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tenspontaneite · 3 years

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Across Shared Skin (Chapter 1/?)

When Callum was born, Sarai pored over every inch of his skin by candlelight until she found it: a tiny, diminutive patch of discoloured skin on the back of his tiny, diminutive left hand.

(Second of two pieces written for @falling-for-you-a-rayllum-zine) (Soulmate AU. For the ‘AU’ chapter. Only this instalment was written for the zine; future chapters are all new. Piece length: 7k. Ao3 link)

---

It was an interesting skin tone. Pale and purplish, almost, plainly evident against the ruddy colour of his newborn body. She wondered if, across whatever distance separated them, her son’s soulmate had noticed the corresponding shift on their own hand. She wondered how much older they were. She wondered many things that, in the end, only the passage of years would be able to answer. But for now, there were observances to meet.

She fetched a pen, and in the tiniest script she could manage, drew lines of ink carefully across the back of her son’s hand. Callum, she wrote, and left it at that.

Others might include a birth-date, or kingdom of residence, or the names of the parents. But Sarai was wary, and wrote only what custom dictated. The name.

She wasn’t expecting a response right away. For all the prominence of the mark’s location, it was late, and whoever waited on the other end might well be asleep. She had expected more to be waiting until morning, at the very least. But, mere minutes later—

Clear and careful, a name unfolded on her son’s skin, directly beneath the one she’d written.

Rayla, it said, and nothing else.

Sarai mulled the name over. It was unusual. Foreign, certainly, though that didn’t guarantee anything about how far away the girl might live. In the end, she nodded, and committed the name to her memory. It might be years until Callum could communicate with his soulmate himself, but until then, he deserved to know her name.

She left both names on Callum’s hand, and set him gently down to sleep.

---

“He might not be a human.” Lain attempted, yet again, looking down for what seemed like the hundredth time at the name on his daughter’s hand. “Elves use the common script, too. And the name—it’s not unusual. It would fit in well with any of the communities that use Draconic more than we do.”

Tiadrin sighed, and eased the glove once again onto Rayla’s squirming fingers. It wasn’t proper to have one’s mark visible in public, but children so often disliked restrictive coverings. “They didn’t write the primal.” She said, flatly, and that was a tired statement too. “What elf wouldn’t write the symbol of the primal their child was born to? It’s tradition.”

The name and the symbol were obligatory. All else—birthdate, location, family—was optional. But there should have been a symbol. Moon, or Sun, or Sky, or Earth—even Ocean—there should have been a symbol. But there wasn’t, and in its absence, they’d omitted Rayla’s moon. If her soulmate was a human, it would keep him safer. It didn’t seem prudent to declare arcanum to a human audience of unknown prejudices.

Lain was quiet, watching as she covered up the damning ink of the unaccompanied names. “He might not be a human.” He repeated, more softly. “Perhaps they omitted his primal for security reasons. Perhaps he’s the son of someone important.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps he’s a Startouch elf.”

She snorted. “Fat chance of that. And even royalty declare their children’s primal.” She bent down to kiss her daughter’s forehead. “No, Lain. Our daughter has a human soulmate, and we’ll just have to live with that.”

He frowned, resignation and concern written more clearly on him than the names on Rayla’s hand. “…We can’t let anyone find out.” He said, eventually, defeat weighing on his every word. “She’d never be able to do anything without someone questioning her loyalties. She’d be shunned. We can’t let that happen to her.”

Tiadrin nodded. It went without saying, really. “We’ll tell Runaan and Ethari. Everyone else…” She mulled the name over. Callum. It could mean ‘hard-skinned’. It could also, if derived from Columba, mean ‘dove’. Either way, it was a plainly Draconic name, and Moonshadow elves didn’t tend to name their children for Draconic. Others, though… “We’ll say he’s a Skywing elf.” She decided, and her husband hummed approvingly.

“What about Rayla?” He asked, then. “What will we tell her?”

She went quiet. “…I can’t lie to my own daughter about her soulmate, Lain.” She admitted. “We’ll just…have to impress on her the importance of discretion. Children aren’t always the best at keeping secrets, but…”

He held silent for a moment, then smiled. “She’s a Moonshadow elf. She’ll be fine.” He said, and she wished she could share his confidence.

“We’ll see.” Tiadrin said, noncommittal, and left it to that.

---

Once or twice in his early years, Callum experienced little hints of the shared skin between himself and his soulmate. Here and there, he felt phantom fingertips against the back of his hand, the weight of unfamiliar cloth, and—once—the sharp sting of a scratch from some sort of animal across the skin. It healed quickly, as all blemishes on soulmarks did, but he’d gone crying to his mother from the unexpected pain anyway.

People were circumspect about their soulmarks, and that was part of the background hum of culture that he was raised to. He wasn’t to show his soulmark in public. He wasn’t even to say where it was. He wore fingerless gloves, on both hands, to disguise it—and, at least until he was able to talk to her, he wasn’t even supposed to tell anyone her name.

He did, though.

He finger-spelled it out to Aunt Amaya, albeit clumsily. “Her name is Rayla,” he said, almost solemnly, with the motions of his hands. She smiled at him indulgently and raised a finger to her lips in a ‘hush’ motion.

She wasn’t the only person he told. He told the officer of the Standing Battalion who was watching his mother and Amaya’s latest sparring match. He told the baker that they went to buy sweets from. He told near everyone he met, when he was going through the typical three-year-old’s phase of desperate interest in the phenomenon of a soulmate, and his mother sighed at him for it every time.

Again and again, he asked her to write something to Rayla. To ask questions, to find out something more about her, anything. He had a soulmate, and he wanted to know more about her than her name and skin colour.

“It wouldn’t be right, Callum.” She told him, patiently. “Only soulmates should speak through their skin. You’ll just have to wait until you can write to her yourself.”

Callum scowled, and set back into learning his alphabet very vehemently indeed. Because that was the thing:

It wasn’t proper for someone else to write to your soulmate for you. It wasn’t even proper to be walked through spelling out an introduction. When you first wrote to your soulmate, you were supposed to do it yourself. And you were supposed to wait until you were good enough to manage basic conversation, too.

Callum didn’t want to wait until he had words to communicate with. So, one evening, in abject defiance of custom and propriety, he took off his glove and doodled a little flower on the back of his hand. He fell asleep feeling particularly pleased with himself, and somehow, didn’t consider that writing upon shared skin might garner a response.

He woke to a tiny, clumsy flower-doodle scrawled beside his own.

---

Rayla was something of a lonely child. She didn’t have friends her age, having never meshed well with the other children. She didn’t play like the other children did, preferring instead to train with Runaan, or go off sneaking into the forest alone. She didn’t socialise and the closest thing she had to friends were the adoraburrs she brought home by the armful. So, really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that she became so taken with her soulmate.

It started when, one day, Rayla ran up to them with her expression so bright it was impossible not to smile back at her. And then they saw what was on her hand, and Tiadrin had to restrain a surprised laugh at the neat little flower doodled on her daughter’s hand. “Oh, well,” She managed, and shared a glance with Lain. “That’s…” She remembered, for a moment, that this was a human, but… “That’s incredibly cute.” She sighed in the end, because it was, and Rayla was so charmingly pleased with the tiny drawing. “Congratulations, Rayla.”

“It’s only a flower,” said their rambunctious, headstrong little girl, but there was no hiding how delighted she was. “He didn’t even write anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know how, yet.” Tiadrin said, while she tried to remember how old Rayla’s soulmate was. “He’s not quite four, and that’s very young for writing.” She shook her head. “Well, I suppose we’d best get you your skin-inks, if you’re going to be talking now. Or drawing.” Suddenly, she levelled her daughter with a penetrating look. “Remind me what you know about talking to your soulmate, Rayla.”

She stilled for a second, and fell from her childish delight into the more bullheaded determination that accompanied her through her training. “Nothing ‘bout elves, or Xadia, or where we live, or anyone’s names, or magic, or assassins.”

Lain reached out and ruffled her hair. “Good girl.” He praised, and she beamed at him. When she was older, no doubt, she’d chafe against those restrictions. They’d make it very hard to talk to one’s soulmate about anything of substance, after all. But for now, she was content.

Rayla puffed up. “I’m gonna draw him an adoraburr!” She announced, and both of her parents made despairing noises.

“Rayla, honey, adoraburrs are magic.” Tiadrin explained, patiently, and her daughter’s face fell. Evidently, this might be more challenging than they’d thought.

(Rayla drew the adoraburr anyway. Adoraburrs were everywhere, after all. What could it hurt?)

Callum kept up a clandestine exchange of doodles with his soulmate for months before his mother found out. Rayla always used some sort of weird ink that washed off his skin really easily, while his ink lingered in faded outlines for days after he scrubbed it off. It was that which caught him, in the end.

“Callum,” his mother sighed, a little despairingly, at the evidence of many successive generations of doodles on the skin of his hand. “You’re supposed to wait until you can write.”

He made a face at her from the side of the bath, where he really should have expected he’d be caught. “It’s not hurting anyone.” He muttered, chagrined. “We’re just drawing.”

She pursed her lips, reluctantly curious. “She draws back? Or does she write?”

“She draws.” He admitted. “She got this weird ink that washes off easy.”

After a brief correction to his grammar, she shook her head. “Skin-ink. It’s made to wash off. I’ll have to get you some, I suppose.” She watched him almost tiredly for several long moments, then said “I’ll not stop you from drawing to each other, Callum. But this means we’ll need to have your security lessons earlier than normal. There are things you’re not supposed to talk to soulmates about—things that could hurt the kingdom. Do you understand?”

He didn’t. But he pretended he did, to make her happy.

In the end, she held the skin-inks hostage until he could dutifully rattle off the list of things he wasn’t supposed to talk about. This included: local governance, anything about how much food people had or where the food or water was kept, anything about the military (this being especially relevant, considering his mother and aunt), anything about the nobility, and a laundry list of other things.

When he was older, he’d understand the rationale behind it; that the careless words of children to their soulmates could reach the ears of adults who knew how to use them. A complaint about always being hungry might not mean much to the soulmate—but to an adult, it might indicate famine in a neighbouring kingdom. It might indicate weakness. And there were many such ways to damn one’s nation.

Of course, by the time he understood, he was himself a member of the nobility—a prince of Katolis. The damage an unwary prince might do with spilled secrets was potentially catastrophic, and so the lessons were drummed into his head until he almost felt wary to so much as touch the nib of his pen to the back of his hand. It would be so easy to give something away.

But, for now, he was only a child, and the ink on his skin held no secrets. He drew flowers, and birds, and cats, and dogs, and horses. His soulmate drew flowers, and weird circles with eyes, and animals that either had spikes on their heads or extra ears, and occasionally she attempted birds too. She wasn’t very good, but the drawings were from her, so he treasured them anyway.

He just wished he could write already, and talk to her properly.

---

Callum tugged on his mother’s sleeve and requested a writing test every week. And, every time, she looked over whatever she’d told him to write, praised his progress, and said, “Not yet.”

Not yet, every time. It meant ‘you are not yet at the level appropriate for talking to a soulmate’, and Callum thought it was an exceptionally annoying standard to hold someone to. It wasn’t like he and Rayla weren’t already sort-of talking, with their pictures. What did it matter if his spelling was bad or his handwriting messy or his letters extremely slow to form? But his mother was adamant.

Time passed, and in the wake of the great upheavals in his life, Callum wished more than ever before that he could talk to his soulmate. His mother married royalty, and she was crowned Queen, and Callum named prince, and in the overwhelming confusion of trying to adapt to life in the castle he desperately wished he could talk to Rayla about it. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, really. The only kids at the castle were Lord Viren’s children, and he didn’t know them well enough to confide in. But Rayla was his soulmate. He should be able to talk to her, right?

…But then, he realised, when his mother started to hesitate a little before saying “not yet,” he wouldn’t be able to talk to Rayla about this, anyway. His mother marrying a King, and him moving into a castle…that was big, important stuff. The sort of stuff soulmates weren’t meant to talk about, if they didn’t know for sure which kingdom they were loyal to.

That realisation left him sour and solemn for days. Still, he wanted to be able to talk to her about some things, even if not the big stuff that he wasn’t allowed to mention. He thought he was getting close to being pronounced ready, but…

In the end, Rayla lost patience before he did.

When Callum felt the scrawl of pen on his skin, it was an automatic reflex to duck away to somewhere secluded to peel off his glove and watch. This time, though, the scrawl just…kept going, as he headed for a secluded spot among a few trees, and he thought she must be drawing something unusually large and elaborate.

He just about fell over when he removed the glove to find words there.

The handwriting was messy, and slow to form. He was slow to read it. But it was unmistakably words.

Are you ever gonna write? Rayla asked, through their shared skin, and he stared at the back of his hand with his heart beating so hard it made his head feel weird and dizzy and hot. She was talking to him! Really talking!

After a moment, she underlined ‘ever’.

He panicked for several long minutes about what he should do. Mom said he shouldn’t. She said ‘not yet’. But that was about him making contact. The younger soulmate was supposed to do it first, after all.

He hesitated, rummaged for his pen and inks, and finally wrote Sorry. Mom won’t let me yet. It took him a long time. The letters were huge and messy and barely fit on the shared skin. For the first time in his life, he felt embarrassed for his handwriting, and suddenly understood why his mother might be saying ‘not yet’.

There was a pause as she wiped off her skin-inks and both sets of words vacated his skin. In her impatience, she left a vague inky smear behind. But you just wrote now, she pointed out, and – and his face burned, he felt unbearably shy and unbearably excited and nervous all at once…was this how people normally felt when they talked to their soulmates for the first time?

He ducked his head, flushed, and scrawled You did it first. He accidentally wrote over some of her letters in the process.

She washed off the inks again. Yeah, cause you were taking forever!! She paused, then added a few more exclamation marks for emphasis. I was so bored waiting.

After a brief pause where he carefully sounded out the word ‘waiting’ to figure out what it said, he wrote Me too.

Waiting had been annoying, and senseless, and stupid. Maybe it was a bit embarrassing to put bad handwriting on someone else’s skin, but…shouldn’t that be up to them to decide? If she still wanted to talk even though his writing was bad…then wasn’t it okay?

She had contacted him. He couldn’t be blamed for that, right?

…And it wasn’t like he hadn’t already broken tradition by drawing, anyway.

As soon as she washed their ink off, he started writing again. But we’re writing now, so I guess it’s okay?

Finally! Rayla wrote, in a quick and victorious scrawl, and also drew a little smiley face next to it. It was fairly delightful.

I’m Callum, he offered, a little shyly, after a moment. This, at least, he had practiced a lot.

I know. She wrote, the letters blocky and cheerful. I’m Rayla.

I know, he scrawled back, and imagined that on the other side of their connection, she was smiling too.

---

Callum learned a lot of things about his soulmate, in the weeks after she opened contact.

He learned that she liked to go exploring in the woods, which her town was inside. She wouldn’t say much about her town, but he got the idea it was pretty small.

He learned that she spent most of her time ‘training’, and while she wouldn’t say what she was training for, he gathered that it involved weapons and fighting and—apparently—being able to jump and flip around a lot.

He learned that she loved her parents and had two sort-of uncles who were married to each other, and one of those uncles was the one who trained her.

He learned that she absolutely detested water, and was terrified of it, and even the prospect of a bath was completely awful to her.

He learned that she was stubborn, and determined, and occasionally so blunt it was kind of rude. He learned that she didn’t really have friends, and while she put on a good show of not caring about that…

We’re friends, though, he pointed out to her, and felt the warmth of her fingertips lingering beneath the words for several minutes before she replied.

Yeah, she said, and that was all.

---

Rayla learned many things about her soulmate, in turn.

He was kind of shy, and got nervous easily, and wasn’t very good at talking to the kids where he lived. He had moved towns not all that long ago, and really wasn’t used to it yet, and found the new place kind of big and scary. He loved his mother an insane amount, and…didn’t seem to have a father. His mother had remarried, though, and had a baby on the way. He was cautiously excited about that.

He wasn’t good at fighting, and though he’d started sword lessons, he hated it and wished he didn’t have to do it. He took a lot of lessons—with tutors, instead of at a school—and wasn’t terribly keen on those, either. What he did like was drawing, and even though they could write now, he kept drawing things for her. Because he wanted to.

I want to draw stuff for you, he wrote, very firmly, and Rayla’s heart fluttered too much for her to think of objecting.

In all, he was really nice, considering he was a human.

...Maybe he wouldn’t be so nice, though, if he knew that she was an elf.

---

Callum was a shy and often tongue-tied boy out in the halls and grounds of the castle. In private, though, he never seemed to stop talking. And, unsurprisingly, one of his absolute favourite topics was his soulmate. As such, Sarai found out very rapidly when they’d started writing, and honestly wasn’t surprised by it at all. Only a little exasperated.

Time passed and Callum chattered, and Sarai grew to know a lot about her son’s soulmate. But there were things about her that she didn’t know. That she hadn’t even guessed about. Until…

“She spells things weirdly.” Callum confided, one day, while she was brushing his hair. “I tried telling her she was spelling stuff wrong but she just said that I’m spelling stuff wrong. Like ‘color’. She puts a ‘u’ in it. And she spells ‘mom’ with a ‘u’ too. It’s so weird.”

Sarai paused, brush stilling in his hair for a second, before she made herself complete the stroke. “Oh?” She said, lightly, allowing no trace of her unease into her voice. “That is odd. Does she spell any other words like that?”

Callum thought for a while. “She uses ‘s’ instead of ‘z’ a lot?” He ventured. “Like…she’ll spell ‘realize’ with an ‘s’. And sometimes she uses different words for things too. She calls pants ‘trousers’. I think maybe she’s from a kingdom where they say stuff different?”

“The common tongue does change a little, depending on where it’s spoken.” Sarai agreed, by all appearances unbothered. “So more likely than not, your Rayla speaks and writes with her regional dialect.” She paused, and carefully, she asked “Did she ever say where she was from?”

She could almost hear Callum’s face scrunching up. “No,” he admitted. “I guess she’s had security lessons too. I know she lives somewhere in a huge forest, though. She talks about it a lot.”

Sarai hummed, with the usual fond interest, and didn’t ask him to tell her more. He would, in time; he loved talking about his soulmate. If she asked, it would only make him suspicious. He was a bright boy. He’d notice. “Maybe one day she can give you tree-climbing lessons.” She suggested, and then that was all he could talk about for the next hour.

She listened more closely, after that. And, slowly, day by day, the clues started adding up.

“She says she lives inside a tree!” Callum declared one day, absolutely astonished and absolutely delighted and wanting her to know all about it. “A tree big enough that they could carve a house inside it! That must be so cool!”

Sarai agreed easily that it was very cool, and did not mention that there were no trees so large within the Pentarchy.

“I still draw her stuff, even though we can write now.” Her son said cheerfully, maybe a few weeks after the treehouse revelation. “She draws back sometimes, but she doesn’t like doing it because she doesn’t think she’s very good at it.”

“What does she draw?” Sarai inquired, and was presented with his hand, the skin-ink a little smudged around the shape of a fuzzy ball with a cute little face.

“Mostly these round fuzzy things.” He confided. “Sometimes she draws them stacked on each other.”

For a moment, she couldn’t answer. She stared, silent, at what was unmistakably an adoraburr, one of those creatures so common and omnipresent in Xadia that sometimes their charred fuzzy bodies were found fallen into the crevices of the Breach. Viren frequently received shipments of them. Apparently they were useful in some spells.

“Cute.” She commented, in the end, and knew by her son’s abrupt quietness that she hadn’t quite managed to hide her reaction.

She went to Harrow, almost as soon as she let Callum go out to play.

“I think Callum’s soulmate is an elf.” She said to him, without preamble, as soon as they were in private. He froze, and studied her, and watched her with wide eyes as he exhaled. He reached out and took her hand.

“Tell me everything.” He said, and she did. She explained the dialect, and the treehouse, and the adoraburrs, and every other clue her son had cheerfully rattled off at her over the months.

They brought Viren in. He agreed, from his acquaintance with stolen Xadian texts, that the dialect matched. He mentioned that there were enormous forests in Xadia not all that far from the border, and that they were home to a number of communities of Moonshadow elves. There might be other great forests elsewhere, of course. But that was the one he knew of.

From there on, she started noting down everything. The vague idea of ‘maybe she’s a Moonshadow elf’ went from ‘possible’ to ‘very likely’ when Sarai relayed the soulmate’s enthusiasm for a monthly community dance that—when she checked—turned out to fall on the full moon, every month. (Coincidentally, Callum had stopped complaining about his ballroom dancing lessons. She’d have found this much cuter if not for the circumstances.)

“The history texts I have say that Moonshadow elf tradition places a lot of emphasis on dancing.” Viren told her, almost apologetically, when she came back with this latest report.

“There’s no sense denying it any more, is there.” Sarai said, wearily, rubbing at her aching temples. Her son’s soulmate was an elf. Perhaps a Moonshadow elf, even, and those were some of the deadliest and most vicious elves there were. Combined with all of Callum’s mentions of his soulmate’s training…

Harrow laid his hand on her arm in warm, wordless reassurance. “What do you want to do?” he asked, quiet, and she sighed.

“I don’t know.” She admitted. In the end, it took a long talk with her sister before she made up her mind, and even then…it was hard to know what to do. How to react.

“He should know.” Was Amaya’s brusque opinion, expression laced with sympathy as she signed. “He’s a prince now, and he needs to know to watch his words around this soulmate of his. It’s a shame, but he’s hardly the first person to have an enemy for a soulmate.”

“There’s that.” Sarai agreed, glumly, and tried to stop worrying about what it meant for her son’s future, that his soulmate was an elf.

It was hard, telling him. Hard to sit him down and inform him, very seriously, that she was near certain that his soulmate was an elf. It was hard to watch the way his expression went…blank, almost. Closed-off, for a few seconds before it became confused and vulnerable instead.

