#and for so long that I ended up heading a zine for him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hinataoc · 4 months

Text

It's finally time to share my fic for @shatteredestiny-zine aka Dark Road Zine! I had quite the time figuring out what to write about for this zine. There's so much to explore! It's a part of the fandom I don't think is focused on enough, so this was the perfect opportunity to dive into it.

The entire team was just lovely and there are so many incredible fics and artworks throughout the zine that explore each of the characters. I personally chose to explore none other than Luxu. He's an intriguing one and I've always wondered how his possession powers worked. So that's what I decided to focus on!

Each writer also had an artist or two creating illustrations for their pieces! One of the artists for my story was the lovely @amyhayanora <3 Which I have the permission to share alongside the story! She found the soul of the piece and laid it bare. The combined Stations of Awakening and the desaturation on Bragi's half, it captured the atmosphere perfectly.

-----

Cycle of Existence (1911 words) by CurryFury13 Summary: Luxu stands amongst the gravestones of his fallen 'friends'. It's not the first time he's been in this position, nor will it be the last. The cycle of his existence continues… There's just one last loose end to tie up before he moves on.

----

Lightning pulsed through the thick clouds, flashing with strikes of whites and blues against the heavy gray. Rumbling thunder followed, roaring with unrestrained fury. It reverberated between the rows of tombstones, echoing and carrying across the cemetery like a wail. Luxu stood on a worn path, silent and listening. He wore a thick black coat. It was long, encapsulating, and concealed his identity beneath a hood that shrouded even his eyes from the world around him. Sharp rain bounced off the leather of his coat, spattering to the cobbled ground below.

He remained perfectly still while the whistling wind billowed the bottom of his coat. His gaze went from one gravestone to the next, reading the freshly etched names—Hermod, Urd, Vor… Bragi. He paused at the final name and for the first time since arriving he let out a noise—a single, breathless scoff that was lost in the wailing of the storm.

With a single motion, he pushed back his hood. Rain darkened his auburn hair, sticking it to his cheeks. He leaned his head up towards the clouds, welcoming the storm and closing his eyes. Another life, there and gone again.

“There…” he said softly. “One last time.”

“So that’s it then?” A voice asked from inside his mind, fleeting as if a stray thought.

Luxu’s brow raised at the voice, though he wasn’t surprised. With a flick of his wrist wisps of darkness sprouted from the ground. Blues and purples surrounded him, concealing the storm. Then everything went quiet. Luxu took in the silence, letting out a breath before opening his eyes. Stained glass spread out beneath his feet, brilliantly glowing from an ethereal light beneath it. Soft, yet vibrant hues splashed over Luxu’s coat, creating a shimmering kaleidoscope across the leather. He paid no mind to the light display, however. It was a familiar sight—too familiar sometimes.

He recalled the Master of Masters referring to it as a Station of Awakening—a physical representation of a heart. Or two, in Luxu’s case. Deep fissures webbed down the center of the intricate stained glass, each half depicting a different heart. One belonged to Luxu, the other to whichever hapless host Luxu decided to prey upon that century. At least, that was how his first host, Brain, had put it.

“Guess it’s about time you move on to the next victim, huh?” The same voice from before asked.

Luxu looked towards the other station. Its colors were fading. White cracks leaked over the faces depicted across it. Bragi sat in the center of it. He was kneeling, disheveled, his skin pasty white compared to the warmth it had in the outside world… when Luxu wore his face.

Bragi’s tired eyes didn’t even feign Luxu a glance. He stared at the glass, his thin fingertip tracing the veiny white cracks beneath him.

In return Luxu crossed his arms and scoffed in a playful way he often recalled the Master of Masters doing to him. “Now you don’t have to go saying it like that. Last I checked, I did you a favor.”

A pained laugh shook Bragi’s shoulders. “Fair enough… Still, you didn’t answer my question.”

The sharp edge of Luxu’s smirk dipped and he looked at Bragi, studying him. Seeing him now reminded him of when he’d first chosen Bragi as his carrier, host, whatever anyone wanted to call it. A sick boy — lost, forgotten, nearly on his deathbed. No one would have noticed him dying. Luxu liked to tell himself he gave him another chance at life. Brought him along for an adventure he never would have had the chance to go on otherwise. But it all ended the same way it always did. Back where they started.

Luxu turned away. He gazed out at the stirring cosmos beyond their Stations. “Gotta move on at some point.”

Silence was all he got in reply.

The silence stretched. Their breaths filled the quiet, Luxu’s long and even, Bragi’s labored and hoarse. Luxu’s grip tightened along his arms. The wait never got easier —w aiting for life to fade. He should have been using the time to find another host, but he didn’t move. It ate at him, nagging at the back of his mind as he watched the floating colors against the black emptiness around them. He needed to go, move on, but hearing Bragi’s slowing breaths… leaving didn’t seem right just yet.

