I just read an amazing fic set in a Soulmate AU, and as usual, I’m over-thinking the logistics. Seasoned writers/readers, what are the established guidelines on Soulmate AU? Also, plot bunnies.
Do soul marks supersede local law/societal norm? What if there is a huge age difference between the pair? Or a homosexual couple in a place where it’s frowned upon/illegal? If the general attitude is that you can’t fight “fate”, then wouldn’t such societal norms not exist in the first place?
Does it guarantee a certain level of sexual compatibility? A certain level of happiness? If not, then how are they “soulmates”?
Paired-up, content couples are better for the government/people in power, right? In such a society, wouldn’t there be a registry for all such marks? Or at least services that help you track down your soulmate? I haven’t come across such structures in the AUs I’ve read.
In such an AU, there would be nothing in between hook-up culture and “time to settle down and find my soulmate”, right? There’s no point in starting a serious relationship with a person who’s clearly not a soulmate?
Let’s say two people are discovered to be soulmates, but for whatever reason, they can’t be together (rivalry between families, caste/class difference, political reasons), would the various parties still fight against the signs? Or, again, it’s not something you can fight?
Is the rule “one soulmate/lifetime” absolute? What if one of them dies?
Is the surviving person doomed to never find another love? Widow(ers) move on and find new love in real life all the time, how is this reflected in the AU, especially ones featuring visual markers?
Ways to erase soul brands? Let’s say you have a mark on the back of your arm, and you cut off your arm, what happens to the karmic entanglements?
Wouldn’t there be a counter movement, especially in modern culture, to disavow such marks/fate in favor of individual will? I’d imagine such movements to be well-organized and vocal against its opposition...and that political parties would back one or the other.
@soulbranded said:
" they can all just kiss my ass. ”
kissy sentence starters || accepting
He was still getting used to her flippant attitude, especially in regards to her superiors. A good majority of his life at this point had been about following orders--from the army, from the KGB, from his handlers--and in all but a small handful of instances, his feelings on the matter had never been like hers. It wasn’t his place to argue or question, just to obey.
Now was supposed to be different, with a distinct lack of people giving him orders. She was not in the same position. Clearly. “What did they tell you to do this time?”
James--Bucky--Soldier--he’d hoped his facial hair had covered his face enough that he wasn’t instantly recognizable. After all, the events in DC had left his face plastered all over the news. Attacks by world famous assassin the Winter Soldier in broad daylight tended to attract attention, and with HYDRA in the wind, their usual cleanup of the events hadn’t been nearly as thorough. So much of the footage from his fight with Captain America and the following arrest had been blown up everywhere, from main stream news to deep internet forums. Everyone was trying to figure out who was the Winter Soldier.
He’d grown some facial hair and always had a baseball cap on. His clothes were nondescript. There was little about him meant to stand out. But the second the men down the street began to still and murmur with each other, his mind picked up the one mistake he’d made: his hair.
It was espionage basics. The easiest way to hide was to change everything about your appearance. Hair, face, and clothes were the easiest--growing a beard, cutting and dying hair, changing up the style associated. More in depth changes took time but could still be worked on--contacts for eye color, false face prosthetics, even body modifications like piercings could work. But the one thing he’d chosen not to do was probably what had gotten him in trouble--he’d chosen not to cut his hair.
The museum exhibit he’d been to had shown James Barnes with a short hair cut. Something he would’ve worn in the military, very carefully coifed and styled. He’d heard a girl say that he was “cute.” His memories seemed to confirm that, with all the dames he’d charmed back in Brooklyn. And that man, James, looked so... determined. Sure of himself. Happy, even, so long as he stood by Captain America. By Steve.
He’d stood outside a barbershop for hours. Maybe it’d be good to get something of the past back. But... was he really that person anymore? The soldier beside the symbol, second in command, the best friend? Or was he something--someone--else? Could he go back? Did he want to? Should he try to move forward? What would James do? And what about Bucky?
Bucky. Every damn time he thought that name he heard it in Steve’s voice. And it was always Steve then--not Captain America. Bucky and Steve. Steve and Bucky. It just... went together.
Whatever he was, he knew he wasn’t Bucky yet. Maybe he’d never be Bucky again. But that wasn’t up to him. That wasn’t a choice he could make. It didn’t matter how much he learned, how much he remembered, or how much he wanted himself to change. No matter how hard he tried, at the end of the day, all he had was himself--a broken soldier, a discarded remnant of a different era, a tool for destruction.
He couldn’t just choose to be Bucky again. Maybe, one day, he’d remember being James. He was still remembering what it meant for him to be the Winter Soldier. This person, this body and the mind inside it, didn’t have a lot of choice in who he was now--but he could make one choice. His hair. He could cut it or keep it. It felt important to decide. This... was his first real decision, wasn’t it? What sort of person did he want to look like? What were his likes? Did he even care?
He’d lingered outside the barbershop until finally leaving, hair uncut. Whoever he was now, he wasn’t the man from the museum with the short and stylish hair. But he also wasn’t the weapon, neglected until maintenance was necessary. He was, at the very least, a person. And this person had long brown hair he kept tucked behind his ears because it felt nice.
And it was a mistake. He’d chosen wrong.