“…What does this mean?” He asked, quiet, and she wasn’t sure what to tell him.

“It means that you need to be very, very careful what you tell her.” She said, in the end, because that was what she knew. “Her people are at war with ours, Callum. I won’t tell you to cut contact with her—she’s your soulmate. You couldn’t. But…” She exhaled, and shook her head. “I’ll get you some reading.”

She sent him off with a number of historical accounts about the tragedies of loyalty and heartbreak that could come from soulbonds divided by war, and wished that fate had been kinder.

---

Callum was quiet for days, after he learned the truth. He read through the books his mother gave him, even though they were long with tiny script and big words that he didn’t know, and felt more and more upset at the possibilities they implied for his future.

His soulmate…was an enemy. An elf. One of the people Aunt Amaya called bloodthirsty monsters.

He was short and brusque in his replies to her, for a while. He looked at the almost purplish hue of the shared skin with new eyes, and wondered what she looked like. Did she have horns? Pointy ears? The wrong number of fingers and toes? He’d wondered what she looked like before, of course, but…never in terms of how inhuman she might look.

She caught on to his strange behaviour very quickly. Did something happen? She asked him, through their skin, her handwriting its familiar blocky scrawl. You’ve been all quiet.

He wasn’t sure what to say. Wasn’t sure how to reconcile his feelings towards Rayla, his closest friend and his soulmate, with the knowledge that she was an elf. Kind of, he wrote, in the end, heart heavy. He wished his mother hadn’t told him. He wished he didn’t know. I found some stuff out, and I don’t know what to think.

There was a pause while she washed the ink off. And then: Do you want to talk about it?

He didn’t. Not then. So he passed the following weeks, reading her usual reports of daily life, and wondering what exactly she was training for, day after day after day. Why such long hours, when she was so young? Who exactly was she planning on using those combat skills against?

They were heavy thoughts for a child as young as he was, but there was hardly any escaping them. He tried to focus on happier things, like his mother’s pregnancy, and the nigh arrival of his younger sibling. He tried to think of how Claudia was pretty and friendly and fun to talk to, and definitely wasn’t an elf. He tried to think of a lot of things that weren’t his soulmate, and failed fairly thoroughly.

In the end, after weeks of stilted conversation, he couldn’t take it anymore, and sat down with skin-ink and pen to write: You’re an elf, aren’t you.

She didn’t reply for a long time. But eventually, he felt the tickle of a pen-nib at the back of his hand, and retreated into private to peel off the glove. Yeah, she’d written, and nothing else. Not for a few minutes. Then: You’re a human.

It wasn’t a question. He hesitated, wiped off the ink, and wrote You knew?

Yeah, she said again, and then haltingly explained. Apparently, elves wrote their children’s names to their soulmates just like humans did, except they always included some sort of magic symbol, so her parents had known he was human the second his name came through without it.

He asked what hers was. He probably shouldn’t have, and she probably shouldn’t have answered, but she did. She drew a little symbol, and he took it carefully to his mother.

“Moonshadow elf,” she concluded, with honest sympathy, like someone offering condolences. “Like we thought. I’m sorry, Callum.”

‘I’m sorry’, like it was a death-sentence.

He sighed, and put his glove back on. “I’ll be careful.” He promised, quiet, and left to be alone.

---

Both of them were quieter, after that. There was less idle chatter. Less writing about their days, their experiences, the things that annoyed them and the things they enjoyed. He still wrote—he didn’t think he could have stopped himself if he tried. But there was a wariness between them now that he hated.

Still. There were at least some advantages to having an elf on the other end of his soulbond. Investigating rumours, for one. My friend says elves drink blood, he wrote, one day, with a sort of morbid interest. Is that true?

What?? No!! She wrote, furiously, and then underlined it twice and circled it for good measure.

She reciprocated, sometimes.

Is it true humans have extra fingers? She asked, and he responded by drawing his hand onto the back of his hand. Weird, was her response to that, and despite everything, he couldn’t help but smile.

---

I heard that in Xadia everything is magic, he wrote, one day. Is that true? What’s it like?

She hesitated a long while, then wrote I’m not supposed to talk about magic. Or Xadia.

It hurt, a little. But in the end, they both had their security lessons, and their people were still at war. There was nothing to be done.

Eventually, he wrote what had been on his mind for months, now. I wonder how we’ll meet, he said, with a twist of emotion that was half unease and half interest. It was on his mother’s mind, he knew, and it was certainly a thought he kept coming back to, for good reason.

Soulmates always met eventually, whether or not they contrived to. Even if they tried to avoid it…it would happen someday. His mother was worried about it. The circumstances under which a Prince of Katolis might meet an elf were almost exclusively unpleasant, after all. But he entertained childish thoughts of peace treaties and reconciliation, and clung to them, as unlikely as they might be.

I have no idea, Rayla answered him eventually, and he wondered if she was worried, too.

---

The next year or so was eventful for both of them. Callum’s little brother was born, and he instantly became utterly enchanted with him. He wrote to Rayla at considerable length about how tiny his fingers and toes were, how fuzzy his hair was, how he didn’t have a soulmark yet at all. He never wrote his name, because names were forbidden, but Rayla seemed entertained enough by the stories anyway.

Some time later, Rayla went quiet for a while, and was plainly subdued by something. Eventually, she admitted that her parents had agreed to taking a job that meant they had to go away. She wouldn’t see them more than once a year now, if that. Whatever job it was, it was supposedly an honour; but that didn’t help how much she missed them. She was living with her uncles, now.

You can write letters to them, maybe? He suggested. It wasn’t as good as the real-time writing between soulmates, but it was better than nothing.

I guess, she said, but didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. Her life changed, but Callum’s went on.

---

And then Callum’s life shattered around him.

He shut himself in his room and cried for hours, burying his face in his hands, until tears were streaming between his fingers and his chest hurt and everything felt so awful he had no idea how to cope. How could he? She was gone.

Not much could carry across shared skin. But evidently, enough of the salt-water managed it for Rayla to be alarmed. By the time he checked what she’d written, the tears had smeared and diluted the inks, but the words were still recognisable. Is something wrong? She’d asked, hurried enough that it looked alarmed. Are you crying?

He nearly collapsed, when he went to get the inks. Could hardly see through tears when he wrote, lopsided and awful, My mom is dead. Writing it was terrible. An admission that it was real, it had happened, she was dead.

Rayla didn’t know what to say to that, and he could tell. She wrote I’m so sorry, Callum, and asked if there was anything she could do, if he wanted to talk about anything. But there wasn’t, and he didn’t. Mom was dead. What was there to talk about?

Eventually, perhaps for lack of anything else to try, Rayla drew him a little flower. She’d done it to try to make him feel better, and—and somehow, that made him start sobbing all over again.

A long way down the line, she asked him how it had happened. He couldn’t answer. Of course he couldn’t. That the Dragon King had killed her would reveal too much.

But saying ‘I can’t talk about that’ was revealing in its own way, too.

---

Years passed them by. Callum slowly pieced his life back together around the hole his mother had left, and learned to cope with the loneliness of being without her. His brother grew, and started talking, and swiftly became the dearest person in Callum’s life…except, perhaps, for the elf on the other end of his soulbond.

In many ways, things stayed the same. Callum hated his training and Rayla loved hers. He loved drawing—and became very good at it—and Rayla continued to hate water. She remained as stubborn and headstrong as ever, and she remained his friend.

Sometimes, he had no idea what he’d do without her. Soren was kind of an unpleasant friend, most of the time, and Claudia was always too occupied with her books or lessons or brother to answer his attempts to socialise. He had Ezran, of course, but without Rayla…he could only imagine how lonely he’d have been.

Sometimes he remembered all over again that she was an elf, and felt weird about how much he depended on her.

He still wondered how they’d meet.

---

King Harrow and Lord Viren, with very little warning, departed Katolis and rode into Xadia. There, they killed the Dragon King, and his son the Dragon Prince, and returned covered in a glory that Harrow’s bearing didn’t reflect. Callum wondered if the revenge had felt as hollow to enact as he felt to receive it. The one who killed mom is dead now, he thought, and didn’t feel vindicated. Didn’t feel happy. He just felt…empty. What was the use of it, so many years after her death? She was still dead.

He wished he could talk to Rayla about it. But if names were a forbidden topic, then revealing that his step-father had ridden into Xadia and killed their King…that was plainly out of the question. So he told her nothing.

He wondered if it was his imagination, that she’d grown quieter anyway. When she wrote, she seemed unhappy. Preoccupied, too.

Weeks passed, and she admitted that she was going to be travelling soon. She didn’t say why, or to where, or what for—all of that was proscribed. But she gave it as warning, anyway, that she’d be able to talk less while en route.

In the month that followed, the brevity of their contact left him lonelier than ever.

---

“You must be careful, Rayla.” Runaan said to her, in private, where the other assassins couldn’t hear. “For the first time, you are venturing into the human kingdoms. You must take particular care to avoid meeting your soulmate.”

“Everyone meets their soulmate eventually.” She muttered back to him, fingers resting reflexively over the guard on her left hand.

He was unmoved. “Yes. But, with luck, you can avoid it taking place on this mission.”

It was, in fairness, a very important mission. She sighed. “I’ll do my best.” She promised, though it wasn’t exactly within her control.

When the Full Moon was nigh, and the bindings tight around her wrists, Rayla broke into Katolis Castle and went looking for her quarry.

The first non-soldier she found was a young human boy, maybe around her age. She didn’t know how old Prince Ezran was, but she knew he wasn’t an adult, and…according to what she’d been taught, this boy was wearing pretty high-quality clothes. If he wasn’t Ezran, he should at least know who was.

She chased him. She cornered him. He said, “I am Prince Ezran,” and looked up at her with a resolve and solemnity that didn’t quite manage to mask his fear.

It hit her, then, looking down the length of her blade towards the face of this human boy waiting to die. It hit her that—that he was afraid, that he didn’t want to die, that he was a person, as much as she was, as much as her soulmate was, he was a human just like Callum and she was here to kill him—

But…she had to do it. She had to. She’d bound herself, it was her mission, it was the justice that the Dragon Prince deserved. She had to.

It was in the midst of trying to talk herself into it, and him trying to talk her out of it, that a child’s voice emerged from behind a painting.

It said, “Callum”, and she only had a moment for her blood to freeze before, at her feet, the terrified human boy, the boy who had claimed to be Prince Ezran, the boy she’d been about to kill—

He answered. He responded. It was his name.

What were the chances that she’d meet someone named Callum—the correct age, the correct species, everything—and it wouldn’t be her soulmate?

The painting edged open, revealing a younger human boy with some sort of weird pet. A pet she’d heard descriptions of, held in the arms of a child she’d been hearing about since he was born, looking worriedly between her and the boy she had at swordpoint—

She realised she’d been frozen for too long. She realised that, one way or another, she had to be sure. She reached over, and hit herself hard on the back of her left hand.

The human, in an instant and involuntary motion, flinched and gripped the back of his own left hand. Her heart thudded, and— it only took him a second to realise—

His eyes went wide. He glanced wildly between her and his hand, undoubtedly registering that she was a Moonshadow elf, that she was the right age, that she was—

“Rayla?” He squeaked, and if she hadn’t already known for certain, that would have told her.

She lowered her sword, utterly struck by how much of a disaster this was.

“Shit.” She said, succinctly, and stared at the astounded face of her soulmate.

What in Xadia’s name was she supposed to do now?

---

Notes:

I’ve adored this piece ever since I wrote it in Whenever, Early 2020. Really, really thrilled to be able to share it with everyone at last. As you can tell, it ends on a pretty rude cliffhanger. It’s always invited follow-up, and I think I knew from the moment I finished it that I’d be continuing it someday. And so I did! Eventually!!

According to my discord message history, I began writing chapter 2 in February this year, 2021. I probably wrote the following two chapters within a mad haze in the same week or two, knowing me. The chapters are uncharacteristically short, considering my usual habits, but it felt right for the story. I’ve completed up to the end of chapter 4, and have nothing written after that yet.

Minor edits have been made from the zine version, including some formatting, but nothing drastic. Writing this piece in general was a challenge. There was so much I wanted to include – about the differences in Callum’s life, about Ezran’s soulmate – that I had to cut out because of the word count restriction. Ultimately I opted not to edit that back in for the online version, and simply fill it in organically through the rest of the story. There’s some really interesting stuff, and the story as a whole is going to be wildly canon-divergent.

Some worldbuilding details: - platonic soulmates are considerably more common than romantic ones - there’s some cool weird soulmate metaphysics re: magic

I think I’ll keep it vague and let everyone discover how I’m doing soulmates for themselves, though. Hope everyone enjoyed! Would really love comments on this one; I’ve been waiting so long to share it and I’m so excited.

(also I’m fully aware that the fic’s acronym is ASS, and I’ve decided to embrace this)

#rayllum #rayllumzine #tdp fic #soulmate AU #tdp callum #tdp rayla #god I'm so excited for this fic you don't even know #I've been sitting on the extra chapters for months now #Across Shared Skin

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miss-tc-nova · 3 years

Text

Fools on the Dancefloor - Xehanort x Eraqus

So this was my first fic for the Checkmate zine before I settled on the piece that I did actually end up making. I hope you enjoy because I definitely enjoyed writing it.

Music Inspiration: Slow Dance cover by Ashestoashes

~~~~~

“Yo, Fleetfoot!”

When the pillow—his textbook—flies from beneath him, there’s a heavy THUNK and the boy in white jolts upright in shock. He finally comprehends the pair off to the side and gives his friends a cheesy smile.

“Hey guys. What’s up?” he greets, rubbing at the spot his head met the table.

Bragi snickers, but Vor is a little more serious. “You know Master Odin still expects you to know the stuff you sleep through.”

That goofy grin replies, “I haven’t flunked out yet.”

“You’ll be close if you keep drooling on your book.” Bragi’s upper lip curls back and he’s no longer keen on holding the text. “Gross! How can you catch up when you can’t even read the material anymore?”

“It’s a talent.”

“Whatever,” Bragi scoffs. Little Vor giggles behind her fist while the unimpressed boy throws his arms behind his head and leans his chair back on two legs.

“Are you guys ready for the banquet this weekend?” the girl asks.

“Not really,” Eraqus grumbles.

Bragi groans along with him. “Man, don’t we already do enough to celebrate the Scala founders? We already got the festival, the show, and the lantern thing. We really gotta add a bunch of dumb speeches and some hokey pokey? Why are we even going again?”

“Because Master Odin wants us there representing the future of keyblade wielders,” Vor sighs. “But I have to agree, it’s a little overkill on the celebrating.”

“Some representation we’ll be when only Fleetfoot has fancy feet,” the red-head huffs. “The rest of us’ll be out there steppin’ on toes and Xehanort will probably be flat on his face.”

Eraqus tilts his head. “You don’t think he can dance?”

“Era, not everyone has your prestigious upbringing,” Vor reminds firmly. “It’s a miracle the rest of us have some basic understanding of formal dancing, but Xehanort came from a world completely different than ours. And from the sounds of it, he wasn’t exactly popular there.”

The thought interests Eraqus; finding something Xehanort can’t do is pretty rare. “Yeah, but Xehanort learns pretty quick. We’ve spent most of our lives learning to use a keyblade but he caught up in less than a year.”

“That’s true,” Bragi agrees. “It’d probably take him less than an hour to master the waltz or somethin’.”

A hand slams down on the table, startling the boys enough that Bragi topples backwards. “That’s it! Eraqus, you should do a dance class,” Vor says excitedly.

“D-Dance class?” Eraqus stammers. Even Bragi, once he’s shoved himself off the floor, gives her a skeptical look.

“Yeah. Even if you try to help Xe, he’s not gonna accept it if he’s the only one. So what if we all went? Besides, I know I’m a little rusty.”

Granite eyes look to Bragi who shrugs. “I got the gist of it, but my folks never made me learn so I guess I’m in.”

Teaching Xehanort to dance—now that’s something Eraqus might enjoy. At first, his relation with the new-comer was adversarial, but as their competitions became more and more ridiculous, something stronger grew between them. There’s still a rivalry, but Eraqus began to notice a magnetism drawing him to his friend—a desire to be in his presence as often as possible. Outside that presence, he felt like he was lost in a fog. He spent his life navigating only what was right in front of him, but when Xehanort came into the picture, that smog rolled out and everything seemed clear. The pressure that comes with prestige fades, that outcast feeling he couldn’t shake slips away, and the jubilant act he used to put on becomes real—he’s truly happy when Xehanort is around.

Dragging him from his contemplations is the creaking door; in steps the very person that has no issue overriding Era’s thoughts.

“You guys do know class ended like thirty minutes ago, right?” he states, shifting the box under his arm.

Bragi rights his toppled chair. “Yeah, but we decided to hassle Sleepfoot here.”

“Guess what!” Vor shouts, hopping closer to Xe. “Eraqus is gonna teach us all to dance!”

Well, he hadn’t actually accepted yet, but he can only meet that inquisitive glance with a fool’s smile.

“You guys have fun with that.” The dismissal is so easy it pricks at Era’s ego.

“So then you don’t mind looking like a clown at the banquet?” Bragi says with his signature smarmy grin. Silver eyes narrow at the offender. “Unless you can actually dance—in which case, show me wha’chu got.”

Before Xehanort can retort, Vor tugs at his haori. “Come on! We’re all doing it. We’re supposed to be representing our school—we can’t be stumbling around.”

Once again, he looks to Eraqus as if he’ll get an answer but Era’s being dragged into this just as much as he is.

“Ugh. Fine.”

“Great! We’ll do it tomorrow night after dinner!” the girl announces. “Bragi, come with me! We gotta find the others!”

“Alright, alright.” There’s a clear difference in the enthusiasm and energy, but the two scurry off.

“Those two are up to something,” Xehanort murmurs, watching the door close.

“You think so?”

“Yeah…” The suspicion fades when the youth in black turns back to Eraqus. There’s something soft there that churns at Eraqus’s stomach. “Anyway, chess?” he offers, holding up the box.

“Oh, right!”

The boys settle into their window seat, basking in the sunlight and pushing pieces across the board. Eraqus’s game isn’t up to par—his mind distracted with tomorrow’s endeavor. It’s fleeting, but there’s also the thought of Xehanort looking down at him, smiling, slow dancing. There goes any productivity he had any hope of having today.

~~~~~

Class seems like an eternity and Eraqus can’t even nap through it this time. There’s a strange excitement concerning his dance class bubbling in his brain. He has a habit of half-assing things that involve effort—usually just getting by—but he’d actually spent time last night rehearsing what’s been drilled into his head since he was little. Even his daily chess game with Xehanort can barely distract him from his impatience, earning him a lecture from the boy who won’t accept an easy win—let alone two days in a row.

Eraqus has never been early in his life for anything, he was even born a week late, but today is different; today, Eraqus scarfs down dinner like a starving man and rushes back to the classroom lugging a record player he’d borrowed from the Master. His heart is only just starting to slow when the door opens.

“I told you guys he’d be here,” Vor says loudly.

Urd smirks. “Now if he could just be on time to class.”

Eraqus laughs. “I had to get the record player running.”

“Oh my gods, he’s even prepared,” she gasps. “Did Hermod hit you too hard in class today?”

Not thrilled with the subject, Hermod urges, “Alright, stop teasing him. The banquet is tomorrow so let’s get started.”

The shortest classmate hurries forward. “Psst, Xe’s been grumbling about this all day, so you gotta give him lots of encouragement,” she whispers louder than necessary.

“Okay?” Era agrees questionably. Standing straight, he notices how awkward Xehanort looks just being here, not even meeting anyone’s gaze. “Um, okay. Everyone partner up.”

Vor hops beside Bragi while Urd nudges Hermod with an elbow; that leaves Xehanort—the person who needs the most help—without a partner.

Eraqus glances around. “Wait, where’s Baldr?”

“Said he already had plans to hang out with his sister,” Bragi answers.

“Oh…” Well this un-evened the odds, granted they were already playing with some strange odds with four boys to two girls without the dance teacher, but at least even numbers made it possible to practice in pairs.

“Guess I’ll just sit this one out,” Xehanort says, not at all irritated with the situation.

Eraqus glances to Bragi and Vor who wave him on enthusiastically. While he may have been a bit enamored at the thought of dancing with Xehanort, he figured it would be in fleeting moments of demonstration, not being partnered for the whole thing.

“Uh, no. It’s okay…I’ll be your partner.”

The pair gives him thumbs up but Xehanort looks less amused. “Seriously?”

The teacher shakes the doubt from his head. “Yeah.” He motions for Xehanort to approach. “Come on. I’ll do the girl’s part.”

Cautiously, the boy in black comes closer. Trying to conceal his nerves, the expert props up his partner’s arms in the correct position and slides in to take the girl’s stance. As soon as Eraqus’s hand meets Xehanort’s bare arm, the latter recoils.

“Nope! No! Uh uh! I’m out!” Xehanort blurts out, attempting to flee the situation.

“Ah! Wait!” Eraqus snags a fistful of black fabric. “Come on. You didn’t even get to the first step. It’s really not that hard.”

“I think I’d rather just make a fool of myself.”

“You’d…rather be made fun of than dance with me?”

The response comes harshly. “That’s not what I said!”

The fabric creaks in Eraqus’s grasp while he lets his eyes plead for him. Somehow, in spite of Xehanort’s stubbornness, it works and the reluctant boy turns back with a sigh.

Surprisingly, the class moves forward quite smoothly. Having done this before, the others require only some refinement on their moves while Xehanort is quick to catch on as always. The muscles in Eraqus’s face begin to ache from his uncontainable grin. Even as he’s correcting minor mistakes, his thoughts are teeming with the moments he’s got Xehanort’s hands on him and the static that buzzes across his skin where contact is made

Currently, Eraqus is in the middle of teaching the pairs how to dip.