He peeked over his shoulder and Bragi’s eyes averted to his fading Station. Luxu watched him for a moment, seeing the furrowed brows as Bragi’s finger repeatedly scratched the glass beneath him.

Luxu looked back to the cosmos. “You gonna say it or are you planning on stewing?”

Glass cracked, sounding like twinkling chimes as thin fissures webbed from where Bragi rested. Bragi swallowed thickly. “Why didn’t you do anything…?”

“Why didn’t I —what exactly?” Luxu asked, feeling Bragi’s glare against his back.

“You knew what Baldr was doing,” Bragi clarified, his voice trembling. “Why didn’t you save…?” His voice trailed off and he sucked in a breath. “I thought they were our friends.”

As if…

The thought immediately crossed Luxu’s mind and he winced. Over the years, losing friends didn’t carry the sting it used to. He looked up, even though the same cosmos awaited him in what should have been the sky.

“Figured by now you’d know the drill,” Luxu said finally. “Can’t draw too much attention, can’t interfere. I’m just here to watch.”

Silence stretched after his words fell to fading echoes. An entire minute passed before Bragi spoke again, “I guess I thought they’d be the exception.”

A scoff escaped Luxu before he could catch it. “You make one exception and suddenly everyone begs to be the next.”

“Speaking from experience?” Bragi asked.

Luxu chuckled and turned around. The cracks in Bragi’s Station were already thicker and spreading. He walked towards the center fissure, where their Stations met together; it was wider than before. Luxu traced his foot along it, watching loose shards fall away into the abyss below.

“It’s been quite the ride, hasn’t it?” Luxu asked.

Bragi watched Luxu for a moment, then looked away.

Blowing out a breath, Luxu straightened out his coat. “Well, I suppose the hunt begins.”

-----------------------------------

Even at night, the flowers in Radiant Garden were vibrant with color. Luxu walked amongst them, his attention on the towering castle in the garden’s center, rather than admiring the beauty around him. He stopped at the bottom of a stairwell that led right up to the main gates, but he didn’t move any further.

“This is the place,” Luxu whispered.

“ Are you sure?” Bragi’s voice asked weakly inside his mind.

Luxu smirked. “Word has it there’s a crazy old scientist in there studying hearts. And he’s got a whole lot of apprentices in there helping.” He turned around and disappeared into the garden, finding a shrouded corner to settle into. “So yeah, I’m sure.”

Bragi didn’t reply right away. A warm breeze whistled through the trees, swaying the flowers and twirling the occasional petal in the air. Luxu leaned back against a tree trunk, crossing his arms and watching the castle. “Now we wait and find the right person for the job.”

“ You seem excited about this…” Bragi muttered.

Luxu shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re about to ruin someone’s life,” Bragi started to say before breaking into a cough.

“Did I ruin yours?” Luxu asked.

He half expected the silence he got in response. Looking around from his hiding spot, he scanned over the garden and the castle grounds. Two burly men stood guard at the gates, lances firmly in their hands. A giggling couple waltzed along the outskirts of the garden, hands held and the rest of the world invisible to them.

Then Luxu saw him.

A man sat alone on a bench, hands linked between his knees as he stared up at the castle. He kept to himself so much that upon first glance, Luxu hadn’t noticed him. Luxu smirked, a familiar fire igniting in his chest. With a flick of his wrist, darkness wisped around him and his black coat transformed into Bragi’s clothes. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the familiar blue hoodie and came out from the darkness.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked as he approached the bench.

The man startled, his brown eyes darting over to Luxu. He ran his fingers through his black hair and cleared his throat, scooting over.

“Thanks.” Luxu smiled and sat beside him.

He gazed up at the castle and leaned back in his seat. The man watched him for a moment before looking back to the castle as well.

“Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” Luxu asked.

The man nodded but didn’t reply.

Luxu continued, “You ever thought about seeing what’s inside?”

The man looked at Luxu from the corner of his eyes, then back to the castle. His brows knitted together before he answered, “I hope to soon.”

“What do you think is in there?” Luxu slightly turned towards him.

Straightening, the man said. “The sort of things you couldn’t comprehend.”

Luxu chuckled. “Is that right?” He turned to face forward and leaned far back in his seat. “Well, maybe I’ll just have to get in there and find out for myself.”

“Maybe you will,” the man replied.

“Luxu… ” Bragi said weakly.

Luxu blew out a breath and abruptly got up. “Nice talking with you.”

The man watched him leave with an arched brow and small wave of his fingers. Luxu waved back with more of a salute, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness. Once out of sight, wisps of darkness surrounded him and he reappeared in his Station.