The men barreled towards him and he braced himself, eyes flicking about for an escape. There wasn’t really one, not with all the chairs and civilians in the way. If he wanted a clean getaway, without a scene, he’d have to jump into traffic--where someone else was coming towards him. Though her eyes were still on the men approaching, who began shouting. Oh yeah, they definitely recognized him--between the obscenities were threats along the lines of showing this “terrorist” what “real men were.” Amusing, if he was still supposed to be the Winter Soldier. But not nearly as amusing when he just wanted to be left alone.
His fist clenched. Fight for flight. He had to choose. Another choice, and this one even more important than the last. Who he wanted to be depended on this one. And he wanted to be someone different than the Winter Soldier.
Defense it was.
He stood and attempted to put the table between him and the men as a wave of energy hit them. Surprising. The woman.
Damn everyone nowadays for having some sort of power, and especially damn this woman for thinking it her place to interfere. Except she didn’t speak the language, and as the men, clearly not amused by her magic trick, began to let their fury build again, it was instinct that had him stepping between them. Maybe there was still something redeemable inside him after all.
“Nu este nimeni. Lasă-o din ea.” The men looked from him to her, clearly irate and confused. One of the men muttered something to the little group, and it seemed to build their confidence, stoke more flames to the fire as the ringleader took a step forward, face in a snarl. It didn’t matter what he was going to say at this point. They were done listening. Another failure then.
Making a half step forward, metal arm lifting up, he was knocked off course by whatever energy the woman had used before against the other men. Except this energy, whatever it was, had his metal arm convulse before going nearly limp, falling to his side as he stumbled out of the way. Who the fuck was this woman?
His focus immediately shifted from the group of men to her. Petite, redhead--not Romanoff, and she seemed to have some sort of energy-based power that could cause disruptions in his electronics. Best strategy would be to go for a knockout, focusing blows to her head to keep her from concentrating and potentially blur vision. If he was fast, he might be able to hit her throat with his normal hand, have his metal arm recover, and go for a few knockout blows before making his own escape.
The men eventually left but it hardly mattered. All his focus was on her and their little conversation that followed. It was good that he could keep himself blank--her mention of Steve had sent a shiver down his spine, And if she knew Steve... then maybe it was worth it to talk to her further. At least for a short while. But not here. Somewhere else.
Reluctant to leave his back exposed to this woman, he lifted his chin in the direction for them to begin walking, rounding the far side of the table and keeping himself more in pace with her than in front. They didn’t talk as he led them towards the other café several streets over, positioning them closer to his safe house. If this went bad, he knew a few tricky back alleys he might be able to lose her through, and it’d only take him a handful of minutes to gather his things and leave. He could be out of the country by sunset.
Once they were seated--away from the street, with views of both pedestrian and car traffic--he ordered coffee for them both and waited for it to arrive before speaking. “How did you find me.”
If anything they were more valuable than any gem or piece of jewellery. Unfortunately, not many knew that and standing there, he had to wonder if this one knew it or was just preferring this façade as a way of protecting herself. It was something he'd love to find out but at that moment he did have other things on his mind. There was the potions he'd been working on for a client, one that actually required his close attention, and then there was the research the Institute wanted him to do for them. Magnus also knew that if she was a downworlder and needed help he would offer it to the best of his abilities. He just needed to find out what it was she was there for and how he could actually help her out. "Though, I'm sure you know that. So what can I do for you? Cross paths with the Institute again?"
He didn’t try to stop her, but he did listen until she successfully made it up the stairs and shut the door. Both she and Damon were like wounded animals when you got too close, they snarled and they bit back and their probability of doing something reckless just to spite you went up 500 percent. That’s where the patience came in handy. At least she couldn’t go running off to do the next stupid reckless thing for a few days.
Stefan stood and picked up the prescription bottle she left on the end table, reading without actually absorbing anything. The narcotic thing probably came down to control issues. He could understand that much, except Stefan had a long history as an addict and Rachel didn’t. The front door opened and he watched Damon toss his jacket over the dining chair, his lips pulling into a small frown. Drugs weren’t the only kind of addiction.
He resisted the urge to ask Damon for advice and let it be until the next day, when Rachel finally hobbled down the stairs. She went right for the small bar and he raised an eyebrow. “Morning,” he said, folding his arms. “How’d you sleep?”
"How could you do this?" ((-slides into askbox for any chara from witch or human rachel jUST RP WITH ME))
Matt squints at her through a screen of smoke, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. The cigarette smoke burns at the back of his throat, the nicotine heavy on his tongue. He exhales, obscuring himself from her even more.
“How did you find me?” Honestly, though, he knows. He’d left clues. He’d thought Neal would be the one to find him. But it was Rachel standing here before him, eyes stormy and fists clenched. Demanding an explanation for his faked death and a year living in the shadows. Ghosting his sweethearts in a way they didn’t deserve but was entirely necessary. “just couldn’t take the hint that I wanted t’be left alone, or what?”
She gives him an incredulous look. "Of course I've had a Capri Sun. They're nice, but they're not like the mana of heaven or anything. They come in Lunchables for Christ's sake."
"Rachel. Rachel. Are you kidding me? Capri Suns were the shit as a kid, but now? They're gold. I can't believe you."