“The girls should have most of their weight on the outside foot but the guys should still be holding them up somewhat.” Just as Eraqus begins to lean back, he remembers something. “And the guys should never—”

The end of that sentence was ‘lean over their partner’ which is exactly what Xehanort does. This shift in weight unbalances the boys and down they go. Air promptly evacuates Era’s lungs as he’s squished between the floor and his partner.

“Are you okay?” Hot breath ghosts across Eraqus’s nose.

“Yeah,” he chuckles softly, the embers of a fire starting between his shoulder blades. Those silver eyes are so pretty up close, easily mesmerizing Eraqus.

Xehanort helps the boy back to his feet, but as he does, there’s a disturbance that tugs the teacher’s attention to the far side of the room.

“Shhh!” Vor hisses. She and Bragi are in the middle of harassing the other two, ushering the unwitting pair towards the door.

“Hey!” Eraqus exclaims, starting for their friends. “What are you guys—”

His steps halt when the grasp on his hand doesn’t release. With caution, he looks back at his fingers, still linked with Xehanort’s. His eyes trail up the opposite arm to the boy’s face, who refuses to make eye contact. Still, there’s the faintest dust of pink across his nose.

“Show me that one again,” he murmurs.

It doesn’t matter that Hermod and Urd are protesting or that Bragi and Vor are shushing them; absolutely nothing in this moment could tear Eraqus’s attention away from Xehanort. Without a word, he resets his stance, nudging Xehanort to take the lead.

It’s a little strange to be playing the girl’s part in such a formal dance—having been unwillingly taught to be a leader his whole life—but Eraqus ignores discipline. The lesson forsaken, he lets his body react to the signals Xehanort gives while his mind soaks in this little bit of bliss.

Having long forgotten their lesson, the pair slow dances for some time before Xehanort speaks with a crooked grin, “I told you they were up to something?”

Eraqus laughs in response. “Do you think we should tell them we’re already dating?”

“Nah, this is more entertaining. Besides, they deserve a little suffering for trying to meddle. Bunch of conniving foxes, all of them.”

“Us too?”

“Especially you.”

“Me?”

A spark shining in silver eyes expresses that adoration Eraqus used to confuse for less amorous feelings. Knowing what he does now, that look makes him feel so light.

“Hiding all your talent behind that clown mask.” Xehanort’s words hold insult on the surface, but beneath them, in that husky tone, is that admiration. “The skill, smarts, wit…all on top of just how damn gorgeous you are.”

Heat surges into Era’s ears. Afraid of turning into a real clown, he let’s his gaze fall to their feet. However, at the insistence of the hand at his back, the gap between them closes. His brain stutters briefly before the calm washes over him. The warmth against his cheek, the steady heartbeat against his ear—Eraqus soaks in this incredible comfort.

While the music floats through the air, the boys continue to softly sway. This would never fly at the banquet; they’re expected to be polite gentlemen and dance with all the girls—that and Eraqus’s parents would never condone this. He’s supposed to be a proper heir who will continue the family line. Xehanort though, he makes it so easy to forget those responsibilities. Besides, they’re perfectly alone right now, no prying eyes, no forbidding parents; the only thing Eraqus has to do right now is enjoy the moment.

“It’s getting late,” Eraqus murmurs, noting the moon lighting their tranquility. “I didn’t even get to teach you Scala’s traditional dance.”

“Now you decide to be responsible?” the other teases. “Why dance at the banquet tomorrow when we can dance here all night long?”

That brings a flutter to Era’s heart and, from the sounds of it, Xe’s too. “You know the Master is still gonna expect us to be there.”

“So what?”

This boy could make every one of Eraqus’s fake smiles real, all with very little effort. “For once I won’t be the biggest fool in the room, not when you don’t even know the basic step of the Choros Lucis.”

“Oh you’re still a fool; you just happen to be a fool with fancy feet.”

“I guess that’ll make us just a couple of fools on the dancefloor, huh?”

“Sure, but probably not because of the dancing.”

Confused, Eraqus lifts his head. His question dies on his lips, sentenced by a simple kiss that awakens an avarice in the boy. His hands leave their positions, snagging silver hair and preventing any escape Xehanort may have considered. This is everything he’s ever wanted; his whole life, he’s been starved for this unconditional affection. It swells so strongly in his chest he might burst—with a scream, with tears, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s in love.

For a while, the taller boy indulges him, but does eventually manage to break away, smirking at the resulting pout.

“That’s why we’re fools.”

#eraqus #xehanort #young xehanort #young eraqus #xehaqus

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floraone · 4 years

Photo

So, September is coming up, and with it smutember, and we’re doing it again! (At least I hope you’re with me, lol).

Just like last year, it runs alongside to the official daily word prompts on the official smutember blog: Smutember is an event that runs all throughout September for all fandoms. The following is meant as an addition, not a replacement. If you want to do daily prompts, please use the official words prompts (linked above). However, since daily prompts can be a bit intimidating (especially for a fandom corner that’s 25+ years old like ours and people in it have busy lives), as the resident smut advocate in our fandom, I again customized an alternative that can still incorporate the official themes.

Just like last year, down below you have a list of TROPE AND THEME PROMPTS. They’re a remix of sorts of last year’s tropes, with some you’ve seen before and some new ones, meant to spark a variety of ideas. The idea is that with these you can post once (or twice) per week instead of daily.

Be it for fanart or fanfic or any other sort of fanwork, tropes can be combined, (and they can be combined with the daily themes too), whatever floats your boat. Also, specifically: This event isn’t Usamamo-centric only. I will reblog any Sailor Moon content of any pairing as long as it follows the rules! (See below)

The aim of this event is to create sex-positive content together that celebrates a healthy depiction of consentual sexuality. Erotic fanfiction is a beautiful art, especially in a fandom of ours so largely cultivated by women and for women, as well as a strong inclusive focus on queer and gender-queer content and their creators!

What’s new: I’m taking a page out of the mini-bang’s impressive book, and when smutember is over, I will compile all entries that followed the rules into an online-only e-zine! This also means that art that may be too explicit for tumblr can still be included in the e-zine!

Here are the weekly trope challenges:

Reinvent a trope!

WEEK 1 (September 1st - 7th): Pick 1 or 2

🍋 Reunion Sex 🍋 Sex Fails 🍋 Second Chance Sex 🍋 You Talk In Your Sleep 🍋 Unresolved Sexual Tension 🍋 New Old Flame 🍋 Go Seduce My Archnemesis 🍋 Bedsharing 🍋 Sex with the Ex/Break-Up Sex 🍋 In Public

WEEK 2 (September 8th - 14th): Pick 1 or 2

🍋 Make-Up Sex 🍋 Battle Couple 🍋 Mission Sex 🍋 Work-Out Sex 🍋 Accidental Pervert 🍋 Bathing/Shower 🍋 Pool/Onsen 🍋 Sexual Fantasies 🍋 Blind Date 🍋 Aroused By Your____ (pick a feature)

WEEK 3 (September 15th - 21st): Pick 1 or 2

🍋 Established Relationship 🍋 “Thank God We’re Alive” 🍋 Caught In The Act 🍋 First Times 🍋 Introduction By Hook-Up 🍋 Pining 🍋 Locked In Together In A Small Space/ Trapped Together 🍋 Huddling For Warmth 🍋 Socially Distanced Sex 🍋 Stupid Sexy Friend 🍋 Caught In The Rain 🍋 Living Food Platter/Eating Off You 🍋 Shunga

WEEK 4 (September 22nd - 30th): Pick 1 or 2

🍋 Mutual Masturbation 🍋 Awkward/Clumsy Sex 🍋 Oh Crap There’s Fanfic Of Us 🍋 Talking In Bed 🍋 Fidelity Test 🍋 Fake-NOT-Dating 🍋 Mindlink 🍋 Sex Games 🍋 Tinder 🍋 Blackout/Quarantine/Disaster Warning/Weathering The Storm

RULES

1. Rating: These fics don’t necessarily need to be M or, in the case of Ao3, E- rated. Obviously, they are very, very welcome to be explicit for this event, but you can also go T-rated and stay in lime or ‘blacked out’-territory if you’re uncomfortable with writing explicit scenes! Both is perfectly and absolutely welcome! This of course also goes for fanart - your fanart may depict sexy scenes, but does NOT have to be explicit! (It can, though! Be aware that for tumblr’s guidelines, when sharing your art first, you may have to clip your images as a sort of preview. The original can then be sent to me privately to include into the e-zine!) 2. Minimum Age of Characters: Since this is a community event, if you do go explicit M rated material: age them up where necessary! So that everyone can be comfortable writing and reading these, let them be 18 at the minimum if they’re going to openly and explicitly wohoo. (16-17 is the global average age of consent worldwide, and also the average age for first sex among girls in many western countries. However, since most fanfic readers are located in the US, where the age of consent is 18, we’re going with 18 so that everyone can be comfortable reading!) If you go for canon fics at a time they are below this age, where you do not want to age up (say you’re going for an episode fix!) please stay in T territory for this event. 3. Off limits: Depictions of sexual acts that contain harmful, violent and non-consenting behaviour with non-consenting individuals (or those that aren’t able to consent, for instance because of their age, or state of mind among else!). If it doesn’t fly by law or the ICD in real life, please refrain from depicting it in the context of this event. This means that dubcon and noncon will not be reblogged for the event, so that people can be safely consuming the content without being triggered. All content will be screened in this regard, and I may contact you regarding trigger warnings. This is not at all to censor content, or that this content is in any form less valid (as long as it is properly tagged and not including characters that aren’t of age), but simply to ensure a safe environment for everyone reading. 4. Tag your triggers. Except the aforementioned limitation of harmful content, nothing is off limits. Explore your kinks! But if you write something that might be offensive to your readers, please tag it. This is ALSO a good way for your readers to find exactly what they ARE looking for! On Ao3 this can be done directly on the fic tags, for FF fics and fic links you can do it here on Tumblr via the fic post tags or in ANs. This is in consideration of your readers. 5. You can obviously post art for this event too. All previous rules apply here, as well. Unfortunately, Tumblr is now against tasteful nudity. That doesn’t mean you can’t link to a deviant art or similar account though, should you want to. And, since this year will include an e-zine at the end of it, all art will still be included fully in it. Here too, please tag your triggers. If you still want to post art on Tumblr, choose a T rated image - clip them where needed, or keep them (semi-)clothed, show us a heated kiss, etc! (Obviously we would love ALL the art and the nude body is a beautiful, wonderful thing, but obviously Tumblr doesn’t agree with us anymore!) 6. Have fun! Celebrate sexuality in an open, sex-positive way with us, try to be unapologetic about your likes while you write this, and appreciate the beauty that comes in the form of content with a largely female-gazing creator-base and audience! Smut in fanfiction has been beautifully put as the subjectification of sexuality (as opposed to objectification). So let’s celebrate this art form together! 7. Reviews: No one is forced to review. It can be uncomfortable to review a fic that contains sexual acts for any number of always valid reasons. Keep in mind, however, that much like a Burlesque dancer on stage, putting out sexual content can also be very intimidating to an author, and nothing is more discouraging than silence when baring yourself to an audience like this. That being said: Both Ao3 and FF have the option to review in anon mode. That means you have the option to remain anonymous while cheering the author on all the same. Just like the Burlesque dancer, your resident smut authors prefer to go on stage to loud cheering - it makes it all less awkward for them, and feels a little more like a big celebration!

If you’re unsure what sex positivity entails and want to read up, I wrote a post about it here.

This event is not supposed to cause harm. This means that I will screen all content before I reblog it here, and include it in the e-zine. So that everyone of age can feel safe reading the fanworks in the event, dubcon and noncon will not be reblogged and included in the e-zine, and accurate tagging and content warning will be watched. This does NOT MEAN that you cannot post this material: your own desire to write it and someone else’s desire to explicitly read this material are valid. I do not entitle myself to censor. It just means it will not be reblogged and shared through the event so that everyone may feel safe to read to the best of my ability. (But, of course, remember that I, too, might be biased, and not discover subtle forms of it, either. We’re all, in the end, a product of our upbringing and society, and I cannot be completely unbiased.)

During the event, I will be posting all Sailor Moon Smutember contributions in this format on my blog if you @ me to the post.

The official hashtag for the event is #smutember2020 hosted by the official smutember blog. Using it helps people find the content who search for it as well as those who wish to block it!

#smutember2020 #smutember sailor moon fandom #smutember usamamo fandom corner #smutember2020 rules #Spread the word!

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kumeko · 4 years

Photo

A/N: For the Kidge zine (2) that got cancelled sadly! Look at me, practicing AUs!

…

Keith always had a plan. It might not be entirely idiot-proof (working with Lance had proven that), but it was always solid and well-thought-out. Today was no exception—he’d break into the Lion Castle, steal the comet fragments hidden inside the tallest spire, and escape without leaving a trace.

Well, realistically, he’d have to fight off a guard or two at least. Nothing ever went entirely according to plan and if he was honest, Lance wasn’t the only hothead in his guild.

Still, things were going smoothly so far. He slipped into the castle in the dead of night, between rounds of patrols. Weaving his way through the shadows, he found a narrow staircase leading up the spire and, even better, ledges outside the tower that made it easy for him to scale all the way to the top floor. Inside the room, there was a single box on a single table, almost as though the Alteans were daring him to steal it.

As his hand rested on the box, he paused. This was too easy, even for a mission without Lance. Keith glanced in the direction of the door but it was impossible to see through it and at the soldier standing guard outside. The lone torch in the room flickered and Keith shrugged off his suspicions. There was nowhere for anyone to hide in here. Maybe the Alteans hadn’t realized just how valuable this comet fragment was.

Quickly, he pulled out a small black bag as he opened the box. Once he’d secured the comet—

The box was empty.

Keith always had a plan but it never accounted for someone stealing the comet before him. Dumbfounded, he stared at the black velvet lining the box, blinking as he processed what he saw. “The fu—”

As though to punctuate his swear, a building exploded just outside the window.

-x-

“Woah!” Pidge screamed, falling backwards from the shockwave of the explosion. She covered her ears, but it was too late; all she could hear was ringing. Dimly, she was aware the Hunk was yelling something, but he was always yelling and she could make a good guess about what it was. Knowing him, he was pointing at the ceiling. Or rather, where the ceiling used to be. Lying on her dorm floor, she stared up at the night sky.

Well. That was a first. Her experiments sometimes got out of hand, but this was the first time she’d destroyed part of a building. Her floormates were going to kill her. It had been bad enough that she had burned her hair the last time her spell got out of hand and set off the fire alarm. At least they’d started talking to her in class again after a week. This? She was going to get shunned permanently.

“Oh god, you’re going to get expelled,” Hunk moaned, his voice slowly rising with each word. “I’m going to get expelled. I told you we shouldn’t have done this but nooo, you just had to do it. You just had to figure out what that stupid rock was for before anyone else could.”

“I didn’t think it’d be that powerful,” Pidge grunted, sitting up. She almost wished her hearing hadn’t come back. Rubbing an ear, she gestured at the sparkling rock that lay on the floor in front of her. “I thought it’d just amplify our powers a little.”

“If it wasn’t powerful, it wouldn’t have been locked up,” Hunk hissed in response. He paced back and forth on the floor, cradling his head in his hands. “You don’t think they’ll make us pay for all of this? I can’t afford this.”

A high-pitched siren sounded, cutting off the rest of his rant and Pidge jumped to her feet. “Oh shit.”

“The intruder alarms? But those—” Hunk turned to her, horror dawning on his face. “What’d you do?”

“They must have found the people I knocked out.” Pidge darted to the door, poking her head out. “No one’s outside.”

“You knocked out people?” Incredulous, Hunk stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Who are you?”

“Hey, it was heavily guarded!” Pidge scowled. Closing the door behind her, she stepped into the center of the room and stared up at the ceiling. “We must have a spell that could fix that.”

“What’re you going to do, grow your vines?” Hunk scoffed, crossing his arms. “We can’t hide this. There’s an alarm sounding because everyone knows what we did.”

“I just want to make it look a little less bad.” Pidge bit her lip, squinting up at the broken rafters. They had to have learned a spell in class about construction. Maybe if she checked her notes, she could find it. “Just something so we don’t actually get expelled.”

“It’s way too late for that,” Hunk sighed, burying his face in his hands.

Pidge rolled her eyes. If she wanted to get anything done, she had to get rid of him. “Yeah, yeah, you just go keep watch, I’ll figure something out.” She pushed him insistently toward the door.

“Watch?” Hunk looked over his shoulder at her but didn’t fight the movement.

“Yeah, so no one catches me. Just give me a heads up if anyone comes to check.” Pulling open the door, she pushed Hunk outside quickly. “I’ll go make it less noticeable.”

“This is a stupid idea,” Hunk grumbled, but he started walking toward the staircase anyways. “So very stupid—”

Not waiting to hear the rest of his rant, Pidge quickly closed the door shut. Okay, she just had to find the right spell and hide the comet and then they could figure out the rest tomorrow. A good night’s sleep could cure anything, even certain expulsion.

“So this is where it was?”

Pidge froze at the stranger’s voice. Was it a guard? Already? She turned around, silently cursing herself. So much for Hunk’s alarm. “I can explain.”

“No need.” In the middle of the room stood a strange man, dressed entirely in form-fitting black. There were small pouches on his pants, daggers nestled in them, and the only thing visible was his face. His really pretty face. The moonlight shone down on him through the hole in the ceiling, revealing his mop of black hair, annoyed expression, and dark eyes. As she gawked, he crouched and grabbed the stone. “I can guess what happened but I don’t really care.”

Well, that didn’t sound like any of the guards she knew. Not that he looked like one of them either. There wasn’t a patch to indicate his position in the academy either. Besides, she would remember a face like that. “You’re not a guard.”

The stranger snorted, sending her an “obviously” response. Opening a black pouch, he slipped the stone inside and Pidge realized two things at one: 1) he was the reason for the alarms and 2) he was stealing the stone.

The stone that she’d worked very hard to steal. The stone, which when gone, would definitely guarantee her and Hunk’s expulsion. As he turned away, she ran across the room and pounced, trying to rip the bag out of his hand. He smoothly stepped to the side, avoiding her, and she crashed to the floor. “Hey!” she growled. “Give that back!”

“Why should I?” he retorted childishly.

“Why?” she snarled, holding out a hand. Pidge had never really been one for rash decisions but this was a desperate time and desperate times called for desperate measures. Magic pulsated out of her as she shouted, “Recipero!”

The stone ripped out of the bag and hurtled to her waiting hand. As it came closer and closer, Pidge realized with horror, the stone wasn’t slowing down. She tensed, trying to move out of the way, but her body was frozen.

The stone hit her hand and she blacked out.

-x-

Keith gingerly kicked the unconscious woman at his feet. Maybe he should have expected the spells—the castle did have a famous magic school attached to it. There were bound to be at least some skilled mages here. “Hey,” he called out, but the girl didn’t so much as stir. He wasn’t too surprised; the stone hit her hand pretty hard. She must have passed out from all the pain.

Quickly, he crouched next to her and grabbed her hand. Her fingers were loosely wrapped around the stone, as though to protect it from him, and he had to admire that tenacity. Gently, he pried open her fingers, revealing the sparkling comet shard beneath.

A comet shard that didn’t look so much on her skin as embedded. He grabbed it, trying to pull it free, but the rock refused to budge. What the hell kind of spell did she do? Whatever admiration he had was instantly replaced with irritation; it wasn’t like his plans today had enough issues as it was, without dealing with this. Maybe he could pry it free with his knife—no, it could kill her and while he was a thief, Keith wasn’t a murderer. At least, not for unsuspecting students who did not sign up for guard duty.

“Pidge! They’re coming!” a man shouted in the hallway.

Alert, Keith picked up the sound of dozens of boots stomping up the stairs. The guards must have caught onto him. Or maybe onto her—that explosion was pretty big. Either way, he didn’t have time to figure this out. One last futile tug on the rock and Keith sighed heavily. The hard way it was, then.

Without hesitation, he slung the woman over his shoulders like a potato sack. He’d have to figure out what to do with her after he’d escaped.

-x-

“Huhhh?” Pidge blinked as she stared at a black fabric, her face pressed against it and some hard substance behind it. She was moving somewhere, she could feel it with every bump. Where? Why? She was in her room, last she remembered. Experimenting with the shard—

Pidge gasped, remembering what had happened. Turning her head, she realized she was outdoors, it was midday, and that black fabric was the back of someone’s shirt. The thief’s shirt, she was certain. “You’re a kidnapper too?” she shouted, struggling to get off him. She tried to kick her feet but his grip was too strong. Resorting to her fists, she hit his back as hard as she could. “Let me go!”

“Hey! Cut it out!” The thief grunted when she got a particularly hard jab in and dropped her to the ground.

Pidge groaned as she rolled on the gravel pathway. She should have thought that out more. Rolling onto her back, she rubbed her head. Something hard pressed against her skin and she raised her hand to look at it. The comet shard stared back. “Wait, what?” She had to be seeing things, right? Why did she still have it and why did her hand hurt so much?

“Hey? You okay?” The thief crouched next to her, worriedly examining her head, and damn, now that he was close, he looked even prettier.

Prettier but evil, definitely evil, she thought, and she swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.” She pulled herself up to a sitting position slowly. Her hand hurt a lot and she looked at it once more. “Is it just me or is there a rock in my skin?”

“Yeah…” The thief stared at her. “What did you do?”

“I…” Pidge furrowed her brows, remembering the last spell she’d called. Recipero. A simple spell, really, except she’d accidentally mispronounced it in the heat of the moment. It was more of a Ree-see-prohh instead of Ree-sip-roh. And sounds could change entire spells into something different. “I think I miscast a spell.”

“Great.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can you undo it?”