To his surprise, he found Bragi standing. The color from Bragi’s Station was nearly grayed out completely. Entire sections of the glass were missing, leaving Bragi a single shard to stand on. Luxu met him in the center, both of them standing on their respective Stations. Bragi swayed side to side, and gradually lifted his sullen eyes to Luxu.

“This is it… isn’t it?” Bragi asked with a hoarse whisper, unable to hold Luxu’s gaze.

“Seems like it,” Luxu replied, studying him. “You ready?”

Bragi’s brows knitted together and he looked around. Luxu’s Station was brighter than before, pulsing with power and anticipation of the next heart. And there was Bragi’s… shattered and gray, about to be lifeless. Bragi let out a shaking breath.

“Yeah… it’s time,” he said softly. His eyes flickered towards Luxu, then away again. “This is the last chance I’ll get to say it… Thank you…”

“Thank you?” Luxu repeated.

“For giving me a second chance.” Bragi’s entire body shivered, more shards of glass falling away beneath him. “The years with the others, my friends, I…” His voice trailed off and he abruptly looked directly at Luxu with a determined glint in his eyes. “Don’t forget.”

“About you?” Lucu asked.

“About all of us,” Bragi corrected him, standing firm and tall for the last time. “Xehanort, Eraqus, Hermod, Urd, Vor, even Baldur. I don’t care how long you keep this up and cheat death. Don’t forget about us.”

Luxu stared back at him, rendered speechless for a moment. A faint warmth washed over his Station, a warmth he’d forgotten. Swallowing, Luxu placed his hand on Bragi’s shoulder. The corners of Bragi’s mouth curved into a subtle smile and Luxu chuckled. “As if I ever could.”

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanfic #dark road

38 notes · View notes

otdiaftg · 9 months

Text

The King's Men - Chapter Three

Day: Friday, January 5th Time: 11:10 PM EST

Kevin kept making inroads into the drinks. Andrew watched the crowd and sipped his drink at a snail's pace. Neil didn't know what to say to either of them, so he made himself busy. He traded the remaining full glasses on the tray for the empty ones littering the table and headed to the bar. Roland took it from him as soon as he was able. Neil folded his arms on the bar counter and watched Roland mix the next batch. "So Andrew finally gave in, huh?" Roland said. "That looks pretty bad." Neil almost reached for his face, but Roland was looking at his wrists. Neil's new shirt was long-sleeved, but it was made of a thin material meant to breathe easy in a packed club. The ends had slid up his forearms a bit when he folded his arms. He tugged the hems back down, knowing it was too late to hide the half-healed lacerations. As he did so he realized that rumble in Roland's words was all checked laughter. Roland gave an apologetic grin when Neil frowned up at him. "I'd wondered if being clean would cure that hands-off rule of his. Makes sense it wouldn't, now that we know about..." Roland shook his head and visibly forced his anger back. "I don't know whether to say 'thanks' for easing my curiosity or 'sorry' that sobriety has obviously exacerbated the problem. Just so you know, they make padded cuffs. You should look into them." "The problem," Neil echoed, lost. "What hands-off rule?" Roland looked startled, then confused. "You don't know? But then..." "I got these in a fight," Neil said. "Why would Andrew do this to me?" "Uh, you don't know," Roland said again, not a question anymore but a backpedal out of the conversation. "You know what, let's just forget I said anything. No, really," he said when Neil opened his mouth to argue. "Hey, here. Your drinks are done. I've gotta check on the rest of my customers." He vanished before Neil could get more than a "What" out. Neil stared after him, but there were no answers here.

Art used with permission by Smokesontheroof. Thank you so much @smokesontheroof

96 notes · View notes

forestfairyunicorn · 1 year

Text

Huge thanks to @maireadralph for organizing yet another Zine event, and for this art piece, it was made to tribute my first ever Entrapdak fic, made just after season 4 aired.

Since the fic in the link is user-restricted, here is also the c/p for enjoyment

Rebooting: LUVD

forestfairyunicorn

Summary:

Post Season 4 ending. Spoilers in effect! Entrapta rescued "Hordak", but is it him? Inspired by my favourite Wall-E ending scene

“Hor-DAK!!!”

Entrapta’s voice cracked on the last syllable as she stared at the clone’s blank eyes, hands on his arms.

Physically, it was him. She recovered him from Prime’s other clones, she and the others got him back to her lab. She single-handedly, --she alone!-- got his armor running smoothly, the crystal back in his armor, deep purple amid dark grey.

He’s awake.

But not the same person.

He didn’t even recognize Imp. The little one was on Emily, silently crying and staring at Entrapta.

The clone repeated again, “I am Horde Alpha 24601. I live and serve Horde Prime. Who are you.”

The scientist just laughed. Watery, fighting tears. “A scientist and a failure, that’s what I am. And I don’t give up. I shouldn’t give up.”

She looked at him, tears shining. “You were cast out for being less than perfect. You were my lab partner.”

