth of it doesn’t sting as it used to. These days, it’s only an echo of what was once a fierce longing. “Guess some things are just not meant to be.”

Bucky looks away, stays silent.

Steve sighs, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Now is not the time, anyway, they still have a ride to Siberia to catch.

***

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. Did you know?”

There’s nothing hidden in Tony’s gaze. His rage, his pain, his grief; all of it is there for Steve see, as if his heart had been torn open before Steve’s eyes.

Perhaps it has been.

And as he opens his mouth to utter that one damning word, Steve knows – with a leaden weight of certainty crushing his chest – it is about to get worse.

“Yes.”

The word barely slips past Steve’s lips when it happens. He sees Tony drawing away from him, the shock freezing his features… and then everything slips away.

Steve has read about how it felt to have the mark triggered. Warm, some said. Bright, said the others. Light, offered the rest.

It’s all of it, at once, and so, so much more. It’s like being bathed in sunlight. Like breathing it in.

Something twists and turns deep inside Steve’s very core, fragments of him splintering and coalescing into a new shape, while every cell inside his body strains toward Tony – you, it’s you – ache and longing and hope twining around Steve’s chest and squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

For a fraction of a moment, there’s an echo of the same light that blazes through Steve in Tony’s eyes.

For a fraction of a moment, Steve thinks finally. Thinks mine. Thinks Tony.

And then the blow comes.

Steve doesn’t dodge it.

***

Steve leaves that bunker in Siberia supporting Bucky’s weight, without his shield but with a hollow space in the middle of his chest.

And a tingling, warm sensation on his right wrist.

He doesn’t need to look at his wrist to know that the mark there is no longer black.