“…uh…I’m not sure.” Pidge winced. She should never have stolen the stupid rock in the first place.

“Even better.” The thief bit his cheek, looking back in the direction they’d come from. Following his gaze, Pidge realized she didn’t even recognize the part of the path they were on. Just how far had he managed to travel?

“Uh, where are we?” she asked, studying the trees around her. They weren’t native to the castle grounds.

“Near Galra,” the thief answered absentmindedly, still pondering his next move.

Galra. As in Altea’s enemy and neighbouring country. As in a place she definitely could get killed because they were hostile to outsiders. Pidge’s legs felt wobbly.

Standing up, the thief said, “Okay, I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Right. Help.” Pidge was the top of her class, great with theory, getting better with practical applications. She was many things, but this was not a situation she was equipped for.

“Here.” The thief held out a hand. “You can walk, right?”

She stared at his hand blankly for a moment before grabbing it. “Yeah.”

“Great. We have a long walk ahead of us.” He pulled her to her feet. “Don’t make me tie you up.”

Well, even if she could run (she had terrible stamina), there was nowhere to go. Yet. But wherever they were going potentially had cities along the way and near Galra wasn’t in Galra. Not yet. Pidge could escape, if she bided her time.

She smiled nervously. “Gotcha.”

All she had to do was be patient.

#keith #pidge #katie holt #kidge #voltron #hunk #fanfic

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betterdaysareatoenailaway · 4 years

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Sleep Tight For Me...I’m Gone

Lately I’ve been writing these Better Days Are A Toenail Away™️ posts in Microsoft Word, selecting all and changing the font to Garamond, which is so readable and beautiful, and posting the Word docs, paragraphs by paragraph, inside these Tumblr drafts. It makes things look nice, to my old fashioned sensibilities, but fixing errors is a time-consuming and needlessly convoluted four-step process.

First, I have to copy, then delete the paragraph containing the error. Then I open the doc. and paste the error-ridden paragraph back into Word. After I find and fix the error, I need to save it and copy and paste it back into the post. It's time-consuming because I’m not just copying a paragraph. As you can see from more recent post, what I copied looked more like a photograph of the paragraph, not the words themselves written in Tumblr’s default font Arial. For an example of this, see below. I like the way it looks like old newspaper clippings. I posted an article about how my fent dealer John Smith kept getting robbed, and had resorted to putting a machete in front of his front door as a way of preventing this, a lever of sorts, which is plainly visible in the video I posted,

So today I’ve given up on trying to make my posts look like books or zines, and have given into the Tumblr font, which is about as pretty as a horse with his snout shot off.

There are two much longer posts I’m working on right now, one about Nirvana and one about Soundgarden, respectively, and how both bands were very unlike their public perception, but those posts are taking a lot of work so I’m putting them on the backburner because today is some dumbass corporation’s day where it tries to synthesize mental health and profit and the end result is as baldly capitalist and clumsy as you would expect.

I’m not gonna name the company, or repeat their stupid fucking slogan. As far as I can tell (which isn't very far), talking about my trauma has never made me feel better. And in fact it has sometimes made me feel worse, because in telling you what hurts and scares me, I’ve given a part of myself away that I can’t get back. When you’re like me, and you’ve lost everything multiple times, sometimes the only form of power you have is how you choose, or do not choose, to tell your story. And in a world where everybody wants to tell “their truth,” silence is power.

You don’t get to know me, sorry. I’m not gonna hand you my life, both my bad and good experiences, and conclude: “Welp, that’s why I’m so fucked up. Case closed.”

Honestly, I used to be a little confused, or miffed that my former partner (who is an amazing person btw, in every respect) almost never spoke about some of the traumatic things she’d experienced in her past. I took it as a sign that she either didn’t trust me, or she didn’t think I would be a sympathetic listener, or the mere fact of my gender precluded her from sharing because I couldn’t truly understand what it was she had gone through. It’s not like I ever asked her to talk about it, but I did say, once or twice, “hey if you ever wanna talk about that stuff, I’m around.” She never took me up on it, and I let it go.

But as I watched her, and saw her life unfold, over the years we spent together, I began to realize I wasn’t exactly in any position to be telling her how to live her life or how to be mentally healthy. After all, she has found success in a number of avenues, both creative and occupational, and I’ve found neither. I'm not saying the fact that she didn't talk much about her trauma is the reason for her success. I'm saying that she's forged a better path through life than I have, and maybe I should take a cue from that.

She never told me what to do, per se. It was more like living by example. But because I’m pretty dense, and a severe addict, our time together actually sorta reminds me now of that Cornell lyric from his first record: She’s going to change the world. But she can’t change me.

I have certainly found that talking about how shitty my life is only makes me feel more shitty, not free, or unburdened, or better. If you wanna talk about your problems, and you find it helpful, more power to you. Just don’t wait for a corporation to tell you it’s okay to not be okay.

When Chris Cornell died I was so shocked. Of all the grunge icons he seemed the most stable, and he'd survived the rise and fall of two major label rock bands. If anyone had survived the media machine that chewed up and spat out Staley, Cobain, and to a lesser extent Andrew Wood and Shannon Hoon, it was Cornell. He would be the last guy to support hashtag activism like #StarbucksMyLifeSucks. Chris Cornell actually loved to fuck with the best laid plans of corporate rats. Molson once had a few promotional concerts in Tuktoyaktuk, Northwest Territories, called Molson Canadian Rocks Arctic, with both Hole and Soundgarden playing to a crowd of flown-in grunge fans and bemused locals. But the whole anti-corporate thing grunge was known for actually came through when Courtney Love told the crowd she “use[d] Molson Canadian to douche.” Lol. Here’s a photo of Love arriving in Tuktoyatuk.

Cornell told the same people “so we’re here because of some beer company? Labatt’s?” Both artists’ jabs are funny. Cornell’s was a bit more subtle, but that’s what Cornell was like.

So today’s post is about Chris Cornell’s suicide, more specifically the media’s reaction to it. For whatever reason, when Cornell died, every single news outlet, from CNN to Fox to CBC, posted “Black Hole Sun,” as if it’s the only song he ever fucking wrote, or – and this is far worse – the only song he wrote that’s worth hearing. The problem with this is more than twofold or threefold. It's fucking hydraheaded.

Not only is “Black Hole Sun” a mediocre piece of music, it’s a complete misrepresentation of Soundgarden’s sound.

Now, I’m a huge fan of the A.V. Club series HateSong, in which public figures gleefully talk shit about the one song they hate more than any other song in the world. The Max Bemis (Say Anything) one where he talks about Nirvana’s “Rape Me” as a terrible rewrite of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” is terrific, but comedian Anthony Jeselnik’s HateSong takes “Black Hole Sun” apart, and I love it. I think the best line is: I think the more I hear it, the worse it gets. AVC: After the song became a huge hit, Chris Cornell said that he’d written it in about 15 minutes. AJ: I totally believe that. I don’t believe that Soundgarden likes that song. Like, I remember Eminem once said that he knew his song “My Name Is” was going to be a huge hit because the first time he heard it he was annoyed. It’s something about an annoying song that just grabs onto people. But I don’t think that anyone likes “Black Hole Sun.” I’ve never heard of anyone who likes it. I don’t understand why it gets played so much. It’s become a summer jam, and it’s not a summer song at all. Jeselnik is right that Soundgarden didn’t think much of the song. Guitarist Kim Thayil wasn’t kidding when he disparagingly called it the “Dream On” of their live show. And Cornell himself, known for a meticulous approach to his songwriting, had admitted that with “Black Hole Sun”was “probably the closest to me just playing with words for words’ sake, of anything I’ve written. I guess it worked for a lot of people who heard it, but I have no idea how you'd begin to take that one literally.” I mean it’s obvious from the opening lines that Cornell is just playing with words and how they sound: in my eyes/indisposed/in disguises no one knows What songs would have been more appropriate for Cornell’s untimely death? Glad you asked! Cuz there’s like…fucking at least ten that would have been better. I’m not tryna be one of those “the deep album cuts are better maaaaaan,” but with Soundgarden, it happens to be true. With some bands, the single are their best work. With other bands, the singles are the hors d’oeuvres for the entrees. So what deep cuts would have celebrated Cornell’s death a bit better? Well, to begin with, Superunknown’s strange and stately closer “Like Suicide” would have worked, for obvious reasons.

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“Tighter and Tighter,” a song that is actually about the moment of death and what it might feel like, is one of my all-time fav Soundgarden songs. Not only is it a creepy and prescient prediction of what Cornell’s death by hanging himself may have felt like, it’s opening line is a good description of the personification of death: Shadow face/Blowing smoke and talking wind

Another sample lyric: “A sucking holy wind will take me from this bed tonight/and bloody wits another hits me and I have to say goodbye/sleep tight for me, I’m gone/and I hope it’s a sweet ride/here for me tonight/cuz I’m feel I’m going/feel I’m slowing down.”

The morning after Cornell’s death hit the news my buddy and bandmate James told me that en route to work his phone, which was playing music randomly through his car speakers, landed on “Tighter and Tighter” and he had to pull over because he was tearing up.

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“Fell On Black Days” is another song about depression and mortality. Cornell had the following to say about the song: “Fell on Black Days” was like this ongoing fear I’ve had for years ... It's a feeling that everyone gets. You're happy with your life, everything’s going well, things are exciting—when all of a sudden you realize you’re unhappy in the extreme, to the point of being really, really scared. There's no particular event you can pin the feeling down to, it's just that you realize one day that everything in your life is fucked!

Now, if that’s not a cogent and even-tempered explanation of suicidal thoughts, what is? Why else would Cornell have admitted to being “really really scared” by his depression unless he knew what that depression could ultimately leasd to? Here’s some lyrics to “Fell on Black Days.” Dig the high literary use of “whomsoever” and “whatsoever.” Whatsoever I’ve feared has come to life Whatsoever I fought off became my life Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile sunspots have faded and now I’m doing time cuz I fell on black days

Whomsoever I’ve cured I’ve sickened now Whomsoever I’ve cradled...I put you down I’m a searchlight soul they say but I can’t see it in the night I’m only faking when I get it right I sure don’t mind a change but I fell on black days how would I know that this could be my fate?

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Eagle-eared listeners might think this version different from the album version. They are right. The rendition in the video was recorded live off the floor @ Bad Animals, the Seattle studio owned by Heart, where Soundgarden would record Down on the Upside.

“Boot Camp” is a scary meditation about loss of agency that for years was tied with Zeppelin’s “I'm Gonna Crawl” for Creepiest Song to Cap a Discography, until Soundgarden reunited and released King Animal.

“Taree” is about ghost light, influencing events after dying and features Cornell’s most exhausted, convincing “yeah” @ 2:57.

“Applebite” is a Matt Cameron-penned ponderous clunker about Adam’s original expulsion from Eden. Doomy and death-laden.

“Let Me Drown” is a song about letting someone die.

“The Day I Tried To Live” is frequently cited as Soundgarden’s finest achievement, its odd time signature somehow sounds straight, thanks to Matt Cameron’s brilliant time keeping.

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“4th of July” is a song about a post apocalyptic urban landscape, where the speaker isn’t sure whether he is seeing fireworks or bombs.

“Limo Wreck” is a cool death song and has an eerie 9-11 prediction. “Building the towers belongs to the sky/when the whole thing comes crashing down don’t ask me why.”

ANY of the above songs would have been better than that fucking asinine dirge-like major key fuckaround that has somehow not just become Soundgarden's signature song...but their ONLY song.

Does nobody remember Johnny Cash covering “Rusty Cage?”

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“Outshined?”

“Burden In My Hand?”

“Blow Up The Outside World?”

Did none of these other songs get stuck in the electric head? (The electric head is Rob Zombie’s term for the technologically advanced culture we have found ourselves enmeshed in, or imprisoned by. It was the subtitle for White Zombie’s 1995 hit album Astro-Creep 2000: Songs of Love, Destruction, and other Synthetic Delusions of the Electric Head.)

For my money (which ain’t much honey), the song that best fits both Cornell’s artistic integrity and the sad circumstances of his suicide is “Tighter and Tighter.” I once wrote a whole article on the way artists use “yeah” as a placeholder or as a way to convey emotion when words themselves aren’t adequate. Dig that tired, world-weary exhausted “yeah” at 5:35 of “Tighter & Tighter.”

Or the creepy line going into the first chorus: remember this...remember everything’s just black or burning sun. Not that I agree with such a bleak worldview. It’s a writer’s line. And Randy Bachman has said, “when you’re a writer, you’d step over your own mother.” That’s the Cornell I want to remember. Not that he would step over his own mother. By all accounts he was a committed family man. I mean, I want to remember the Cornell who created strange atmospheric sonic worlds, who explored the dark side that sadly, eventually won out. His otherworldly beautiful music is what I choose to remember about Chris Cornell, not his estate tastelessly exploiting “Black Hole Sun” by using a line from the song to title a posthumous Cornell album of covers No One Sings Like You Anymore. Sigh.

First Cornell’s widow said this was “Chris’s last album.” Okay. What about the Soundgarden songs he recorded vocals for before he died? Kim Thayil was pretty diplomatic about it when asked recently. Cornell did record vocal tracks for the follow up to King Animal.

Kim Thayil: “Given our love for Chris, I do not see us reconfiguring without him.”

But he makes it clear in this interview that Cornell’s widow Vicky has those tracks and won’t release them to the band. Maybe because she blames the band for Chris dying that night? She’s not wrong to believe that they would have known, and seen, what kind of shape Cornell was in, at least at the venue, maybe not later at the hotel.

Kim Thayil: “It’s entirely possible that a new Soundgarden album will be released. Certainly. All it would need is to take the audio files that are available. I tighten up the guitars. Ben does the bass. We get the producers we want to make it sound like a Soundgarden record.”

Interviewer: “Is there an obstacle stopping that?”

Kim Thayil: “There shouldn’t be. There really isn’t. Other than the fact that we don’t have those files.”

Interviewer: “They’re not under your auspices?”

Kim Thayil: “Right. It would be ridiculous if [the record wasn’t made]. But these are difficult things. Partnerships and...property.”

You’re just gonna keep those wav files? And why title his covers album Volume 1 if it’s his “last album?”

Oh right. $$$

No one does sing like Cornell, but is “Black Hole Sun” really the best thing he ever did? The best song he ever sang? Should an album of covers be the last thing he gives to the world?

The only honest answer is no.

Sleep tight Chris. You’re gone.

#betterdaysareatoenailaway #soundgarden #chris cornell #suicide

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i-just-love-spop · 4 years

Text

Another blood-stained shirt (trimmed-down version for zine application)

[Catradora, takes place shortly after the end of season five. Summary not included in the excerpt.]

[...]

—

Now, they were sitting on said bed, and Adora had taken off her jacket to sleep and put it onto the bed next to her. The white shirt underneath was soaked with blood.

This was bad. This was really, really bad – a lot worse than Catra had expected it to be.

“Wow, we’re really doing a great job ruining all of your white shirts with blood lately, aren’t we?”

The joke didn’t make her feel better or less stressed or worried like she’d hoped it would.

She felt awful because Adora had gotten hurt protecting her. If she’d just been more careful and watched out for her environment more, this wouldn’t have happened.

Adora did seem to find it funny, though. ...but that might be because of the concussion.

“It’s fiiine. I have, like, twenty more of these.”

Catra shook her head and gave her girlfriend a worried glance. The guilt was slowly consuming her.

“Why are you like this? You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t want you to get hurt. If I’m the one that isn’t paying attention, I should also be the one that gets hurt. Not you. After everything you’ve already been through, you of all people deserve to be happy and healthy forever. I’m sorry. I should have protected you better.”

Adora put a hand on her cheek.

“Don’t be upset, Kitty. I don’t like it when you’re upset.”

Catra smiled a little at her girlfriend’s words, but sighed at the nickname.

“You’ll never stop calling me that again, will you?”

“No, I won’t. Because you are a kitty. A cute kitty.“ Adora giggled, in a way that made it pretty clear she was kind of out of it. “My cute kitty.”

The brunette choked on whatever word she’d been wanting to say before.

‘Holy- wow.’

Adora was really something, huh?

...and Catra was doing an awful job at being a good girlfriend and treating her wounds because the blonde was so freaking distracting.

‘Damn it, I need to focus,’ she thought to herself, closing her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath so she could think clearly again.

First things first... she needed to actually see the wounds to be able to tell how grave they were and to tend to them.

“Take your shirt off.”

The sentence came out of her mouth very straightforward, and it took her a moment to realize how different that sentence sounded, especially in such a demanding voice, without knowing the intentions behind it.

‘Whoops.’

Her girlfriend gaped at her and blinked.

“...what?”

“You heard me the first time.”

Adora then gave her a smug grin and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, someone is being especially bold today...”

Catra shook her head.

‘Oh stars.’

Not only had Adora interpreted it exactly the way Catra hadn’t intended for it to sound... she’d also taken the whole thing even further.

Great.

‘Is she always like this when she‘s out of it?’

Despite everything, Adora did try to listen and take her shirt off, but the bloody fabric was stuck to her wounds, so it didn’t quite work as she’d expected it to.

She laughed.

”I think it’s fighting back. What a mean shirt.”

“Yeah, right, what a mean shirt...” Catra shook her head. She was incredibly worried – she hadn’t seen Adora this out of it since her sword had been infected. That had to be a pretty bad concussion... She thought for a moment. “Alright, medical training said if bandages are stuck to the wound, you’re supposed to use water or alcohol to dampen the dressing. This is a shirt and not a bandage, but I’m hoping it will work anyway.”

Adora beamed.

“Yay, let’s get drunk!”

Catra covered her eyes with one of her hands.

Oh stars.

“...let’s not.”

She was definitely trying water first.

—

To Catra’s relief, soaking the bloody pieces of clothing with a dampened washcloth worked relatively well and they were able to take the shirt off of her without hurting Adora further or reopening her wounds.

Catra had to force herself not to stare because holy shit her girlfriend was so beautiful, but she was also hurt and needed medical attention and that was more important than the brunette’s own need to stare at Adora all day.

Her chest was covered in bruises and her rib cage looked a little dented. That definitely wasn’t good.

Catra leaned forward to touch it carefully.

The blonde winced when her she did.

That definitely wasn’t a good sign.

Catra moved around her to look at her back, which, judging from the blood on the shirt, had definitely taken the most visible damage.

It really didn’t look very good, that much was clear from the very first glance.

The brunette’s gaze wandered down her girlfriend’s back.

She flinched when her look fell on the scars again.

Adora had a lot of scars – some from Horde-training, some from dumb accidents and some from the war... and then there were the scars Catra had left on her, that made the brunette feel sick and disgusted at herself every time she looked at them.

She looked down at her now shortened claws as she once again vowed to be better, to never ever hurt her again and to not let anyone else ever hurt her again, then took a deep breath and once again looked at the fresh wounds.

This looked bad. Really, really bad. And painful.

Catra gulped.

“You look... oh stars, you look awful.”

Adora’s back was covered in scratches and bruises, and she had an especially bad gash on her back just under her shoulder.

“Interesting statement from someone who was practically drooling all over me a few seconds ago,” her girlfriend replied with a smug grin on her face.

Catra blushed scarlet.

“I was not! ...but yeah, you’re very beautiful and I’m lucky to be dating you. I didn’t mean you look awful as in ‘I don’t find you attractive’, because I do, so much, I just meant your wounds look bad.”

Adora just grinned and started giggling.

“Awww, you called me beautiful. That’s pretty gay.”

The brunette shook her head.

“We‘re dating, you idiot.”

“Riiiight. That’s also pretty gay.” Adora beamed and kissed her, hands still wrapped around her when they separated. And damn, the way she looked at her... Catra would never ever get used to this – and she didn’t want to, because she wanted that nice, tingling feeling in her stomach that she got when her girlfriend looked at her like she was her entire world to never go away. “You’re pretty. And gay. And pretty.”

The blonde was all over her lap now.

Catra was losing her mind. It was great, but it also wasn’t, because she really, really needed to focus on patching up Adora right now.

“Yeah, and you’re a dumbass, and injured, and stars it’s really hard to focus on treating you when you’re half naked and all over me!” She kissed her forehead, then took a deep breath. “Princess, listen, you’re amazing and I could spend all day looking at you and hugging you and kissing you for all eternity and I would be happy! ...but you’re also hurt. Really, really hurt. And I’m worried about you. Please let me take you to see a healer, and if you don’t want that, at least let me take care of your wounds.”

Her ears flattened. She hated seeing the love of her life this hurt.

“I don’t need healers, and there’s no need for you to patch me up!” Adora replied and laughed. The laughing made her ribs hurt and she winced a bit. “I don’t get hurt! And even if I do, She-Ra fixes me up again immediately! Let me show you!” She reached up into the air. “For the-”

Catra caught her hand and intertwined it with her own before the girl could touch the sword.

The hand-holding was enough to make her girlfriend blush and shut up because she was so amazed at it for some reason.

It was kind of cute.

“No, we’re not doing that.” It might have worked, but if it didn’t, the last thing she needed right now was for the girl with the bad concussion to have a sword and magic that she could accidentally destroy the palace with. “...but you’re kind of right. Shouldn’t She-Ra have healed these wounds already? She usually does that, doesn’t she?”

From the very little things she knew and remembered about the events on Prime’s ship – not that she wanted to remember more, because thinking of anything related to him still made her blood run cold –, she was pretty sure she’d overheard Adora saying something to Glimmer about how she might have broken both her legs but that they’d healed when she turned into She-Ra. So why hadn’t her wounds just healed now? That was strange, and worrying.

“I think She-Ra is a little woozy.” Adora laughed. “That’s me! I’m She-Ra!”

Catra groaned.

“...no kidding.”

Adora was completely out of it.