Entrapta leaned her head on his chest, directly below the crystal. “You were my friend. I believed that. I believed that imperfections are beautiful. I still do.” She whispered the last part as she moved away. Her hands moved down his arms, slowly leaving them, then stopped.

She felt something grip them. The clone’s hands held her fingers, gently, and increasing pressure. He whispered something. Entrapta glanced at his face, her eyes alight.

“You…are not…a f-failure.” The clone blinked twice, breathed twice, ears flicking up and down. He blinked again. Saw Entrapta.

Saw. Her.

He gasped, ears down, eyes widened, a tinge of red seeping in. “Entrapta?” he whispered softly.

“Hordak.” Entrapta grinned, tears flowing. Normally she’d have her mask down, but she can’t look away at this miracle.

Science has yet to explain miracles, but for now, she’ll believe in it.

His legs buckled, and he started to kneel. Entrapta guided him down, with her hair as support.

Both of them on their knees, hands grasping each other, until finally they came together at a hug. Soft laughter, incredulous, tears flowing freely.

“I,” Hordak spoke hoarsely. “I don’t remember much before.”

“That’s okay,” Entrapta nuzzled, “The crystal acts as a backup and a power source. Ingenious First Ones tech. Only flaw is that it has to be connected to you for memory logging and such.”

“Thank you,” Hordak moved to look into her eyes, oh her eyes, how he missed them. Her. “Please, tell me everything.”

She held his hand to her face, leaning into his touch. “It will take a long time, lab partner. And I’ll make a better one.”

He shook his head, a claw touching the crystal. “Imperfections are beautiful. We have time. I want to spend time, with you. If you’ll have me.”

Entrapta nodded, leaning forward. “Yes. We’re lab partners.”

Imp and Emily came closer, and Hordak smiled at Imp. That gesture unleashed Imp as he bounded at Hordak, screeching and chittering and rubbing his head against him. Emily wobbled closer, beeping joyously.

None of them registered the group when they came into the area. Overlapping voices. Shouts of “Yay! WOAH! What the heck? HEY! Go! Go go go go go!”

“Wait, are they kissing?” That was Scorpia. “GUYS LET’S LEAVE THEM ALONE, THEY’RE KISSING.”

At the corner of his eye, Hordak saw one of them double back to watch them, only for a large red claw to yank the figure back.

He doesn’t care one bit. He’s too busy staring into Entrapta’s eyes, and sighing at the wonders of this feeling, of love.

He is loved. So much.

#entrapdak #forry's art #entrapdak zine #spop

55 notes · View notes

mamamittens · 7 months

Text

And I Knew Your Name

@newscoozines

Here's my individual piece for the soulmate AU zine!

My AO3 version!

Gol D. Roger/Portgas D. Rouge

Soulmate AU: Enemy and Lover name on opposing wrists.

Word Count: 2,560

There was a thick black band on his wrist. Only one.

Usually, this was meant to signify loss. To cover up a fated name was to hide from fate itself in grief. That wasn’t quite Roger’s aim, though. If he wasn’t so worried that somehow that fucking name would appear somewhere less hidden he’d have cut off his own arm to be rid of it. It was an insult that they even darkened his skin with their dedicated letters.

He'd hide this until his dying breath if need be. Something Reyleigh would often roll his eyes at over Roger’s dramatics. But Roger was often called dramatic so that was hardly anything new. He was a self-proclaimed ‘simple man’. With few, albeit passionate, interests.

Adventure.

The sea.

His crew.

A good fight that set his blood alight and made his bones ache from the force—as rare as such a thing was these days. It made him nostalgic for his early days at sea where a true challenge was around every corner. He wouldn’t trade away any of it though. His only true heading that distant point on the horizon. The One Piece.

His name would be legend. Echoing well into a new age and if he was a very lucky man, into the ears of…

He rubbed his thumb over the delicate scrawl across his right wrist. The one not covered with a band. Hidden for a slightly different reason behind long sleeves.

If word got out who’s name was on his wrist, the Marines would hunt them down mercilessly. Though he knew in his heart that anyone who he’d have the honor of bearing their name could very well take care of themselves, he was a romantic at heart.

He wanted to see them in person first. Happen across their path.

The Voice of the Sea laughing as he felt his pulse race under his thumb.

Soon~

Gol D. Roger grinned.

He could feel it in his blood.

Although… given how vague the Sea could be, he didn’t expect soon to be so… well, soon.

Scarcely a week later, in fact. In a dingy bar on a tiny, terrorized island.

His crew was boisterous as always while the staff scrambled to accommodate them. He’d leave a good tip and spare himself the lashing Reyleigh would give him otherwise. They were hardly hurting for money and the people here could use it.

