chromeknickers:

Crossover: (n) a place at which or the means by which a crossing is made; (adj) a combining of two distinct styles; the placement of two or more otherwise discrete fictional characters, settings, or universes into the context of a single story.

---

She’s gasping for air beside him; her lungs are burning, but she fights through the pain. He is heavy in her arms, even with the water carrying more than half the weight. Finally, she drags him up on shore before her knees buckle and she falls to the sand. Her hands are already on his chest.

“Breathe, Mako!”

The compressions come in short, staccato bursts before she lifts his chin up and moves to his mouth. Quick, deep exhales. She draws in more air before returning to his mouth, trying to breathe life into a body that is broken. Her palms slide back down to his sternum, pumping away like a heartbeat hell-bent bent on destruction. She hears a crack—a rib, maybe—but keeps on pushing.

“Breathe, dammit! BREATHE!”

But he isn’t breathing; he isn’t moving. Wet tracks of tears stream down her face; droplets of saline fall from her chin and splash onto his neck, his smooth, elegant neck. She follows the flow of muscle connecting the hinge of his jaw to his collarbone with her fingertips, tracing the gentle dip beneath his throat. Will she remember the fall of lines and shadows when he’s gone?

Read More

I can’t write this idea for Makorra week, so I’ve given up on it. :( I would love to see it written, though, so if anyone wants to have a go at it, here it is:

Mako and Korra’s adopted child asks them if they believe in happily ever afters.

pink-affinity:

Katara was dying.

Korra’s hands glowed, and the blue-lit water ran over Katara’s stomach, up to her chest. Korra’s eyes were closed as she tried to sense the damage, the very spot where Katara needed to be healed, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see it because it was everywhere. It had come in and taken over Katara’s body, taken over her limbs and lungs and life.

Katara had healed her so many times. All the cuts and scrapes and bruises and broken bones that she’d suffered during all her years of training… Katara had taken them away. So why couldn’t Korra do this one thing for her?

She adjusted her position and moved her healing back down. Korra was biting her lip. She did this was she was scared, and she was terrified.

Terrified.

Read More

Summary: Heart to hearts don’t need anything but time, open ears, and patience. Makorra, Hogwarts AU.

Rating: K+

Notes: I’m actually on time today! But only because I skipped Genderbender. I’ll get back to that. Anyways, this is part of my Hogwarts AU series. There’s only one short part of it out so far, so no need to read that one to understand. This one also turned out to be much longer than I anticipated, and it’s probably full of little mistakes, but here we go. Fleshing out characters and settings for the win!

———

The party in the Slytherin common room was surprisingly rowdy for a house full of stiffs, Mako noted. The moonshine that Tahno smuggled in was flowing, and he was pretty sure that his usual study spot on the couches tucked into the corner was now contaminated with an unhealthy amount of saliva from the sheer abundance of couples making out on it. All of his comrades, though he would prefer that at the current progression of their relationships he would call them acquaintances, were preoccupied, and Mako left the room like he left everything else: quietly, and with no strings attached.

whisperedtouches:

In which Mako is a much less educated Marius and Korra is a much less ladylike Cosette. Or something. That’s all you need to know.

—-

The handwriting is somewhat clumsy, scrawled as if out of practice, and he doesn’t exactly have a way with words, but nonetheless it reads like poetry, music in her eyes and ears – she feels like she’s reading them printed on the walls of his heart, warm and clear and true, etched into and sculpted out of stone.

If no one loved, the sun would go out.

She holds his gaze as he rambles and stammers. He says she’s beautiful, says she sings when she speaks, says he’s missed her, oh, has he missed her, though they’ve never really met, they’ve always been worlds and worlds away from one another, and he says all of this through the nervous pauses between his sentences, the near-wonder in his wide eyes, – he studies her like she’s an alien, a creature he’s never encountered – the tentative steps he can’t seem to stop himself from taking, carrying him closer and closer to her, one at a time. At last Korra decides she’s had enough, it’s gone on long enough, there’s been enough distance between them, enough air and seconds and space and hours, and she wants it all so she stops time and half-falls against him and swallows his voice (it’s deep, she notes, and has a blunt knife’s edge) with her lips.

The kiss is fleeting, a mere whisper, so slight she almost doesn’t realize it happens – almost, but for the shock she receives when she sees the way he looks at her a moment later, with lightning and embers, his eyes – they’re amber – sparking and smoking.

Halting, hesitant, staring at her like she’s about to disappear on the next breeze if he blinks: “You love me, then?”

She breathes a laugh, reaches blindly for his hand and weaves their fingers, stitching him onto her own body, a part of her, and brings him close to her heart to feel it beating. “Of course,” she says.

He smiles then, lifts his free hand as if to touch her face, to check that she’s still here, before he drops it, and drops onto the seat. Korra follows without a thought, on instinct, as though she’s been doing it all her life and all her other lives before this one, the one she’s sure now she wants to spend with him.

The silence stretches on (perhaps for all eternity – the clock stops ticking, the gears get stuck and she loses track) and she watches him breathe, watches him live and be here beside her, and tries to memorize by sight alone every dip of his face, the angles of his cheeks, the set of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose and the shade of his eyes. Given the chance, she thinks she’d like to memorize his whole self, his entire existence.

For now, she’ll take what she has, clenches it tight in her fist and slips it into her ribcage, leaves it unlocked. When they finally start to speak, it’s from the deepest place inside them, and they say everything: Their dreams and their ghosts, their candles and the shadows they cast, their suns and their starless skies. Slowly, little by little, they peel off each other’s skin, tear each other’s muscles from their tendons and ligaments, reach through each other’s skeletons and scoop out their internal organs, snap their bones apart until they’re holding each other’s hearts in their hands. There in the dark they paint their faces with ink made from their blood, and when they’re done they look without eyes, breathe without lungs, touch without bodies, and Korra says, “What’s your name?”

“Mako. My name is Mako.”

“I’m Korra.”

“It’s very nice to know you.”

“Yes, it is.”

OH MY WORD.

You should be proud! Very proud! This is beautiful! It’s so poetic, so lyrical. I wish I could write like you because this is amazing.