That was definitely a severe concussion, on top of what Catra guessed from the looks of it was at least two broken ribs – although the fact that she had the concussion and that she was so out of it maybe did explain why her wounds hadn’t healed yet.

“How are you feeling?”

She was really worried, but Adora didn’t seem to be feeling much pain at the moment.

The blonde just snuggled against her and yawned.

“Tired. But you’re warm and fluffy and that’s nice. You’re amazing, did you know that? Everyone come look at my girlfriend, she’s amazing!” Catra blushed again. Stars, why was Adora this cute when she was woozy? “I don’t wanna go see a healer right now. Can we just cuddle and go to sleep here? Please?”

The brunette sighed. Common sense told her that this wasn’t a good idea, but common sense signed off pretty quickly when she was with Adora, and especially when her girlfriend looked at her like that.

“Alright, but only if you promise me to let me take you to see a healer first thing in the morning.”

Adora nodded and snuggled against her.

“...m’kay.”

Catra kissed her forehead.

“Now let me at least bandage you up a little, and then we can go to sleep.”

The last thing the girl felt was Catra’s warm hands on her skin as she dozed off.

—

When Adora woke up again the next morning, her head was spinning and everything hurt.

“Ugh, what happened...?”

“You fought a tree. The tree won,” Catra commented immediately.

Adora groaned, the memories slowly returning to her.

“I regret everything.”

Catra rubbed her arm and kissed her cheek.

...okay, maybe she didn’t really everything. There wasn’t a single instance she had ever – or would ever – regret protecting the good she loved more than everything else in the universe combined, no matter how hurt she got in the process.

“I had a feeling you would, you idiot. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table with some pain meds, take them and we’ll take you to a healer afterwards, okay?”

“Mhm...” Adora tried to sit up and flinched. “Ow.”

Catra caught her and lowered her back onto the mattress.

“Careful, princess, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Awww, are you worried about me?” The blonde snuggled against her girlfriend. For the first time since she’d woken up, she was awake enough to actually realize how the room looked – or, more importantly, how dark it was in here and what that meant, considering the fact that the curtains were open. It was still dark outside. “Wait. It’s super early. You’re not usually up this early.”

Catra had never been a morning person. This was weird. Really, really weird.

“I’m... not, actually. I’m up late.”

Catra grinned sheepishly.

‘She hasn’t slept yet? But why would she...’

And then it dawned on Adora.

‘Oh. Oooh.’

She squeezed her girlfriend’s hand.

“You... stayed up all night watching over me?” The blonde teared up. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. There is so much I have to make up for. And even if there wasn’t...” Catra’s ears flattened. Someone had had to check on Adora every now and again to make sure her condition wasn’t worsening while she slept. Which it hadn’t, thankfully. Catra didn’t regret staying up for that. “I need you to be okay more than I need sleep.”

Screw the pain. Screw everything. Adora needed to kiss her girlfriend, immediately.

Catra was worth it. Catra had always been worth it.

Adora put her arms around her girlfriend, and when their lips met, she knew she’d never been happier in her life, broken ribs or not.

Getting to kiss the most beautiful girl in the universe was more than worth some pain and another blood-stained shirt, after all.

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mimiplaysgames · 5 years

Text

A Good Defense

Pairing: Aqua/Xemnas Rating: T Word Count: 4,996

Summary: She hasn’t been the only person in twelve years to be wasted by darkness and left to pick up the remains alone. It only takes meeting a familiar face on a dangerous stranger for her to realize this.

Read on AO3

Notes: Made for the @khrarepairszine!! Surprise, surprise, I’m sure some of you have never expected me to venture here. This was actually a cancelled fic but this zine gave me an opportunity to bring life back to it again (which is good, what I cancel always threatens me in my sleep). It was tricky writing through a slow burn in such a short amount of words but I hope it’s enjoyable! Special thanks to @lyssala for beta-reading this and holding my hand every time I was insecure about this piece. Also to my boyfriend - without him, I would have made a fool of myself.

***

Day One ~*~

“You can keep it.”

Her answer starts slow and ends with a hiss, and the enigma sitting on a tall, white throne narrows his eyes - it lasts for a mere moment, a smirk drawing on the edge of his lips and she swears he’s thinking to himself that he has something valuable.

Two can play that game.

This is their first meeting, two days after she is discovered on the banks of a beach at night, after someone gives her a black robe to wear and leather gloves to cover the red tips of her fingers, after another introduces her to a familiar face stolen by a stranger.

And he had the audacity to try and give her a new name.

“I am Master Aqua to you,” she says like there’s an expectation to introduce herself as such, and it comes out like an audio recording because after so many years it sounds weird to say. She’s seen herself in the mirror since coming here. She knows how much she’s changed.

“Master Aqua,” he repeats, slowly, as though he likes to hear himself pronounce the syllables. His smile is foreign. “What is in a name, but a powerful congruence of will and faith?”

It’s enough of an introduction and she decides she can’t stand this guy. It’s wrong, he smiles wrong and for someone who thinks so little of such things, he calls himself Xemnas; not a name that should be worn with a face like his.

Day Thirteen ~*~

He catches her wandering the castle by herself, doing nothing but avoiding everyone else - particularly him. It’s hard enough to look at his face without having ugly reminders.

“So neglectful of your commands,” he says simply.

True. She’s been traveling on her own, keeping her hood up and dropping clues to other doe-eyed Keyblade wielders on how they can free Ventus from his deep sleep.

Not because she wants them to know who she is and not because she wants to join anyone who has abandoned her. Ventus will have to suffer enough disappointment with how long she’s taken already, there’s no need to prolong it.

Either way, anything to do with Ventus trumps whatever dumb shit and other shenanigans this Organization tries to throw at her - looking for missing boxes, babysitting princesses, it goes on. Xemnas has even commanded her on a mission to retrieve Ventus from his hiding spot. Her answer: never.

“You can’t make me care about them,” she says with a click of her tongue, too lazy to shrug with both shoulders.

“The cost of such defiance is steep.” His voice is deep and it rumbles even when it sneaks, startling and unnerving like a candle being snuffed out.

It doesn’t take a day to understand what Xemnas is capable of, and immediately she stiffens to prepare an attack, battle tactics and back-up plans coursing through her mind in case he pulls out his sabers against her. She’s still a force to be reckoned with, and he’s an idiot if he’s feeling testy.

Still… It’s not something a face like his would ever say to her. Should ever say. She wants to lunge forward and slap him, lose control and pull the real him out of his body, give him one thousand long lectures about what it was like to wait for him in the darkness, to chase him around worlds, to spend years worrying about him.

“Don’t speak to me that way,” she keeps, her voice as low as it can get before it turns to a whisper.

Xemnas smiles and she almost spits that he should entertain himself rather than bother her.

Entertaining himself indeed, every smile he gives has a double meaning and she’s only lucky to be able to guess what correctly. Otherwise, his eyes act like nothing but glass, doing their best at mimicking.

… It’s a wonder how he does it.

His lackeys give her a lot of comments of what it’s supposed to be like. How a Nobody feels, what her responsibilities are, how to connect to her powers, what to believe, what to expect out of Kingdom Hearts and when. Yes, she has yellow eyes just like the rest of them but that means nothing. It’s only because she’s angry.

Angry enough that she stews in between the grinding of her teeth when he lets her words slide off of him like it doesn’t matter. A perfect Nobody in every sense of the word, non-feeling, non-caring, un-attached… he therefore feels no pain and so he is free. Where does he hide the secrets to achieving such a high?

Xemnas draws a hand in the air, conjuring a dark corridor. “Come, Master Aqua.”

There’s a lot to fear in obeying him, one of which is enduring whatever punishment he’s decided for her. Not that there is a trace of threat in his voice, he’s just mostly amused. Perhaps the worst that would happen is finding out he’s just as bad company as the rest of them. Perhaps not.

She pushes the thought to the back of her mind that she shouldn’t follow a man with no hobbies.

Day Fifteen ~*~

He likes to hear himself talk.

The field trips are a nice distraction but she often finds herself tuning him out when he gets too involved in overblown monologues. She doesn’t spare this kind of time with the other Organization members - she instead follows other Keybearers to make sure they get her messages about Ventus. When he drones on about subjects too big for anyone, she’s afraid to name what she’s looking for in him.

Maybe if she pays enough attention, she’ll find that she’s walking by herself in Twilight Town, leaving him behind at a booth selling souvenirs.

It’s a strange thing to witness Xemnas show interest in something other than the moon. He usually keeps the other members at a far distance, where talks of what he’s like as a person are no more than rumors, and there is a certain… intimacy in being allowed to see him like this.

“A camera?” she asks when he picks one up, equipped with a neck strap and zoom lens, listening to the man behind the counter sell the idea that film photography is superior and can truly capture things as they are.

“As a matter of fact…” Even when he’s teasing, he’s monotone.

At least it’s a healthier pastime for him than sulking.

With his new toy, Xemnas requests a trip on the city trolley, over the sea and up a hill, until they reach a park and watch the sun bathe the entire city in a warm glow. Despite the sun’s reach, she’s cold, pulling on her sleeves to cover more of her wrists, hugging herself because even in thick leather, she shivers. Still, it’s quite a romantic little town, peaceful and vibrant. Nothing like this has ever existed in the Realm of Darkness.

“Does the view please you?” he asks, aiming the lens toward the horizon.

“I don’t care for the ocean.”

It reminds her of sinking, the water frigid and lonely where it’s too hard to swim up.

Learning how to use the camera is slow for him at first. The man has incredible focus though, and she can see the gears in his mind turning as he fumbles with the settings, twisting the lens, turning the flash on and off.

That’s the thing with him, that mind never stays quiet even when he is.

“What are you doing all that for? Art?” she snickers - obviously that could never be the reason.

“This world exists in-between… a ghost warped by the conflict of polarity, both standing in the light yet hidden in shadow. It will not continue to endure after the War. But now I have proof of its existence.”

“So you’re keeping a record for science,” she scoffs. “Such a civil servant.”

Her own words eat her up. A servant to the public would be locked in battle with him, doing all that it takes to put a stop to his very existence, and here she is, by his side, watching him study his camera the same way she used to study her books growing up.

It makes her wonder why a man so enraptured by the clicks of his machine would be so willing to walk into the fire once the end of the world comes.

“Why don’t you care about being swallowed by Kingdom Hearts?” she asks, half-expecting a lie as a response.

The question pulls his attention away. “Only a suffered soul abandons purpose.”

Of course, she should have known than to hope for a straightforward answer.

Finding a bench to sit on, she listens to him click away, each one blanketed by a pause as he adjusts ever so slightly, moving his frame from the town far below to the clock tower far away. This is familiar, like watching a close friend try his best to understand the secrets of a Keyblade, eyes lost in thought, focus spearheaded onto one thing and one thing only.

“A picture is a moment trapped in ink,” he says. “Here, a piece to take with me.”

“Where to?”

“Kingdom Hearts,” he says and it makes his breath swell. “To wherever we shall go when the time comes. When all memory erases and we reset, in a space somewhere my existence will linger so long as I have a memory to hold onto.”

It’s not something she really thought about - him wanting to have something to possess. These people, these Nobodies, give their free will up to Xehanort’s influence, to reduce themselves to puppets. It never occurred to her that the others might have something they cherish and want to keep as well, no matter the reason why they chose to walk this path and give themselves up like this.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” he asks.

If he means the ocean, it used to be.

She cocks an eyebrow. “That’s something that moves you?”

He takes a seat on the bench in front of her, the camera treasured in his hands. “I am only missing a heart, not a mind. Opinions are privileged to me... What we will leave behind here is graceful, as damning as that is.”

“Hmph.” Listening to him speak about absent hearts, that he’s a hollow body, chokes her each time, like she’s facing punishment for her transgressions.

Either way, she can’t let him see her get so affected. She flicks dirt off her cloak, leaning back and crossing her legs.

“Xemnas,” she starts, her tone teasing like a dark thought hasn’t crossed her mind. “Superior of the In-Between, Appreciator of Beauty.”

Titles have a weight to them, some befitting and others suppressing. Xemnas is a man who gives them value, who finds agreement to what she’s saying, testing his new designation in his mind to see how well it suits.

He studies her first. Brings the camera to his face, aims the lens at her. She sees herself in its reflection, gold eyes bright, before the flash captures her.

Day Thirty-Two ~*~

She flips through several developed photos and it comes as no surprise that she’s not smiling in any of them. She can read the timeline as she looks through portraits of herself standing by riverbanks and strolling through souks, her hair whitening by the week.

The two of them meet in secret to look over the photographs when they’re certain no one else is in the castle, and a part of her today hopes that one of them is beautiful enough to bring her some comfort.

Ventus is no longer in Castle Oblivion. Her hints and paper trails have worked and he’s now in the custody of the other Keybearers.

But it leaves her with a sensational loneliness, having no reason to go back and watch him sleep, and she doesn’t have anyone to talk about these feelings with.

It’s hard to tell if she’s doing a banging job at pretending it doesn’t affect her, since she’s grumpy all the time anyway.

Xemnas stands close, looking over her shoulder as she goes through a stack where he recorded a trip they took to a world of mountains.

Some of these photos she was aware of. Others not so much, and one in particular shows her staring at her Wayfinder, blue and powerful, while she ignores the backdrop of clouds cowering under the girth of the peaks behind her. He’s captured her standing so close to the edge yet she doesn’t even remember walking so dangerously near.

He scoffs gently. “Continue to be bound by the chains that drag you, and you will plunge into oblivion.”

She doesn’t know what game he’s playing anymore. Is he just fooling himself at this point? What other reason does he have to always follow her around unless there’s something pulling him?

Maybe it’s time to see exactly what he remembers. She’s had so many wonderful years living in the mountains with her boys, exploring the forests and camping overnight...

“We used to fish together,” she says, and the words sting more than she expected.

“Hmmm,” he sighs. “It was a leisure that came easily to me.”

Her heart skips a beat. Xemnas rambles, Xemnas tricks himself, Xemnas keeps others in the dark, the blind leading the blind.

But this is the truest statement that he’s ever said; she’s never been the best at hunting.

“It was, you were the best at it,” she says, prodding his eyes for more. “There was a river by the closest trail and-”

He smiles, and she almost hates it. It’s not warm, not comforting, just condescending.

“At an ocean that stretched by my childhood home, on an island, stranded in the middle of nowhere, where I fished with schoolmates,” he says.

That’s incorrect…

The lump in her throat sinks, and it’s an emotion called devastation. She’s spent years exploring her memories privately because admitting to them would acknowledge their existence, and there’s something about the dark that makes her question whether she’s making them up. Just like he is now.

She wants to throw his photos at his face, demand that he remembers her, shake him until he gives her an expression in his eyes that actually means he feels.

He pulls the photos from her hand, creased from her holding them too tightly. Whatever stupefied look she had on her face prompts him to say this next: “There is a place I want to show you.”

A single white room void of windows, like a capsule. But what’s inside nearly makes her wonder if she’s been transported elsewhere. There’s a white throne marked by chains and it’s uncanny how much it looks like the one Ventus slept in all this time.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she starts to ask, suddenly terrified that she’s been found out when she spots a mess of color.

Cracked and abandoned, just like her. Her armor in a scrap heap.

And right by it, Stormfall, dusty like it’s been waiting for as long as she has.

“It has not been a very…” He hides his hands behind his back. “Loquacious partner.”

She’s speechless at the idea that all this time the other members think he’s been talking to himself…

And what did he talk about? Why bother to pretend the armor is alive?

It’s enough temptation to try her hand. “Terra?”

If his smile is patronizing, his laugh is worse: breathy, amused, pitiful.

“What is in a name,” he says, “but a hopeful delusion?”

“Don’t mess with me,” she steps forward, ready to jab a finger at his chest. “I’m not in denial. There’s so much riding with me-”

“No.” He shakes his head, so tall that he has to look down. “You have nothing.”

“I’m not like you,” she hisses. “Any of you, I don’t tell myself lies that I am nothing.”

“You cannot claim that.” The confidence in his speech is astounding. “What you have is a star-shaped trinket. A fossil. That former life of yours is dead.”

She wants to spit back. Really, she does. And yet her mouth feels sewn together, too afraid to let toxic words slip out of her mouth, too tired to have to prove herself otherwise. It’s like she’s been paranoid that punishment has been waiting for its chance to pounce, and it’s finally here.

He’s so much larger than Terra that he has to bend over to meet her face, and he’s close enough she can smell his cologne, see the details of his irises and finally witness a spark -

Anger lives behind them, tested, refined, and tamed. Powerful, unlike hers which throws her at whims.

“This room,” he starts, and he pierces her with his eyes, beautiful and messy, “is what I have left. A troublesome reminder that there is something I have forgotten. The chains that keep us bound are attached to an empty void. That is why we are nothing, friend.”

The title feels like a leash and a collar around her neck, like he’s about to grab her. She braces herself for the possibility, and it churns her stomach.

“What I have earned since are the hollow words of a woman who’s told me there was nothing to darkness but hate and rage,” he continues, barely giving her the space to breathe for herself. “So I came here, to ask her time and time again if she still believes I will continue to go astray.”

If there is a memory she ever wished for Terra’s heart to hold onto, it wouldn’t have been those words.

“The fates that have been chiseled for us,” he continues, “were deviant… unnatural… manipulated. We should not have existed, maimed and exploited. Darkness has ravaged us, as much as it has left you destitute.”

What echoes in the silence is the shuddering of her breath, driving her to near-tears when she thought that she wasn’t capable of crying anymore. “I didn’t deserve what happened to me.” She doesn’t know why she needs to say that or what kind of comfort she will get out of it.

His eyes search her face and there’s that feeling in the back of her mind that he’s going to touch her. “I did not think so, either.”

With that, he straightens up, turning over his shoulder to leave her shivering in this cold room.

She lunges forward to grab his wrist - a knee-jerk reaction really. Who can blame her when she’s looking for… someone to tell her it’s not her fault. When he turns to look back at her and she realizes the smile she wants is just a fantasy, she’s reminded:

Xemnas. She has to remember that he is Xemnas and not who she wants him to be.

So she lets him go, to be left in an air-tight container with no Terra to hold her, no Ventus to wake up, and a Keyblade.

It belongs to a Master, to Aqua. And she is Aqua but she is not.

She has been tethered and conditioned since, a dull glory with memories that don’t serve her anymore except to leave her feeling… well, destitute. An Anti-Aqua, a new her with the same name she was born with.

Certainly it feels strange to hold Stormfall again after all these years, and she takes it with her. After all, stealing a Keyblade isn’t that terrible of a crime.

Day Seventy-Nine ~*~

There isn’t so much of a point to being part of an Organization when she’s lonely even around other people. It’s daunting, and if she isn’t around Nobodies that can speak, she’s around monstrosities that can’t.

The World That Never Was is hollow, and the sea of empty hotels and apartments is all just for show, like it’s good enough to pretend to have friends.

But maybe that is definitely the point: keep attachments at bay to make it easier to move on to the other side when the time comes.

Footsteps softly rise as she hears him climb the steps that lead to the lounge where she waits, and it makes her smirk. He walks with the lightness of air; that’s impressive for his size.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announces when he arrives to take the couch across from her, crossing his legs as he makes himself comfortable. In his hand is a white envelope, full enough to have photos she hasn’t seen yet.

Her face goes cold when she looks through them - it’s like he’s throwing more games at her that she’s too tired to play, like he keeps testing her to see when she finally breaks. If he hasn’t figured her out yet, he certainly has now.

Ventus, in all of them. Wandering streets by himself with the curiosity of a toddler. Laughing with Sora. Sparring with Riku.

She inhales sharply. “What do you want with him?”

“Nothing,” he says like it’s his favorite word. “I do not wish to harm him.”

“Stalking and endangering him makes you look bad.”

All Xemnas does is flash her a smug grin, his fingers on his chest like he’s proud of himself. “It appears I am not the heartless one between the two of us, throwing such a blatant accusation against me.”

Being playful doesn’t suit him well but at least she’s fond of it. He lets go of a long breath, the smirk melting away into a faraway longing as he stares at his own hand, those gears of his turning.

It gives her the impression that her reaction stung him, and she wonders if anyone has ever asked him if his feelings have been hurt. If he’s even capable of being offended that way.

Rubbing his gloved fingers against his palm, Xemnas shakes his head. “There was a… an oath made to me long ago, and still I cannot recall the exact words.”

Aqua doesn’t know what to say - Terra and Ventus were like brothers, and sometimes would share secrets and promises without her knowing, so she really can’t help him remember.

She wishes, though, that he’s easier to read. It’s hard to tell if he’s being entirely sincere or if he’s pulling fanciful words to suit her - if he has other reasons not to attack Ventus. Come to think of it, he only asked her to find Ventus for him once… though it’s unsafe to assume too much. Believing that he feels a bond is still a risk, but so long as she can take care of herself, it’s probably a good idea to humor him.

It’s for the best since Ven isn’t something Xemnas should think he can keep.

“How long I have searched for the chamber that kept him locked away for more than a decade,” he continues. “I admit all I yearned for were answers to questions no book can satiate. Now... he simply waltzes out of the castle with nary a helping hand.”

It’s the way he says it that tells her he knows.

She shrugs. “Magically.”

“Magically.” At least he’s amused. “The portraits are yours to keep.”

She takes another glance, petting her thumb on the smooth surface where his cheek was captured. “How is he?”

“He is healthy.” He leans back, one elbow on the armrest. “Rambunctious and eager to fight.”

“Did he see you?”

“No.” He takes one hard look at her. “Will you not meet with him?”

“No.”

He attempts to ask why but she cuts him off. “He’d be very upset if-” Takes a moment. Regain composure. There’s nothing left to cry over, he’s happy and he deserves it. “If he saw either of us this way.”

She adds, “my body is changing.”