A bottle fell, shattering as Roger winced under the withering glare of his best friend and first mate. Quickly leaning down to scoop up the glass before the barmaid cut her shoes on it or tripped. He’d never hear the end of it then.

Roger sensed more than felt the edge of a blade touch the crown of his head, trimming a few hairs from the barest brush.

Reyleigh levelled his gun as Roger grinned.

“Oh? And to whom do I owe the pleasure~?” Roger nearly purred in amusement, impressed despite himself. His eyes flickering up to leather boots too small for a man.

Interest piqued, Roger followed the line polished leather over toned calves to just shy of practical shorts with many pockets. A flash of pale thighs visible from his vantage point. Puffy white shirt that bared slender arms with a generous bust. The woman kept her bladed staff level at his head, but his mind was far away from the possible danger his hair was in.

Pink. Her hair was the first, pale blush of dawn at sea with eyes the color of deep red coral. Expression deeply unamused and more than a little annoyed. Freckles splashed across her cheeks in a way that begged for his hands to see if they were flecks of sunlight to be brushed away. She looked like she knew exactly who he was and didn’t give a shit.

The world sang a note of sweet triumph and he knew her name like he knew the call of the Sea.

Deeper than the waves and beyond the cut of the horizon. Deceptively delicate in a way that invited him to touch while challenging him on the right to try.

He waited, breathless like the sea before a hurricane. Already forgetting the question while knowing the answer. But he wanted to hear it.

Needed to hear it.

To bear witness to the moment her voice carried in this dank little bar in the middle of nowhere like a revolution.

“Portgas D. Rouge. Bounty Hunter.” Her voice did indeed carry. Firm like adam wood and carving a space in his soul to last forever.

Roger nearly swooned, his knee touching the ground in reflex as he feverishly wondered if begging would earn him more words or just a look of disgust.

He was willing to risk it for a chance.

“You can take me anytime.” Roger breathed, the moment broken by Reyleigh groaning in disgust. A firm boot kicking his back jerking a grunt from him. “Anywhere.”

Another, much more pointed kick he ignored. He meant what he said.

Rouge—oh, what better name than the color in his veins? Racing in with every beat of his heart?—seemed equally disgusted with him. But her eyes were on him and him alone, so Roger counted that as a success.

He stood suddenly, power he didn’t realize he could still call his own helping him rise to his feet. Blade cautiously moving out of the way as Rouge eyed him with suspicion.

“What game are you playing, pirate?” She sneered, her lovely features twisting and pulling him closer. Taunting him to touch, or if he dared, taste. That would likely end with a blade in his gut but for even a heartbeat of time the price seemed fitting.

He travelled the Blues and saw so much beauty. It was only fair that he paid extra to hold it in his hands.

Roger rotated his wrist, sleeve pulling back as he bared her mark with a proud smile.

“Whatever game leads me to you, love.” Roger sighed, watching as she glanced at his wrist in confusion. Her eyes widened and for a moment she seemed to recognize her own handwriting.

But then she snorted, setting aside her weapon to flash bare wrists—both of them—at him.

“You’re full of shit!”

Disappointed, Roger pouted. He’d been hoping to one day see his name across a wrist he wouldn’t shatter in fury. But he supposed it was only fitting.

Like the Sea, Roger had no claim to Rouge herself. But she’d always have a claim to him. He’s always loved things he couldn’t keep.

Roger reflexively reached out to grasp her hands and she pulled back with a snarl. His lips quirked as he sighed, reminded of the sharp snap of waves on the hull of Oro Jackson. Deadly and filled with promise if he stepped foolishly.

But he was doomed to be a fool his whole life, so he found the steps familiar and with no shame.

He pulled back his hand and looked Rouge in the eyes.

“This is already more than I could ever ask for.” Roger reassured her, lifting up his wrist to brush his lips over the curve of her name.

Rouge flushed as though she could feel it and it took everything inside him to not surge forward and embrace her. To show her for just a moment in time how humbled he was to bear her name.

It didn’t matter that her wrists were bare. He’d been marked as hers from birth and that was a greater blessing than he could have ever wished for.

“Ewwww!”

“Gross!” His youngest boys hissed from well within the protective circle of his crew. Roger chuckled, glancing back at them with a wink.

They were still so young… they’d understand one day.

“Get a room, captain!” Reyleigh complained, nursing a beer.

Roger huffed at that one.

“Oh, she’d never let me!” Roger mourned. “I’m blessed to yearn from afar like the mountains calling to the depths of the sea. Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll deign to drown me.”

Several of his crew members screwed up their faces in disgust.

“Look at what you’ve done! You’ve mortified the poor girl and all she wanted to do was turn you in for money!” Crocus laughed, Roger’s head whipping around to find only the flash of Rouge’s silhouette as she left the door. His heart fell as tears pricked his eyes.

Still, he didn’t despair long. Couldn’t even if his crew wasn’t teasing him mercilessly.

Soon! Again~! Again~! The winds laughed from the crack under the door.

--*--

Rouge huffed, pulling her jacket in close as a cold breeze whipped across the cliffs. She’d been in the business since she was a young girl surrounded by pirates so stupid they’d drown in a puddle. They were a plague just about everywhere they went and she felt a curl of satisfaction in her heart every time she dragged more in. Even if they were barely worth the cost of rope to tie them up with.

She’d always been that way. Stubborn and burning. Her home island always tutting about her lack of order and propriety. When she was a kid, the others would tease her about her temper. About her pink hair too soft for someone with such a rough mouth. Taunt her with assurances that her wrists were blank because she’d always make enemies but never anyone of note.

Her ma said it’s because even the Sea knows when it’s beat—realizing before she even drew breath that deciding who her little rose bud loved and hated was futile.

And judging by the shit show in the bar only a month prior, Rouge decided that it was a good call to leave her skin blank.

If there was anything she was certain of, it’s that the scruffy pirate fool was closer to her mortal enemy than any lover she’d ever claim.

“If I’d known I’d be blessed in such a way, I would have brought an offering for the Sea.” A soft, husky voice reverently spoke. Rouge jolted, looking behind her to find it was that damn pirate again. His eyes just as wide as the last time she saw him, face open like she was the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

Her glare did nothing but delight him and Rouge tried not to think about how striking he looked in the golden light. The sun and sea had been remarkably kind to him, as had a life of piracy. Broad and strong with tan skin, he looked like he was ready to weather any storm. But his eyes looked like he was ready to fall to his knees at her word.

It was irritating and weak… but Rouge couldn’t help but think it strange.

She’d been stared at before. Leered upon like she was a delicate flower inviting their touch.

But she’d never been looked at with such open admiration. Like she was a storm breaking across the horizon with the fury of a hurricane and he had no desire to find safe harbor.

Gol D. Roger looked like he would die happy crushed under the waves and lost forever.

Still, he was irritating.

“Do you need something?” Rouge hissed, dismissing her train of thought swiftly before he noticed and was suddenly encouraged to continue his bullshit.

“Always. But I’d be a foolish man to not relish the chance to beg—if you’d have me.” Roger walked closer slowly, coming to a stop by her side, his eyes reluctant to leave her.

“Have you no pride? I thought that was something you pirates killed for.” Rouge huffed, rolling her eyes. Was she supposed to be impressed as how quickly he intended to fall at her feet?

“Arguably, I have too much pride. But there’s no shame in being man enough to know want.” He protested.

“You’re just saying that because of some ink. I bet you wouldn’t be saying any of that if your wrists were bare.” Rouge shivered a little as the cold wind swept by them, though the edge was less with Roger taking the brunt of it.

“If I didn’t have your name on my wrist, I would have fallen to my knees when you introduced yourself. I needed to prepare myself for when I finally heard you say it. I think I still might fall to my knees, actually. What other response could I have to such wonder?” Roger admitted candidly and Rouge wondered if the man was capable of feeling shame or this bizarre lustful worship of a women he’s barely spoken to.

“Do you really think I’m going to swoon when you talk like that?” Rouge asked despite herself.

“Of course not… I can dream of it though.”

“Dream smaller.”

He laughed, loudly and with his whole chest for a long moment. Finally, he calmed, wiping his face with a large grin under his black moustache.

“I’ve always been told I’m too ambitious for my own good!” Roger barked. “But I meant what I said. This is more than I could ever ask for. Every sailor get used to admiring the stars from a distance.” He said, looking at her with a fondness she couldn’t understand.

“What do the stars have to do with anything?” Rouge couldn’t help but ask, her gaze caught in his as the world fell quiet. Even that devilishly cold breeze falling still.

“The first thing you learn to use when sailing is the stars. You’ll never touch them. You won’t even see them all the time. But they’re always there and they burn.” Roger whispered fiercely, “If I thought there was a chance, I’d gladly burn at your hands. Your touch would scorch my bones until there was nothing left but dust. Carve out everything that’s yours and—if you deign to—throw the rest to the Sea. I could rest at the bottom in peace having known your embrace.”

Rouge, not for the first time, felt flushed at his words. So bold and shameless, she’d never guess he was a pirate menace if she didn’t already own his bounty poster.

“I-I still intend to turn you in for the money.” Rouge hissed, turning away sharply. Already aware it was too late to hide her fierce blush.

A rough, calloused hand grasped her own gently. Just enough to stop her, fingertips tracing over her delicate wrist as he pulled her back. She looked at him in shock and embarrassment. He lifted her knuckles to his lips and kissed them chastely.

“Or I could just buy you dinner?” Roger suggested, his breath curling over the back of her hand.