The confession is like pulling a stopper, letting the water gush down the drain like a hurricane, where tears do not come out of her eyes but out of the growling in her throat and the fists she makes as she slips off her gloves to show him the red fingertips, the purple wrists, the smoke that poofs out like she’s sweating it.

Nothing could have prepared her for how much his smile falls, completely enraptured with what he sees, like she’s a foreign specimen in need of study.

“To feel so intensely,” he says mostly to himself, leaning over the table in between them to look at it more closely. “That it alters the host.” He frees a hand from his glove, and his skin looks smooth like a human’s - for someone who considers himself a monster, she’s the only one who looks like one.

He reaches over, as if asking for her hand. It has to be the most human thing to be curious.

Meeting him halfway, they press their palms against each other, the rolls that make up the hand and fingers shifting as they fill the gaps. His are so familiarly big, so amazingly warm, and she’s been certain this entire time that she’d never feel hands like these again. It’s pleasant to find some solace from the frigidity of her scales.

Splaying his fingers to meet hers, he plays: first leaning into hers to see how far they can bend, then threading them together one by one, like he understands what it is to hold a hand but has never learned what it’s supposed to feel like.

Intertwined like this, he’s now leashed to her, bound by a chain he can’t break either.

Day Eighty ~*~

It’s hard to count the hours when there’s no sun. It could be late or early, whatever, but either way sleep has decided not to say good night no matter how many times she’ll toss and turn.

Suppose the only question keeping her awake is whether any of this matters. When that heart-shaped moon finally opens and she disintegrates, suppose she’ll become the inky sky that allows the stars to shine in the new world, a ghost so far away and expansive that she’ll stretch forever and witness everything.

Or instead, she’ll turn into a star, a memory of the way things were and she’ll shine brightly to give others hope. Maybe even become the sun and be the source of all life.

She takes her hand, lets her cold, scaly fingers brush her chest first before finding her heartbeat, quiet and calm with the hours in rest.

Still, what is the point if she’s at it alone? Will she blend into other people? Will she reconnect with Terra and Ven? Will she forget about them, about her current life, about pain and loss?

After all, the only way to remove the loss is to wipe away the reminiscence.

With this in mind, she leaves her bed and this empty room.

Whatever she becomes, the least she can have is something to hold onto. She should be allowed to keep the things she’s loved. Maybe nothing will happen - maybe they can run away, abandon crazy prospects and make a life out of what’s left.

Finding herself standing in front of Xemnas’ door, she knocks, somewhere between soft and demanding. When he opens the door, he’s finishing the zipper up his cloak, having just stood from his desk where his camera splays open.

“Don’t say anything,” Aqua says. There’s been enough thinking, enough existential crises tainted by the question of why’s and when’s and what’s.

They’re wasting time and she doesn’t want to be alone when her bones turn to dust.

Xemnas still has his glove-less fingers on his zipper when he steps aside and lets her walk through the threshold into his room, respecting her request to keep silent, a small smirk pulling on his face.

Aqua closes the gap between them, her head leaning against his chest, nuzzling on the leather he wears. He likes to talk big about being nothing, but there it is, his heartbeat, quiet and calm like it doesn’t want to be discovered.

What’s in a name indeed, a man once said to her when his own very name, Xemnas, is a body and a mind. He is someone, and Kingdom Hearts will take him away too.

Hearing its beat lulls her and finally, finally, she thinks she’ll be able to find sleep for this long night. Gripping his leather into her fists, her breath slows and she rests against him, taking his warmth as a reminder that she’s alive for now. There’s nothing else relevant except the lack of rhythm in their hearts and that camera, a small trinket they can take with them so at least they can share a life that isn’t dead.

He helps himself to a lock of her hair as he intertwines it into his fingers, his free hand claiming the small of her back, his warm breath on her scalp as he searches for his own meaning of life.

“It’s magnificent,” he says about whatever it is he’s finding.

She hums, half in contempt that he’s speaking and half asleep, intoxicated by his cologne as she pulls on his cloak, squeezing her fist tighter like tonight will be the last.

“Xemnas,” she calls but does not follow-up.

She was about to say that he can continue to take photos of her, to let her take some of him with her, to liven the mood, to keep her warm because this entire castle is cold… to do something or tell her a story of a world where the sun rises from the west. Maybe they can find it together and gather proof of it.

He’s been wrong all along - there is power to a name and if he wants to deny that, then she’ll have to slap him out of such a problem.

He moves slightly and now his hair covers her face but he grips her tighter. The door to his room closes. He carries her to bed, and she lets herself drown in his mouth as his weight pressures her to sink, down to the depths where they gasp for air together.

#xemqua #aqua #anti-aqua #dark aqua #xemnas #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfic #AHHHHH i'm honestly deathly nervous to post this #i just don't know what people are going to think eeeeeeeeeeeeek #my fic

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icypantherwrites · 5 years

Text

An open letter to my VLD and Langst fans

Hello everyone ♥

I’m not really sure how to start addressing this so I guess I’ll just write and see where it goes (because hey, once a pantser always a pantser ;p). Apologies if this gets super long.

I know I’m not alone in noticing that Voltron has fallen very very much so in popularity since season eight came out (and to be honest, it’s been declining since about season five-ish). Nearly all of the friends and regular readers I’ve enjoyed chatting with in this fandom have disappeared; be it from moving onto another fandom entirely, quitting writing or reading fanfiction (or both), or just vanishing into the night and it really sucks from this end to lose those friendships and relationships.

I’ve noticed a significant decline in engagement on fics. Not just comments (although believe me, those are down too xD) but even just in hits. A fic that would normally generate at least a thousand hits doesn’t even get half of that. An update gets even less than that half. It’s beyond frustrating and disheartening here and I can’t imagine how other authors who are a little less prolific are feeling from this fallout.

Posts on Tumblr, despite the fact I post to over 2,000 followers (a milestone reached the other week, thank you for that ♥), are barely engaged with, not even with likes.

It hurts me to say it but it’s true.

Voltron is a dying fandom.

There are still pockets of it that are vibrant and thriving to as much degree as they can, but they are not ships I support nor content I’m interested in. The gen fandom, the Langst fandom, the whump fandom, has been steadily fading away. I didn’t want to admit it but I can’t ignore it any longer.

And I understand. The way Voltron ended (like Game of Thrones xD) is not the ending a series that has meant so much to so many should have concluded with. It left a bitter, sour taste in many mouths, turned a nostalgia to a resentment and made fans pull away. Fix it fics and art can only go so far when a fandom has been so alienated by its own kind and there is no canon resolution to fixing anything.

Voltron has meant so much to me. It brought back my love of writing and made me a much better writer to boot. It introduced me to some amazing people (and although I don’t talk to like... any of them anymore I hope everyone is doing well and has found a passion that is deserving of your talents and time). It and the readers and their comments got me through some really tough spots in my life where I felt very trapped without much light at the end of my tunnel. It’s something that, no matter how much I too disliked many elements of the final seasons, that I do look back on fondly. I have so many good memories of the Voltron fandom, of my own experiences in writing for it.

I think that’s why I’ve been stubbornly planting my feet and thinking that if I just took a long enough break, if I just published a fic that would resonate with people like Color or Sin did, if I just held on that this fandom would come back.

But it’s not.

And as much as I wish it would, it won’t.

So what does this all mean?

Honestly, I’m not sure. I still love writing for this fandom, even if posting it is beyond depressing at this point as I see (or rather, don’t) all the people who used to read my fics and aren’t there anymore, the lack of hits on the chapters, the comments, even the Tumblr notes. But it’s no one’s fault. Everyone has just moved on.

And for right now... I’m still going to stay here. At least for a while longer.

I have over... probably about 150k worth of fics left to post that are made up of chaptered fics and oneshots. I still have people interested in being a subscriber to my Patreon (to which I say thank you so so much, especially in light of all the medical issues my dog has been having, every little bit helps) and even commissions coming my way. I’ll probably keep writing so long as there’s decent interest over there and since I’m still generating fics via its monthly fic and any commissions that come my way I’ll have things to post on Ao3. As such I’ll keep promoting it here as it does depend on all of you to keep both it and apparently my fanfiction future alive.

But anything else?

Probably not.

I had debated doing a round two of a zine, of offering a short story type book of smaller chaptered fics for the holiday season. Not sure anyone would really be interested in that now.

I’m not sure I’ll be finishing my Season 8 fix-it fic because knowing the lack of audience and reception it’ll get for hours upon hours of work makes me sad. Spending that amount of time writing a fic for an audience that really isn’t there anymore and at this point probably doesn’t care makes me have to re-prioritize.

Fanfiction in general isn’t the part of my life it was a year ago. I don’t read it anymore. I don’t need the comments to buoy me through a horrible work day as I love my new job. I love my coworkers. I’m hoping to retire here, honestly (in 30 years, Godddd, just double my current lifespan xD). If I were to devote time to writing I think it’d be great to work on my novel; not with the desperation of before as I saw it as my only ticket out of the Police Department, but to enjoy writing it and just have fun with it.

I’ll be here for as long as the Patreon is active and as long as I have fics to post. You might see some weeks where there are two or three fics or updates posted and then a few weeks of nothing as I still struggle with the lack of engagement (even though I know not to expect as much.) I’ll still post on the Tumblr and am still happy to answer asks about Lance and Voltron and writing and whatever may have you.

I just have to start really acknowledging what this fandom has come to and prepare for what is going to happen. And this letter is starting it off to not just all of you but to myself.

Thank you so much to everyone who has supported me; both in the past and now. Thank you to those who still do so.

I’ll see you around.

♥ Icy

AO3 | Ko-Fi | Patreon | Discord | Bookshop

Like what I write? Support me! Emotionally: Leave a comment on a fic! Financially: Patreon or Ko-Fi

#Voltron #VLD #Fandom #IcyPanther #icypantherwrites #fanfiction #fanfic #Lance #Langst #Whump

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emeraldwaves · 5 years

Text

Title: Show The World Pairing: N/A (hints of Miritama) Rating: G Word Count: 1,682 Read on Ao3 Summary:

One day, Tamaki wants to show the world how strong he is

This was written for the @bnhatamaki-zine !!

The long tentacles wiggle in front of him, giant, red, octopus arms where his human ones used to be. Everything feels like it’s closing in around him and he breathes heavily. The world is frozen, completely unmoving except for the two arm-tentacles.

Tamaki screams.

His mother comes running and he expects her to scream too, but instead she laughs, her smile so warm. “I was wondering what your quirk would be.”

He stares at the arms in front of him, wiggling and thrashing about sporadically. This? This is his quirk? His eyes tremble as he tries not to cry.

“Oh sweetie, don’t cry. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I-I-I was just… eating lunch and… and…” It’s impossible to talk with the waving tentacles.

His mother chuckles, kneeling down to be on the same level as him. “Your father’s quirk is similar!”

“I-I guess…” he mumbles, looking at the wiggling arm, unable to control the way his body moves.

“It’ll change back to your normal arm soon. Once you digest, you have nothing to worry about.”

Tamaki listens to his mother, but he wonders if he really has nothing to worry about.

It’s always takoyaki.

He doesn’t have this problem with chicken, or beef, or fish; when he eats those, it’s normal, nothing feels wrong.

He told his mother to pack other things for his lunch, but he supposes she probably forgot. Swallowing, he stares at the small bento in front of him. He tries not to drool over how much he wants to eat them. The rice will fill him enough... He can’t risk eating the octopus, not around all his classmates. He knows what it will lead to and it won’t be anything good. Plus, they’re not even allowed to use their quirks at school.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His breathing is so loud it’s all he can hear in his ears. Thankfully, no one is watching him… but he knows he can’t risk it.

“Tamaki-kun!” His teacher kneels down next to his desk and he tries not to panic. Did he do something wrong? He was being quiet, purposefully not eating so he didn’t accidentally use his quirk. “Is something wrong with your takoyaki? You’re not eating and I’m a little worried. Is this about your quirk?”

Tamaki glances towards the woman, his eyes wide as he tries to keep his breath steady. He can’t eat the takoyaki, he can’t! But instead of arguing, he quickly shakes his head.

“You know, eating lunch helps you grow big and strong. I can’t have you eating only rice.”

He swallows and stares at his teacher. He might grow up, but he’ll never be big and strong, at least not the way he thinks.

“Can you eat a few bites of the takoyaki for me?”

He twists his lips and shrugs.

“Just a couple of bites?”

He’s not going to get out of it. He can sense it; the look on her face, the way she’s staring. She’ll force him to eat the food sitting in front of him. Tentatively he picks up the small bite, shoving it into his mouth quickly. It tastes amazing, as it always does; savory and so yummy. He swallows, wishing he didn’t have to, and he feels the food roll down his throat, landing in the pit of his stomach.

When it’s there, he can feel his stomach churn and gurggle. He won’t let his quirk activate, he won’t let his quirk activate, he won’t… he won’t!

But it does.

His arms shoot forward, the limbs twisting and transforming into the arms of an octopus. He gasps and tries to hide, but the entire class bursts out into laughter.

“Tamaki is using his quirk!” One kid screams and points, everyone laughing. The noise is enough to drown out any other sounds. His reflex is to cover up his ears, but as he lifts his arms, he remembers they’ve already transformed.

The children sound like lions, the noises loud and ruthless. It makes his heart tremble, his face heating up. He doesn’t want to cry, that will only make it worse. He wishes he could run out of the room, but he doesn't know how he would get the door open without his hands. Instead, he buries himself under the desk, shaking as the other children laugh.

Even after his teacher coaxes him out, he doesn’t ever want to go back, doesn’t ever want to sit in that seat and relive the horror of his peers laughing and pointing and staring. He will never allow anyone else to pressure him into eating anything he doesn’t want to; not when the consequences could be so dire.

After that, he’s careful, always careful when he eats. His body can sense it; the savory food descends into his stomach and his flesh tingles. He knows he could change if he wanted to, but usually, he most definitely does not want to. Then people would see and stare.

The stares are the worst. They dig under his skin and make his muscles tense, his throat closing up. The laughs echo in his ear and he tries to stop his memory from replaying that event.

Never again.

“Do you want some?” Mirio’s smile is so bright, and his best friend makes the takoyaki look so enticing.

It’s not fair. He can barely recall the last time he actually ate takoyaki, in fear that his entire body would slowly morph into a deformed octopus. Tamaki feels lucky in middle school. He has Mirio, and he doesn’t want to lose him by making a stupid mistake. He doesn't want Mirio to see.

“No, thank you,” he says quietly, his dark eyes falling on the small ball impaled on the toothpick. It looks delicious; round, savory, glistening with sauce drizzled on top.

He wants it. He wants it so bad. Tamaki misses the delicious taste on his tongue, even if it makes his stomach churn and rollover.

Mirio raises his eyebrows, looking shocked. Normally when Mirio offers stuff to him, Tamaki gladly takes it, happy Mirio wants to share with him. But this… this is different.

“Are you sure?” Mirio says and bounces the stick in front of his face.

“Yeah…” he mutters, his lips twisting a bit.

“Tamaki… you really look like you want some,” Mirio snorts. “But okay, more for me.”

Tamaki dreams of taking the food from Mirio, letting it rest on his tongue as he savors the delicious taste. It would roll down to his stomach and for once, it would be okay. No strange churning… his body wouldn’t transform and he would control the way the food morphs within him.

It’s a nice dream, one he thinks about a lot, especially around Mirio. Mirio… who runs into walls and gets naked in front of everyone in class just to learn to control his quirk. Tamaki wishes he could be that strong.

“Mirio-” he starts, but instead clenches his fists. Mirio looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t know where to begin. Food has always been so difficult for him. Planning out what to eat and when to eat doesn’t make things simple. Researching what foods include certain types of ingredients makes the task of eating frustrating and tiring.

He watches his classmates eat whatever they please, no worries about their quirks or their bodies and jealousy sits in the pit of his stomach.

Mirio eats takoyaki a lot and he always looks so happy when he does. He shoves the treat into his mouth, a warm smile on his face.

“Tamaki, are you sure you don’t want some?” Mirio asks. He asks him everyday, and everyday Tamaki says no.

“I’m sure,” he says, twisting his lips slightly as he stares.

“You say no because of your quirk, right?” Mirio asks, popping another small ball into his mouth. “Because… if that’s why, I think you should just try it. You’re a lot older and I’m sure you’re better at controlling your quirk.”

Tamaki wants to believe that’s true. He sees Mirio constantly trying to better himself at his quirk and Tamaki wants to do that too. He supposes there’s no way he can if he doesn’t try. And this is Mirio, he’s not going to judge him. In fact, he’ll probably encourage him to be a hero, just like him, just like they both have always wanted.

“Okay,” he says and the word slips out before he can stop it. Tamaki swallows and reaches forward to take the toothpick from Mirio. He holds it in front of his lips, his hand shaking. He touches it to his lips, ready to take a bite.

“You don’t have to-” Mirio starts to say, but Tamaki immediately stops him.

“No. I want to.”

He shoves the ball into his mouth, and it tastes so amazing. It’s been years since the savory goodness has touched his tongue and he swallows it down with such joy, momentarily forgetting all about his quirk. It hits his stomach and his eyes widen, his body trembling. He takes a deep breath, trying to stop the churning in his stomach.

In and out; focus.

He can do this.

When a few moments pass, Tamaki looks at his hands. Still normal, nothing has changed. He’s normal. He blinks and turns towards Mirio. “I did it,” he whispers and holds his hands up. “I did it! Nothing happened!”

“You did it!” Mirio says, grabbing his hands as the two laugh together. Tamaki feels stronger than ever. Maybe he could use his quirk on purpose; when he wants to. He could be in control.

“Maybe one day you could show me,” Mirio says, breaking Tamaki of his thoughts.

“Show you?” he asks.

“Yeah! Your cool octopus arms!” He wiggles his hands back and forth in front of him, looking so goofy.

Tamaki can’t help but laugh at his best friend. “I’d like that; to show you someday,” he says, smiling. He really means it; he hopes one day he can show the world.

#tamaki amajiki #bnha #zine fic #mirio toogata #boku no hero academia

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lookninjas · 5 years

Text

So this is the piece I wrote for the last issue of FUCKIT, and I’m posting it here for a couple of reasons. A -- I always kind of wanted to and it’s mine, so I’ll do what I want. B -- As a word count case study, this is 1309 words or so, and it’s about four pages long. Which seems bad, but it also depends on how I format, what font I choose, and honestly this last issue was 32 pages and still pretty slender, so my point is don’t stress the length too much unless you’re at, like, 5,000+, in which case we’ll have to have a discussion about giving you your own little thing.

And then, C -- if anyone out there feels like what they wrote is too off-the-cuff or messy or goes into too many tangents or just isn’t formal enough or whatever:

This is what I deliberately chose to write, as the person making the zine. This is what I felt best encapsulated the feeling of FUCKIT. And honestly, even though I almost kind of cringe at some of it, I still feel that way. We are saying FUCKIT. This is the point.

So:

The problem is wanting to write the perfect thing.

The problem is wanting to write the perfect thing when your subject inherently is imperfection. The glorious messiness of life in all its bitterness, all its frustrated lashing out and bad decisions, too much and then again not enough and then too much again, petty jealous miserable misanthropic messy messy messy because at the same time I still want to somehow get it right. To be understood. To make some kind of a damn sense.

It's hard.

Of course it's hard. Every damn thing is hard.

That's not the point.

Anyway. This is a tribute to Robert Smith.

It isn't just that Trent Reznor probably said it all first, and arguably said it better. It's the problem of saying any of it without it coming off worse than it should. It is 2019 and at no point are any of us to aspire to be any less than our best selves. To live our best lives. Instagrammable soups in designer bowls we got for cheap on Amazon with free next-day delivery and I swear to God I will get to the point here soon I'm just trying to establish some context.

So.

For context: I am a forty year-old woman aging awkwardly in a world I understand less with every passing day. And I don't mean antifa, and I don't mean memes, and I don't mean this modern music or the clothes or the slang or the tattoos or the funny hair colors. I mean, mostly, contouring. Contouring and everyone's weirdly identical eyebrows. The fetishization of names like Apple. And Tesla. Mindfulness. Fucking mindfulness. And manifesting. What the fuck is manifesting and why the fuck does Alyssa Milano think that's the way for us to get the game show host out of office and for the fucking record how the fuck did the game show host wind up in office and what the fuck made the United Kingdom go "Oh, we've got one of those! Let's elect him Prime Minister!" and why the fuck does Alyssa Milano (Alyssa Milano!) think we should instead be manifesting into office a goddamn faith healer with a Course In Fucking Miracles and why the fuck am I supposed to care what Alyssa Milano (Alyssa fucking Milano!) thinks to begin with and how much of this can I blame on John Mayer because I'm fucking blaming some of it on him at least fuck you and your Waiting for the World to Change, Johnny-boy, fuck you straight to Hell --

But Robert Smith still exists, and I guess that means there's hope for us yet. A specific kind of hope.

Black-clad. Hair a graying bird's nest of tangles. Eyeliner unfashionably heavy, lipstick smeared, guitar festooned with stickers like the hatchback of my niece's hand-me-down Subaru. Bursting into tears at the end of a concert, bursting into tears in the middle of "Disintegration," bursting into tears because boys might not cry but Robert Smith goddamn does and I guess if he does, then maybe it's okay if I do too. Maybe I can go back to dying my hair black if I want to, maybe I can wear eyeliner if that's the mood of the day, maybe I can pile on jewelry or maybe not, maybe I can do what the fuck I want to because Robert Smith goddamn does and he is perfectly fine. Better than fine. Robert Smith got inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame by Trent fucking Reznor, and I get that that's never going to be my life story (I'd have to take up an instrument other than euphonium, for starters), but still.