Her wrists were bare, not that some ink would tell her what to do.

He was a pirate and she, a bounty hunter.

But Roger… looked at her like she was beauty and death wrapped in one. Aware and covetous of her thorns. He was an idiot but strong. Passionate.

He may look at her like a man beholding a squall bearing down on his sails until they were shreds. But she was the one left breathless.

“That can be arranged.”

At her soft words, he lit up like the sun. Rouge had never been soft, but that was alright. Roger was soft enough for the both of them.

#one piece #roger x rouge #gol d roger #portgas d rouge #soulmate au

15 notes · View notes

gali-la · 3 months

Note

Hi! I've allowed myself to sneak into your inbox to ask about the Wip Title Tag Game 😊 it sounds so fun! Could you tell us a little more about Crocorosi Cross Guild Canon divergence AU, please? Thank you 💖

You can tag me back if you'd like!

Omg hello!! Thank you for the ask, I’m so excited about this one <3

So this was originally a pitch for a zine! I'm actually glad it didn't get picked, in the end, because I can make it long and plotty now.

my pitch was this: cora washes up wherever the cross guild is operating because stupid things like that happen. its one piece. and croc's the one who finds him (he has memory loss) and tries to find out who the hell he is and what he's doing there. problem is he's also croc's type (a less annoying doflamingo) and he's very. innocent and a little dumb and croc cant find it in himself to hate this dumbass that is awed by every dumb trick of buggy's and mihawk's big sword EXCEPT he gets jealous... a lot of tension and emotion suppression and possible angst... 👀

I haven't gotten too far writing it either but here is a little peek into it so far:

“...What is that?” Crocodile ignored the idiot’s question, but not because he wasn’t quite sure about what the thing before them was either. Obviously. The thing in question seemed to be a soggy mass of some sort of glossy black material. Shapeless, unmoving and way too big to be the washed-up carcass of any animal. It had appeared earlier that morning, on the south side of the island, and of course, all of the idiot clown’s little weakling parasites had come running to tell them all about it. As if Crocodile cared, or, even, had a moment to spare to go investigate whatever it was. Still, somehow, Crocodile found himself down at the south side of the beach, staring at what was probably just some washed-up jetsam. It was certainly ugly enough—who in good conscience would own such a horrendous thing? To his right, Mihawk peered down at the black mess with an eerie, creepy gaze, not unlike a bird. Maybe the weirdest bird known to man, but the way he tilted his head as he studied it was definitely bird-like. He didn’t look like he was going to do anything about it, though, and the blue-haired moron peeking cowardishly over their shoulders certainly wasn’t, either, so Crocodile took the initiative and nudged it with the tip of an expensive leather shoe.

#one piece #one piece fanfic #cross guild #crocorosi #wip title tag game #tag game

15 notes · View notes

chenziee · 1 year

Text

Of Pumpkin Pies and Whipped Cream

Another of my @opdilfzine fics! You can find this one in the digital add-on :D You can still grab a digital copy of the zine, aftersales are open until the end of August! <3

[ Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi ]

—————

It wasn’t often that Dracule Mihawk’s transponder snail would ring but when it did… It was a sure sign of a headache coming.

He wasn’t sure why he should even bother answering when he knew there would only be pointless chatter to be heard but even so, he somehow always found his hand gripping the receiver anyway.

“What is it now, Red Hair?” he sighed instead of a proper greeting.

“Oh, come on, I don’t even get a hello?” the man on the other side of the connection whined.

“No.”

The snail gasped dramatically in response to the curt reply, making Mihawk roll his eyes. And to think this was one of the most powerful people in the world. Ridiculous.

“You’re so mean to me.” Red Hair let out a long-suffering sigh but Mihawk could just hear the shit eating grin that was playing on the man’s lips even without looking at his snail. “How do I even deal with you? I should get paid for still keeping you company.”

Mihawk knew he shouldn’t have picked up.

“I’m hanging up,” he said bluntly, already reaching over to place the receiver back on the snail.

Immediately, the transponder snail’s face twisted with panic, mirroring Red Hair’s expression as the man started fumbling for words. “Wait! I’m sorry! Don’t hang up, please!” he cried, his voice begging.

Despite himself, Mihawk felt the corners of his lips twitching upwards the tiniest bit. It was strange; the man was loud, annoying, and bothersome, interrupting Mihawk’s peaceful and quiet days with a disturbing regularity and yet, Mihawk could never bring himself to tell him to leave him alone.

If he were to be honest… he’d have to admit that he would even sometimes miss his loud laughter, his stupid grins, and his idiotic stories and even more idiotic ideas. Even the ones that led to Mihawk having to literally drag the man to the Red Force after he would drunkenly whine and cry about how he was so proud of Straw Hat Luffy for hours and forcing Mihawk to throw him at Beckmann. After all, any captain was the first mate’s problem.