Maybe I don't have to think about the right way to age, the right way to eat, the right way to shower or take a nap or tie my shoes. Maybe I don't have to compete against my weird imaginary Best Self living her Best Life in total wellness and inner peace, this race I can never win, this high score I can never catch up to. Maybe I can just, you know, be a fucking person. Human and strange and spiky and flawed. And it's okay. I'm okay. So are you, while we're at it. We're not okay, but you know, we still are.

Maybe this still isn't the best way to explain it.

Maybe it's the only way there is.

It's hard. All of it is hard.

That's not the point, but then again it is, too.

Look at your imaginary Best Self, living their imaginary Best Life. Looks pretty easy, doesn't it? Looks like it all just kind of happens without trying. Without smudging the makeup, without rumpling the clothes or messing up the hair. No unflattering wrinkles, no bulges distorting the line of the dress. Simple and clean.

Now look at Robert Smith. Rumpled, messy hair, smeared lipstick, thick black eyeliner. Living his life, his only fucking life, and tell me it's not a hell of a life? It sure as fuck is. Married to the girl he fell for as a teenager, still in a band with his best friend, still in the Cure after over 40 years of it, playing festivals, recording music, maybe even releasing it someday (we kid because we love, Robert). No one could accuse him of making it look easy; looking back, it sometimes seems a hell of a lot harder than it should've been. But you know, he fucking got there. On his own terms, in his own inimitable style, he got there.

Doesn't it all kind of make the whole Perfection Quest seem kind of pointless? A distraction at best, a modern-day Soma at worst? I'm not saying don't do what makes you happy, just -- do what makes you happy, not what you think will make you happy at some point in some future where you've finally got your shit together. Where you've completed every quest, beaten every boss, finished every level. Because we don't. Or I don't think we do. I don't think we get our shit together. I don't think we ever feel adult, or mature, or ready. I don't think it ever gets easy.

I don't think you ever say it the way you mean to.

I don't think that's the point.

The point is that, sometime over the summer, YouTube suggested I watch a video of the Cure performing at Glastonbury, and I did, and it hasn't been the same since then. Or rather, it's been more the same than it ever has. Or both at once. Or neither. It's hard to say. A lot of things are.

The point is that it helped.

The point is that it's still hard, and it's always going to be hard, and that doesn't really matter and then at the same time it absolutely does.

The point is, go listen to "Fight" if you need to. Go listen to "Faith" if you need to. Go listen to "Friday I'm in Love" if you need to.

Wear black or don't. Smear your lipstick or fill it in perfect with a brush or don't wear any. Listen to the Cure. Listen to Lizzo. Listen to the birds or the river or the wind howling against the windows or top fucking 40 radio. Be as clean as you want, be as messy as you need to, be the you that is you right now and not any other imaginary you because that you doesn't exist and it never will. Live the life that you are living right now because that's the only life you get and it might be the worst sometimes but at the same time it is still the best. It is the only.

Write something, even if it's not as perfect as it ought to be.

And fuck the point, anyway.

#fuckit #robert smith #kind of #fuck it it's sort of about him it counts #also i really do stand by this all 900%#FUCKIT: the zine

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lynyrdwrites · 6 years

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Tempt My Trouble

More EraserMight! Because I want to be able to apply for that ‘zine, and the deadline is rapidly approaching. Title comes from the Bishop Briggs song, which is so EraserMight it hurts.

Can also be read on AO3.

---

The thing is, All Might has something of a reputation to uphold.

Aizawa Shouta on the other hand… well, Shouta is sure he has a reputation. He just doesn’t particularly care about it. Hell, maybe that’s what his reputation is.

Not caring.

But All Might… All Might is the Symbol of Hope and Peace. He’s the hero’s hero. When everything seems lost, just call for All Might and he’ll save the day. For that reason, he has to belong to everyone and no one. Approachable, but just one step beyond touchable.

But Yagi Toshinori?

Toshinori is entirely too touchable.

It’s the dichotomy of the man. As All Might, he’s put on a pedestal, and even Shouta with his general disregard for what people actually think about him would have difficulty touching the man. But when he is Toshinori?

It’s with an almost vicious glee that Shouta likes to wreck Toshinori.

Like now, pressing the taller man’s hips into the bed as he rocks against them. Their pants are still on, but the friction is oh so sweet, and Shouta watches Toshinori avidly, as he closes his eyes and clutches the bedspread, as though he can somehow physically make himself hold on just a bit longer.

Well… that won’t do.

Shouta grasps at Toshinori’s hips and adjusts the angle of his hips as they grind together. Toshinori’s eyes flash open for a moment, and Shouta makes sure that he sees his smirk. That he knows exactly what comes next.

Then he bends his head down, and presses kiss along Toshinori’s neck, making sure that he feels his teeth along his collar bone. It will leave marks, and Shouta doesn’t care.

He wants to leave marks. Maybe he can’t touch Toshinori when he is All Might, but he can leave a mark that will be carried beneath his costume; a secret kept hidden from the whole world, but one that they can both revel in.

“Shou…ta,” Toshinori groans, and Shouta wonders, if he knows how much he loves it – hearing his voice in exactly that tone of voice.

He hums against Toshinori’s skin, because it’s important to make sure that your lover knows what you enjoy. It’s one of the few things Nemuri’s said that Shouta has remembered, rather than blocking out of his memory.

Toshinori groans again, his hips arching against Shouta’s, and he pulls back, smirk still on his lips, to meet Toshinori’s semi-scowl. The blonde’s pants have gone dark over his groin, and Shouta chuckles as he pulls back, half reclining at the end of the bed as Toshinori pushes himself up on his elbows. He looks down at himself, shirtless and a mess in his pants, and makes a grimace of distaste.

“You could have at least let me get out of my clothes,” he points out, and there’s another thing that Toshinori does, that All Might never would. The pout is adorable, in its way.

Not that Shouta would ever admit that to anyone, even to Toshinori. He has some limits, after all. He just usually tosses them out the window in this bed.

“I could have,” Shouta agrees with a nod and a smile that means he’s feeling particularly disagreeable. They both know that, and Toshinori is already looking half exasperated, though there’s also a glint of affection. He always has that glint of affection; Toshinori is a very affectionate man – it makes it even more a pity that the public face he puts into the world has to hold such a carefully maintained distance. “But it’s not fun unless I could sell pictures of the end result for a small fortune.”

“No one would believe I was me anyway,” Toshinori replies. His voice has the usual self-deprecation, but there’s also a hint of pleasure there, as though he’s maybe starting to see what Shouta sees; that the muscles and the ridiculous smile aren’t what make him valuable. As if, maybe, he can find some amusement in the false picture the public has painted. “So no one would pay a fortune for anything.”

“I would,” Shouta replies, and then he moves so he’s on top of Toshinori again, before the other man can tease him for the uncharacteristically sappy remark. They both know that Toshinori loves it, on those rare occasions that Shouta is willing to show his softer side, but it inevitably leaves Shouta feeling so inexplicably bashful that he doesn’t like to give him the chance to react. Instead, he goes on the distraction offensive, easing Toshinori’s too-large pants off of his hips. His own soon join them.

He’ll wreck Toshinori again, before he lets the taller man switch their position, and let himself be wrecked as well.

They’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms, but Toshinori will be gone by the time the sun rises, and Shouta will be halfway to work, when he hears of All Might saving the day again.

And then he’ll worry. Because Toshinori can’t keep being All Might indefinitely – and perhaps there’s a part of him, that resents the Symbol of Hope and Peace, because All Might isn’t the one that Shouta loves. He loves Toshinori.

(Not that he’s said as much. Not that he will. That would be embarrassing.)

But he does. He loves Toshinori – and All Might is slowly killing him.

---

Toshinori has valued himself by his capabilities as All Might for so long that he had forgotten there was more to him than the smiling figure on magazine covers.

Shouta is the first time he’s ever felt as though the truth of him held as much value as the glittering lie. Sometimes, he worries that’s why he clings to the younger man so tightly, when he should be letting go. He has an expiration date these days, and living to see the one you care for die is no way to live at all.

Shouta is also the first time Toshinori has ever felt truly selfish. And for that reason, he stays.

But All Might is still a part of him, and as long as he is able, he will continue to do his part to save the day. Even when it means putting himself in danger.

Even when it means he awakes in the infirmary, the dark haired love of his life – not that Toshi would ever admit that aloud… not yet – sitting in the chair next to his bed, his feet propped up next to Toshi’s own while he balances a stack of essays on his knee, a coffee mug in his free hand.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to share that.”

Shouta looks up, and Toshi weakly points a finger at the mug. It’s obnoxiously bright, but there’s a cat on it, and he figures it must have been a gift from Midnight or Mic. They’ve made it their personal goal to bring more color into Shouta’s life, and everyone knows that the dark haired man is weak for cats.

He apparently isn’t feeling any of that weakness for Toshi, however, because instead of being a kind… well, Toshi isn’t entirely sure what he should call Shouta. Boyfriend seems so insignificant, and not at all accurate when most of their alone time is spent in Shouta’s cramped little apartment, and the few times they are together in public they have to pretend to be distant acquaintances.

But whatever he should call Shouta, it’s not kind. He stares Toshi straight in the eye as he tips his mug back, drinking the contents without ever once breaking eye contact.

“Did you bring that just so you could do that?” Toshi asks, when he sets aside the mug and looks back to his grading.

“I did,” Shouta replies, his tone entirely too agreeable. He only sounds agreeable when he’s about to be stubborn. That was one of the first thing Toshi had learned about him, back before they were ever Toshi-and-Shouta, were instead All Might and Eraserhead. “Recovery Girl has strict orders out. You don’t get caffeine until you’ve made a full recovery. Or anything else that might give you joy.”

There are, admittedly, a severe lack of foods that Toshi is allowed that do give him joy. His diet mostly consists of herbal tea and plain yogurt supplemented with far too many vitamins, and exactly one cup of coffee a day.

The only things that give him joy are the pudding and jello that Shouta keeps well stocked.

“Is that really Recovery Girl’s order?” Toshi asks, struggling to sit up. It takes one severe look from Shouta, and a hint of red in his eyes, for Toshi to sigh and slump back down, letting his head settle into his pillow. “Or are you just in a bad mood.”

Shouta doesn’t say anything, and for a while they let a companionable silence overcome them. Shouta continues to grade, and Toshi lets his eyes drift shut, the sound of the pen scratching on paper making him relax. The silence he can find in these situations is just another reason he continues to hold on, even though it’s selfish. He doesn’t get this kind of silence with anyone else, not when they all expect that All Might smile and words of encouragement.

“If you kill yourself prematurely,” Shouta says at last, his tone quiet, but his words still seeming to echo in the silence of the infirmary. “I will never forgive you. I realize you see your early end as being inevitable, but some of us would prefer you not help it along.”

Toshi opens an eye, but Shouta still isn’t looking at him. In fact, one could almost believe he hadn’t spoken at all, with the single-minded attention he seems to be giving the papers.

Toshi closes his eyes again, settles further into his pillow, and lets a small smile curve his lips.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he says, using the same tone of voice that Shouta had, just to poke at him a little bit. There’s a huff of exasperation, and then a rustling, and Toshi’s smile widens when he feels Shouta run a hand over his head, and press a kiss to his forehead.

“See that you do.”

---

Of course, All Might isn’t the only hero in their relationship, and Eraserhead might not be as inclined to rush into the heat of things, but he still has his moments.

“And you say that I’m helping my death along,” Toshinori huffs when he lets himself into Shouta’s cramped apartment and sees the man himself standing at the stove. Shouta turns to look at him, and then sways, going suddenly pale, his hand clutching at his ribs. “Where is Mic?”

“I sent him home,” Shouta replies, and when Toshi steps up and lifts his shirt, his brow furrowing at the sight of the bandages there, there doesn’t argue, except to say, “it’s really not that bad.”

“You’re barely standing upright.” Toshi lets the shirt fall back down and then looks at him, his brow furrowed. The pot on the stove has chicken soup from a can, and he clicks his teeth in distaste. But he’s pretty sure today was supposed to be grocery day, which means that soup is probably all that’s edible in the apartment. “Go to bed.”

“I need to eat,” Shouta replies stiffly, crossing his arms and then immediately dropping them with a wince when that manages to somehow pull at his injured ribs. “Recovery Girl’s orders. And no, you can’t just order in takeout. I’m injured. Injured people eat soup.”

“It’s from a can,” Toshi replies, his voice rather dry. “I’m sure I can figure out how to heat up canned soup, Shouta. Go to bed.”

He fully intends to man handle the other man into the bedroom himself; if necessary, he’ll go full All Might. In fact, he kind of wants to, if for no other reason than it would irritate Shouta, and right now he deserves to be irritated.

Toshi is a little irritated himself, but he tries not to let it show as he helps Shouta into his bed, tsk-ing at the stiff way he moves, the way he winces as he gets into bed, sitting with the pillows fluffed behind his back. Toshi will accept it for now. He’ll have to sit up to eat anyways.

“You’re unhappy with me,” Shouta notes, and Toshi just hums. Shouta likes to say that he’s easy to read, so he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised that his distaste for the situation is easy to detect.

“I’m proud of you,” Toshi counters, because that is also true. Eraserhead is as much a hero as All Might, and Shouta had saved lives by acting recklessly.

“I knew what I was doing,” Shouta points out after a moment. “I’m highly trained. They wouldn’t let me teach future heroes if I wasn’t.”

As far as jokes go, it’s a terrible attempt, and Toshi hopes the look he gives Shouta makes that clear. And his ribs must be truly painful if Shouta is trying to joke at all. He only has a sense of humor when he’s on pain medication.

“I know,” Toshi says at last. “I just… your early death isn’t inevitable. So I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t court it.”

Shouta quirks his head, looks ready to say something, and then stops, sniffing the air.

“I think the soup is burning,” he finally says, and Toshi curses, rushing out to the kitchen to take care of the situation.

The soup is beyond hope, so he heats up a new can. He chooses beef instead of chicken noodle, just so Shouta knows that he’s still not entirely happy. Shouta rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t complain, and he even lets Toshi join him in the bed as he eats, though he won’t let himself be hand fed. But he does twine their legs together.

It’s nice.

The whole thing is nice.

“I’ll take it under consideration,” Shouta says, once he’s set aside his empty bowl. It takes Toshi far too long to realize that it’s a response to his earlier words, and lets out a snort of laughter. Shouta lets him tuck him into a laying position, and he falls asleep, his side pressed to Toshi’s.

He could get used to this – perhaps he already has.

It might be worth avoiding an early death for.

#EraserMight #EraserMight fic #it's kinda sorta fluffy #also everyone should listen to Bishop Briggs #just go do it #you won't regret it

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abkdkzine · 6 years

Text

A Guide to Making Portfolios

Contributor applications are open, but I noticed that there’s a few people who may be confused or don’t know what certain parts of our guidelines mean. So, here’s a simple guide showing how to make a neat portfolio that obeys our instructions and requirements!

(I kind of refrained from making a bunch of lighthearted jokes or comments though, so I might’ve missed my chance on showing just how dorky I can get, haha!)

I’ll be covering both art portfolios and writing portfolios in this guide, but I also hope this helps out anyone who might need this sort of information in the future because this information doesn’t apply to just our zine! With that said, I’ll start with the very basics: getting to know cloud storage and sharing services, or in this case, Google!

Technically speaking, portfolios are basically any and all of the platforms you post your content into (like Tumblr, Instagram, DeviantArt, etc.). But, when you’re applying for something that requires you to show your works in a professional manner (such as in fanzines or IRL jobs), knowing how to organise your works can help you out in the long run!

Google is such a versatile platform which allows everyone to have access to all (if not almost all) of their organisational and work-related products! As such, if you have a Gmail account, you should also have this wonderful privilege. One of their products, Google Drive, lets you store your files and organise them any way you want them! There’s a little box icon on the top right of the browser which will reveal all of the products you can use too, so if you don’t know what they are, it’s a good idea to explore a bit on your own time.

Through Google Drive, you’ll be creating a folder which will serve as the place your files will be uploaded into. Keep in mind though that Google is not the only platform that offers cloud services! Dropbox is an example of another popular platform among others.

In this example, I’ll be referring to our zine’s contributor applications. Make a new folder in your Google Drive by clicking on that big ol’ “New” button, and use that button again to upload 3-8 of your works for our zine’s applications. Or, drag and drop files. It’s surprisingly fun to do and watch!

Be sure that your folder’s privacy settings is open! Just activate the folder’s shareable link (as in anyone with the link can have access to it), and it’ll let us look at all of your examples without trouble!

But, why do you want us to do this, you might ask?

Like I mentioned earlier, knowing how to organise your things helps you out in the long run! But in our case, if an applicant chooses to send us a form with a portfolio that doesn’t quite follow our requirements (such as putting an entire gallery or website with all their works)...

Well, it’s going to be an inconvenience to the moderators because there are going to be a lot of applications to go through within a limited time frame. We simply won’t have the time to look for your best works in a portfolio showcasing all of your pieces. We set a maximum limit of 8 examples for portfolios for that reason!

Any added works will not be considered in the examples, and any applications with galleries or websites sent to us as their portfolios will have a VERY low chance of being considered at all.

Instead, make that neat little folder shown previously and individually add the files you want to share! It won’t take up a lot of your time, I promise. That way, you can make sure you’ve chosen your most quality works, and we can review your application in a timely manner! This method is the most preferred way for us to receive portfolios.

Writers, if you are unfamiliar with Google Drive, this process can apply to you as well. Make a new folder, label it appropriately, and upload your files! Word documents can be transferred instantly, so fear not for your formatting – you’re in good hands. However, if you are concerned about it, I suggest that you take a look at Google Docs. You can copy and paste your works there instead, either all three written examples in one document or three separate documents in the folder.

Realistically, not following the rules sets a bad impression on the people reviewing your portfolio. We want to see your best work, and we want you to feel confident in your examples! If you show us that you can’t follow simple and easy tasks such as organising your works, then we’ll get the impression that you’ll do the same elsewhere. Regard this as though you are preparing for an actual job interview because this helps with your reputation as well.

So, what can I do to ensure my chances to be considered?

This is a section that is more for art than it is for writings; but here’s a general consensus for what kind of submissions or examples are expected and what is not expected!

A bad portfolio consists of little variety among the shown examples. If your examples are mostly made of your subjects in several different angles, that’s alright, but if there’s a lack of principles of art (such as rhythm, movement, proportion, variety, etc.) then the portfolio wouldn’t really be very interesting to the judges. Sketches, while some look nice, aren’t good examples because zines require complete pieces!

For written stories, the worst possible examples out of so much more that you can present in a portfolio are: bad understanding of characterisation (out-of-character factor), mediocre understanding of grammar (or unedited versions), and uninteresting.

A good portfolio shows a clear understanding of the elements and principles of art. There’s variety among the pieces which shows creativity and thought. Properties like different colour schemes, addition of environments, angles, and etc. are things that make portfolios interesting to look at.

For writing, having a good grasp of grammar, understanding of characters, and personal style are good indicators that your writing is well done and given some thought! In other words, it allows the readers to feel engaged with, which in turn makes it more interesting.

But, most of all:

Your pieces have to be related to the zine’s theme! It’s different for every zine, of course, but generally, application reviewers look to see if the applicant is genuine about liking the concept(s) behind their projects, and that the applicant can portray or illustrate the subjects of the zine well with the skills presented among the examples.

Wanderlust revolves exclusively around BakuDeku, and so, seeing examples with both of them featured in your works will guarantee you, one-hundred percent, a spot for consideration.

Sounds good to me! But, can you clarify what to avoid?

As previously suggested, guidelines are made to make sure the reviewing process goes as smoothly as possible for the moderators or judges. I’ll be using our own guidelines for this example as well!

Since many zines like to request for a number of linked examples in their forms for their portfolios, we understand that it might be a force of habit or something that some people may consider easy to do. But, I’ll say this once again: we require prospective contributors to create their portfolios through a shared folder (lots of cloud services exist!) because it saves us, the moderators, a lot of time from copying and pasting every single link!

When you show us your social media links, don’t do it like this:

Tumblr: @ariririsu

Twitter: @ariririsu

Give us the actual links to your platforms! This also saves us a lot of time instead of typing it down. We would be ever so grateful and happy if you do this.

Keep your examples up to date! We don’t want to see what you could do back then. We want to see what you can offer us now. It’s like selling a bunch of pastries at a bake sale, but you’re selling us pastries made two years ago. Your most recent works gives us the most accurate and best representation of your skills.

Once again, incomplete sketches or written drafts are no-no’s. If you want to know what I’m talking about when I mentioned the principles and elements of art, here’s a neat little roster that breaks down what makes compositions in artworks more three-dimensional and interesting.

Going over the specified number of examples will not affect your chances of being accepted in the zine. So, if you add two or three more works in your portfolio, rest assured that we will not even look at them. For the same reason I mentioned beforehand: there is going to be a lot of applicants, and we want to get the reviewing process done as soon as possible to maintain our schedule. Less mess, less stress.

Some Pieces of Advice:

Have some confidence in your works! If you feel super shy and you’re still building up that confidence, the judges would be more than happy to supply you with feedback if you ask for it. Their feedback will not be destructive, but it will be meant to help you improve your skills. Take whatever advice they give you and at least put them into consideration too!

Zines and other huge projects like these take a lot of your time. One thing that I’ve seen people commonly do is that they miscalculate the amount of time and commitment they can put into these projects, and they often have to leave them. Doing so will negatively affect your reputation. So, when you’re not sure if you can dedicate a lot of time to the zine, we highly suggest that you don’t apply to keep the game fair to others who want to be in the zine as well.

Communication is VERY important in these projects. Never ever disappear on the projects without saying something because it’s going to cause the moderators to have to find ways to contact you and be very worried if something happened to cause the sudden disappearance. Like the previous point, doing so will negatively affect your reputation.

Just so you know, you’ve got time to make your portfolios if you don’t have enough examples! You can literally apply at the last minute and it would still count!

Again, be sure that your Google Drive folder’s settings are shared to those who has the link!

And with that, I hope I was able to make a nice guide which emphasises certain rules in our own zine guidelines as well as how to make a good portfolio! I’m not sure if there are other guides like these around, but I hope I got a bunch of general zine rules correct.

We look forward to seeing your applications! Our zine applications close on January 12, and we can’t wait to see what you have in store for us!

#bkdk #bakudeku #katsudeku #zines #anime zine #wanderlust bkdk zine #bkdk zine #update #contributor apps #mod ari speaks #mod maj speaks #guide

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kumeko · 4 years

Photo

A/N: For the Summer Lovin’ zine, where I wanted to do a light, fluffy, summer romance. With bonus Steph and Tim teasing Damian (as is their right) and Cassandra helping out where she could.

…

Endless fields of unripe wheat. A cloudless blue sky stretching as far as the eye can see. The occasional house poking out of an otherwise flat terrain. Damian stared outside the car window and clicked his tongue. No wonder his father had declined to come; there were no shadows here to hide in, only light.

“What’s the matter?” Stephanie asked, an impish smile on her face as she poked his cheek. “Bored?”

“Of course not.” He swatted her hand away but that only made her laugh. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?” From the driver’s seat, Tim glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. If Stephanie’s smile was teasing, his smirk was downright malicious. “Scared you’ll have fun?”

Damian crossed his arms. He would never for the life of him understand what his father saw in that fake Robin. No, it went deeper than that—what did he see in most of his proteges? Stephanie didn’t take anything seriously, Tim didn’t have the skills, Dick was too fun-loving, and Jason had no control. The only not disappointing one in the bunch was Cassandra, and Damian feared that one day the others would infect her as well. He should have gotten rid of them while he had the chance. “We should be training, Drake,” Damian replied, irritation leaking into his voice.

“An important part of training is taking breaks.” Stephanie poked his cheek again. He was going to break her finger one day. “It’s summer, school’s out, and Bruce and Dick have Gotham covered. We can have a little vacation, the world’s not going to destroy itself without us.”

“Without you, maybe,” Damian sneered. The effect was ruined as she pulled his cheek.

“Without us,” she repeated, still sporting that insufferable smile. “If it’s serious, they’ll call us. It’s not like the League doesn’t know where the Kent farmhouse is.”

Damian wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Surely the most dangerous man in the planet should have his parents hidden somewhere secure, instead of having their name on file. Villains broke into the JLA all the time as it was; it wouldn’t be that long before someone stumbled upon this badly kept secret.

“You’re wasting your breath, Steph.” Tim shrugged, his eyes on the road. “He doesn’t know what a break is.”

From the front passenger seat, Cassandra gave Damian a sympathetic smile. She had been silent till now, more than content to just listen. Which was probably why he preferred her to the others; she wasn’t a blabbermouth like the others. “A break can help your body recover,” she offered.

At least that was practical advice for once. Damian leaned back in his seat. “I suppose.”

“You’re such a softie to her and Dick.” Stephanie leaned back into her seat, finally leaving him alone.

“It’s too bad Dick couldn’t come,” Tim sighed. “He could have muzzled the brat.”

“Well, while we’re meeting our favourite aliens, he’s got his own alien to meet.” Stephanie waggled her brows before she and Tim burst into a fit of laughter. Leaning forward, she rested a hand on Cass’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ll share mine with you.”

“Okay?” Looking confused, Cassandra nodded.

“And Damian’s got Jon,” Tim chimed in, exchanging a look with Steph.

Wisely, Damian kept his mouth shut. With these two, almost any response he gave would only be ammo.

-x-

“Damian!”

He barely had time to turn around before Jon barreled into him, knocking him over. Landing flat on his back, Damian grunted as his breath rushed out of him. Jon had little restraint in the best of times, and almost none when he was emotional. Frowning at the mop of dark hair on his chest, he rolled his friend off. “Kent.”

“Kent,” Tim and Steph said at the same time and he didn’t have to see them to know they were wearing identical smiles.

“Damian!” Pushing himself off the ground, Jon shot him a grumpy look.

Quietly, Damian muttered, “Fine, Jon.”

The idiot duo cackled behind him and he wasn’t sure if Jon’s bright smile was worth it. Picking himself off the ground, Damian didn’t bother to dust off his clothes before hauling Jon up. “Where’s my room?” he asked, dragging Jon along as he headed to the main house. “And please tell me those two are sleeping in the barn.”

“Nah, they’ll be rooming with Conner and Kara, just like you’ll be with me.” Jon wrapped an arm around his back, almost skipping as they headed in. “It’ll be fun!”

Fun. That wasn’t the word he’d use for it. Perhaps he could at least sabotage their beds after this.

-x-

Balancing a dagger between his two fingers, Damian studied the target. It was perhaps one of the simplest targets he’d practiced with, a static bale of hay only 50 yards down. A single red x made of cardboard sat on the bale. There was no challenge in this. Still, some practice was better than none. Raising his hand behind him, Damian whipped his arm forward and tossed the dagger.

With a solid thwack, the dagger hit the target dead center.

As expected. Child’s play, really.

As though to cut into his preening, Jon applauded behind him. “Wow,” he cheered, his voice deadpan. “That was amazing.” Sarcasm dripped from his words as he hovered over the ground, giving Damian the most bored look possible.

“There’s nothing else here to use,” Damian sniped back, not appreciating the reaction. It figured this was the place the Supers called home, this land of sunlight. The Kents owned few weapons, if one could call them that. A shotgun, several farming tools, and an oddly sharp kitchen knife were their defenses of choice. Miraculously, no supervillains had dared to take over this quaint town, and he could only chalk it up to luck. Probably the same luck that allowed all the Supers to fly without a single neighbour to report them.

Not finished, Jon leaned forward, shielding his eyes with a hand. Fake squinting, he studied the target. “That’s, what, ten in a row? All in the same spot, somehow?” The scorn disappeared from his tone and Jon gave him a thumbs up. “That’s actually really cool.”

Cool was again not a word Damian would use but he accepted the compliment. “If I couldn’t do that much, I’d hang up my cape.”

“Right, right.” Jon landed on the ground next to him, clapping him on the back. “And you’re doing ten more of these?”

“I need to keep up the practice,” Damian muttered, distracted by the tingling in his back. It had been happening recently, at Jon’s point of contact, and he wondered if it was some uncontrolled Kyptonian strength running through his flesh. “Even if the practice is subpar.”

“Of course.” There was a mischievous twinkle in Jon’s eyes. “But you’re just going to get the same result. And it’s boring.”

Rankled, Damian pulled away. “Practice is not—”

“There’s more fun ways to practice instead.” Jon pounced, tackling him to the ground. “Let’s fight.”

Well, that was certainly something Damian could get behind. Flipping them over, he smirked. “You’re on.”

-x-

“So, Damian, was it?” Ma Kent smiled at him kindly as she exited the kitchen. The smell of cooked chicken wafted through the air, filling the dining room. In her hands was a bright, flowery plastic bowl filled with Brussel sprouts. “I heard a lot about you.”

Damian stared at her. The dining room was empty save for them—the others hadn’t yet come back from whatever wasteful endeavours they had planned and Jon was feeding Krypto. While he had begrudgingly accepted the fact that he’d have to eat dinner with everyone, there had better not be any expectations of conversation. He had planned to let Jon do all the talking, to cover up his silence, but that wasn’t possible right now. When Ma Kent smiled at him, he reluctantly replied, “I see.”

“Ahaha, got a way with words, I see.” Chuckling, she set down the bowl. A bowl that did not match any of plates. Actually, now that he was paying attention, none of the big serving bowls matched, all of them hideous plastic monstrosities. Noticing his scornful expression, she rubbed her neck sheepishly. “I know what you’re thinking. I used to use my good china whenever someone came, but after two dinner attacks and one food fight, I’ve learned my lesson. If the powers are out, my plates stay in.”

“I see.” Not that he had asked for clarifications. Not that he was curious in any way, shape, or form about it.

“You really do have only one mode.” Laughing, she returned to the kitchen. “Like father, like son. Glad the rest of your lot didn’t turn out like this; don’t think I could have handled that much grumpiness at my table.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he muttered under his breath.

“Man, Krypto was hungry tonight!” Jon tumbled in through the window, ecstatic. Catching Damian’s expression, he cocked his head. “What, did I miss anything?”

Resisting the urge to cross his arms (because he wasn’t grumpy, he was stoic), Damian gave him a surly look. “Nothing.”

Ma Kent chuckled again. “Nothing, hun. Now make sure to wash those hands.”

-x-

The stars were bright here. Sprawled on the roof, Damian leaned back and studied the night sky above him. Without Gotham’s pollution, the milky way was visible for once. Stars glittered above him, taking advantage of the moonless night. He had almost forgotten what the night sky could look like, what it had those nights long ago when he lived in the desert, training under his mother’s watchful eye.

An almost silent presence approached him and Damian discretely reached into his pocket for a dagger. The stranger’s hand touched his, stilling it, and he looked up to find Cassandra Cain. She offered him a smile. “It is silent here,” she murmured, sitting down beside him.

“I suppose.” Damian glanced at her, then at the fields below. It looked like a dark sea, threatening to swallow them whole. An owl hooted, crickets chirped, and all in all, it was far quieter here than it was in the city. Just when had he gotten used to the never-ending honking? Even the smell here was different. The farm felt clean.

“It is,” she corrected, hugging her knees. She closed her eyes, listening. “It is…not bad to relax.”

Not bad, perhaps, but not good either. Not when there were lives at stake in Gotham. Damian wouldn’t call himself a hero, not by any stretch of the word, but Gotham was Batman’s. Gotham was his and he was loathe to let its citizens die when they under his protection. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” Cassandra closed her eyes. Words were hard for her, action easier—perhaps one of the things he respected so much about her. When she spoke, her words meant something, they were considered and honest. “Relaxing…you can recover. Recharge. See things differently.” Opening her eyes now, she smiled at him, a waxing moon. “See what you are protecting.”

Damian stared. He was too late; Cassandra had been infected by the others. “I don’t need to see—”

“Damian!” Before he could finish his sentence, Jon floated down beside him. Dressed in bright blue pjs his mother had to have bought for him, Jon landed on his right. “What’re you doing up here alone?”

“Alone?” Damian looked at his left once more. Empty. Cassandra was gone. Even if her brain had rotted, her skills remained, and he didn’t know whether to be impressed or irritated at himself. Turning back to Jon, he shrugged. “Reflecting.”

“Reflecting on what?” Jon raised a brow before asking. “Wait, is this one of those bat-broods Dad was talking about? How you guys all go to a corner at some point or another and just sulk?”

Speechless, Damian gaped, his jaw hanging loose. Of all the things he expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them. That wasn’t even on his least likely list.

“I mean, I can’t picture Steph sulking, but maybe she wasn’t Robin long enough to get the broods.” Jon sat down next to him, bumping shoulders. “Or maybe you took all of them?”

“I’m not sulking,” Damian growled, resisting the urge to hurl Jon off the roof. Not that it would do any good, he’d just fly back and be twice as mocking about it. What was it with the Kents and their presumptions?

“Then what?” Jon’s eyes lit up and he hit his fist on his empty palm, as though he’d solved a case. “Stargazing?”

It was as good an explanation as any. Better, actually, than his own, considering he had none. “Sure.”

“Prepare to be amazed!” Jon pointed up, a wide smile on his face. “A city boy like you, you haven’t seen half of these stars before.”

“City boy?” Damian scoffed. “You’re not much better.”

“I’ve been in the country plenty of times,” Jon retorted, his mood still bright. It was like sitting next to the sun. “Besides, I can fly. Dad’s takes me up all the time to see the stars.”

A very frivolous waste of power. No wonder Bruce worried about this family.

“Anyways, see that star over there?” Jon leaned closer, wrapping an arm around Damian’s back to bring him closer. “So that’s part of the big dipper.”

Of all the stars to start with, the big dipper? Really? Damian didn’t know if he should be insulted or not. It wasn’t like he was much of a ‘city boy’ himself; growing up in the desert, his mother made sure he could navigate just as easily at night as he did the day.

He could say he had the best tutors, that he knew every constellation by heart.

He could say that Jon was pointing at the wrong dipper, he meant the one slightly below it.

Damian could say any or all of those things, but for once in his life he kept quiet. Jon was smiling and he didn’t always have to prove he was the smartest person in the room.

-x-

“So, any bets?” Steph asked, shielding her eyes as she leaned back and squinted at the sky. Despite the intense July heat, she stood away from the shade. Above them, small specks in the bright sky, were Conner, Kara, and Jon. They raced through the air, sometimes coming low enough to hear their laughter, other times they were barely visible.

“On what?” Tim asked. Like her, he was staring up at the sky. Unlike her, he was smart enough to stay next to the barn and the meager relief it provided. Perhaps he did have a modicum of intelligence after all.

Not that Damian would applaud him. Using a handful of pebbles, Damian started flicking them at distant targets, smirking when they hit with a satisfying thwink. Perhaps Jon could hide his training dummies and Tim could hide his weapons, but they couldn’t force him to be idle the entire time he was here. Glancing at Cassandra, who was sitting nonchalantly on the ground next to him, a pleased smile on her face, Damian was perplexed. How could she handle this?

“The next Super. Like, it’s obvious that Cass is the next Batman, but I dunno about them.” Ignoring Damian’s glare, she finally strolled into the shade. She leaned against the barn door and crossed her arms. “It’s between Conner and Jon.”

“So Kara’s not interested?” Tim stroked his chin thoughtfully. After humming for a few minutes, he turned to Cassandra and asked, “Who’d you rather work with?”

Unable to handle the indignancy anymore, Damian barked, “I’m the next Batman.”

“Sure.” Stephanie rested a hand on her hip, giving him a pitying look. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Go easy on him, it’s not easy to find out that he’ll be Robin forever.” Tim shook his head sadly. “All of that time, all of mommy’s promises that’d he’d get the job, it must be crushing.”

“What?” he squawked.

“He couldn’t even accept that Cass is Bruce’s favourite.” Coming over, Stephanie squeezed his shoulder. “And then there’s Dick—you’re maybe third? Maybe?”

Picking a pebble out of his hand, Cassandra flicked it at the bushes. A bird shot out of it, startled. “Either of them…are fine,” she answered slowly. “Conner, then Jon?”

Et tu, Brutus? Damian turned to Cassandra as she tossed yet another pebble with pinpoint accuracy. He should have realized earlier that they were all after his job, that there was no one here he could trust.

“Ah, Conner takes it on for a little before giving it to Jon.” Stephanie nodded sagely. “True, that’s also in the running.” Her hair fell in front of her as a flyby occurred and she quickly pushed back her golden locks. “You know Jon actually hangs out with them?” Wrapping an arm around Damian’s shoulder, she bemoaned, “Why can’t our baby be so friendly?”

“It would be…weird,” Cassandra pointed out, getting up now. She patted him on the back. “He is…different.”

“Who is?” Kara landed on the ground, her hair looking like a wild nest. It seemed being Kryptonian didn’t protect them entirely from physics.

“Damian, but you already knew that.” Stephanie retreated before he could attack her. “What’s up?”

Kara glared at him before smiling at Stephanie. “A race! We’ll each pick one of you up and see who can fly the fastest. So, Steph or Cass?”

“Cass!” Stephanie volunteered, leaning against Cassandra. “I’ve had plenty of flights. It’s a sacrifice, but someone has to do it.”

“Sacrifice.” Tim rolled his eyes. “You just don’t want to mess your hair.”

“Both things can be true.” She stuck her tongue out.

By now, Jon and Conner had landed as well, standing next to Damian and Tim respectively. Conner smirked cockily. “We’ve got this in the bag.”

“Yeah, we did this every day in the Teen Titans.” Tim high-fived Conner. “It’ll be too easy.”

“Oh, just you wait and see!” Kara stood next to Cassandra, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve practiced.”

“We’ll win!” Jon declared, grabbing Damian’s hand. Leaning closer, he whispered, “And no matter what, you’re my Batman.”

“Huh?” Damian tried to look at Jon but before he could, he was already in the air and the race had started.

On that day, Damian discovered that his stomach was both stronger and weaker than he’d expected.

-x-

At nine pm, it was dark. Dark in a different way than Gotham got—for all the narrow alleys and forgotten warehouses, it was never truly devoid of light. Whether it was a flickering streetlamp or the semi-blocked lights of an office, there was light somewhere.

Here, though, in the middle of nowhere, it was pitch dark. Damian could just make out Jon’s figure sitting next to him. The others, still sitting near the barbeque a short distance away, were impossible to see. The only thing visible were the stars above, as disgustingly bright as ever. Somehow, the sky never turned truly dark, a thing he had forgotten. It had been too long since he’d been in the desert, since he’d left the city behind.

“I’m glad you came.” Even without looking, he knew Jon was smiling. He was always smiling, always moving, always something, like his face didn’t know how not express his emotions, like his body would combust if he stayed still.

Damian didn’t bother to reply. Leaning forward on the dock edge, he skimmed his shoe against the still waters, watching the dark ripples warp the galaxy below. The only thing rivalling the stars were the fireflies drifting lazily nearby, yellow spots against the black.

Unfazed (and Damian didn’t want to think about when that happened, about when Jon stopped getting angry at his silence and just accepted it), Jon rested his hand on Damian’s, threading their fingers together. It was an oddly intimate sensation. Damian didn’t mind it for some reason. “It’s a lot more fun when you’re around. I wish you didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”

This time, Jon’s stare was expectant. Damian glanced at him, then back at the fireflies. “It wasn’t a complete waste,” he muttered, a half-truth. Perhaps there was something to vacations, but he loathed to admit it.

Jon laughed, seeing through him. “Knew you’d like it here.”

Feeling a little prickly, Damian glared at him. “Don’t act like you know—”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?” When Damian didn’t say anything, Jon leaned closer. “I know you.”

Before Damian could react, Jon’s lips were on his cheek, a warm pressure that was all too temporarily. His jaw fell slack. His skin burned. For once, his words failed him and he felt like a simpleton.

“If I knew that’d shut you up, I’d have done it ages ago.” Jon smirked, looking playful.

“Jon!” Pa Kent yelled. “We’re making smores.”

“Save me some chocolate!”

And just like that, Jon leaped to his feet, dashing away, and Damian still didn’t know what to say.

-x-

The roof was empty when he sat on it. Cassandra wasn’t there to give advice. Jon wasn’t there, laughing as he strung together stars like they were the pearls, creating tapestries on the sky above. There was just complete and utter silence, just as Damian preferred.

While his skin had cooled down, his heart hadn’t, and he tried to meditate. Crossing his legs, he emptied his mind. Jon’s lips had been soft. He emptied his mind. His hand was rough. He emptied his mind. Jon—

And maybe he had been wrong before; it was too late for himself. He’d been infected by all these damnable people around him, to the point he had actually considered asking Tim Drake of all people for advice. Friendship, family, love—

It was too late. He had all of them and as loathe as he was to let them in, he was even worse about letting them go.

-x-

“So.” The confident Jon of yesterday was gone, leaving a more nervous boy in its wake. He was constantly fidgeting, his eyes darting all over like he didn’t know where to look. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he probably hadn’t slept.

Good. He deserved a little suffering for leaving like that, for forcing Damian to think about his feelings. “So?” he drawled out, relishing in the little flinch Jon gave.

They were standing in front of the Kent’s house, in the cool morning air. For the first time in two weeks, the sun wasn’t beating down on him and Damian couldn’t wait to return to the air conditioning of the Wayne manor. Already, the others were packing up the car, leaving only him and Jon to say their goodbyes.

Or, well, whatever it was that Jon was trying to say. Damian tapped his foot on the ground, raising a brow when Jon didn’t say anything.

“See you later?” Jon managed weakly.

Sighing, Damian tossed him a bone. “Even a stopped clock is right twice. This vacation wasn’t terrible, I’m not adverse to doing it again. However, we are making this up with double the amount of work when we get back.”

Jon blinked. “You still want to be partners?”

Damian nodded. “Yes, I thought you had superhearing?”

“And the other thing?” Jon asked, stepping closer.

It took all of Damian’s willpower to not step back, not even when Jon was close enough to touch, to kiss. Feeling a familiar flush on the back of his neck, he coughed and looked away. “That…that was fine too.”

“Really?” Jon’s voice was filled with an earnest hope and Damian’s stomach flip-flopped.

“Don’t make me repeat it,” Damian growled, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.

“Damian!” That was the only warning he got before Jon’s arms were around him once more, his lips pressed against his own. Behind him, he heard a bag drop and of all the people to bear witness to this, it had to be the morons in his family.

It was hard to pay attention to both them and Jon, to the pure joy that radiated off his—Damian didn’t know what to call Jon anymore. Friend didn’t feel appropriate. Whatever it was, he’d figure it out later, when they were alone and they didn’t have the peanut gallery around. Gingerly, he wrapped an arm around Jon, pulling him closer. When they finally parted to take a breath, he glared at Jon. “Did you have to do it in front of them?”

“That’s your first response?” Jon grinned, leaning close to kiss him on the nose. Reluctantly letting go, Jon stepped back. “See you in a week.”

“Like I’m letting you off the hook that easily,” Damian grumbled, pretty sure his entire face was red now. While he took after his mother, his brown skin could only hide so much, and unfortunately his carmates eyes were sharper than most.

Ignoring the stares, he marched to the car and plunked himself into the front passenger seat. He was not going to deal with Stephanie’s teasing a second time around, not when she had more ammo. At least Drake would have to keep his eyes on the road.

-x-

The entire car ride back was filled with Tim and Stephanie singing, “Damian and Jon, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

Damian had never been more tempted to kill.

#damijon #damian wayne #Jonathan Kent #robin #batman #superboy #fanfic #dc comics

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