Or that one time when Mihawk had to break into a Navy prison to get Shanks out of there after he got arrested for eating without paying—he still had no idea how the marines in that town hadn’t recognised the Emperor.

For some reason, he missed all of that sometimes.

He would never accept Shanks’ lack of appreciation for good wine though.

“What did you call for anyway?” Mihawk sighed finally, leaning back into his chair.

“Just missed your sweet and kind voice,” Red Hair replied cheekily. “How are the kids?”

Mihawk groaned. “Don’t talk about them as if they’re mine. They just ended up here.”

“But you let them stay!” Shanks argued and Mihawk could just imagine the man reaching over to poke his shoulder.

As if Mihawk had a choice in that matter. Coming home from the war just to find two brats squatting in his goddamned castle, uninvited, with no means of getting the hell off the island after apparently getting launched through the air half-way across the globe—how could he have just kicked them out?

Not to mention he had tried. He gave Roronoa a boat. He gave him directions. He even gave him some food.

All that effort, only for him to come right back after making a full circle around the dead forest.

He would really rather let the kid stay than have to lead him by the hand like a toddler all the way to the coast—or more likely, chaperone him all the way to the next island. He held no illusions about Roronoa’s ability to follow a log pose by now.

“So? How are they doing?” Red Hair prompted after a moment.

Finally, Mihawk let his head fall back, his eyes shutting momentarily as he took a deep breath. “They’re fine. Roronoa’s still got a ways to go but it’s funny watching him struggle. Perona’s at least helping with the fields if nothing else.”

“I still can’t believe the dreaded Hawk Eyes, the strongest swordsman, likes gardening,” Shanks said with a laugh. “You need to let me try eating some of your crops one of these days.”

Mihawk chose to ignore the wink the transponder snail gave him. “You can have one of the fifty pumpkin pies Perona made.”

There was a pause before the snail raised both its eyebrows, the scar across its left eye shifting. “Fifty,” Shanks repeated flatly.

“It was a rich crop.” Mihawk shrugged. “They’re actually decent.”

“Will you add whipped cream and feed them to me?” Shanks asked eagerly.

A beat passed.

“Gacha.”

—————

Mihawk wasn’t expecting to hear from Shanks again for weeks after hanging up on him. They didn’t talk often in the first place but, more than that, the Emperor of the Sea could be nothing short of a brat. It wouldn’t have been the first time for him to get all sulky, going so far as to refuse to even enter the same sea Mihawk was in. This would usually end with Beckmann or Roux unable to handle the whining any longer and just dialling Mihawk’s snail number themselves and forcing their captain to just talk to the reason he was upset.

So, when the man himself appeared on his doorstep late at night only a day later, bottle of wine in hand and a smirk on his lips, saying Mihawk was surprised would be an understatement.

“You said something about pumpkin pie and whipped cream?” he asked with a wink, tilting his head to the side as he gazed at Mihawk with a cheeky spark in his eyes.

Mihawk stared blankly at the man for a moment. What the hell was he saying? Or what was he even doing on Kuraigana Island—or even just in Paradise, for that matter?

“I said nothing about whipped cream,” he responded finally, voice perfectly flat.

“Might as well have.” Shanks just waved his hand dismissively before forcing his way through the door past Mihawk as if the castle belonged to him.

Mihawk didn’t even care anymore.

With a deep sigh, he closed the door and followed after the red haired menace. It was only mildly disturbing how well Shanks navigated the complicated hallways of the castle—the very same hallways that Roronoa still struggled with after a whole year of living there. Had he really visited this place enough times to flawlessly lead the way three floors up, all the way to the cosy little lounge next to Mihawk’s room, chattering away about stupid stuff the whole time?

Thinking back… maybe he had.

Although he certainly hadn’t come invited, not even once.

“Shoes off the couch,” Mihawk ordered as soon as Shanks threw himself on the expensive piece of furniture as if it were a bed.

“Says the guy who puts his feet on the table wherever he’s invited,” Shanks grumbled—but still took his shoes off.

Mihawk huffed, putting a bottle of West Blue sake on the coffee table in front of Shanks before pouring himself some of the wine Red Hair had brought, then settled into his own chair. “So? That one is mine and I will not tolerate your disgusting, dirty boots on it.”

“Hypocrite,” Shanks said, sticking his tongue out at Mihawk.

The man only rolled his eyes; there was no point in even gracing that with a response. So, instead, he simply swirled the wine in his glass, then took his first sip as he relaxed and leaned back in his chair. If nothing else, he had to admit that Red Hair knew his alcohol; it was good wine. The colour was a beautiful red like garnet, its bouquet had fruity undertones, like cherry and raspberry. It had a smooth, rich flavour, lingering on the tongue for a moment but not overpowering—perfectly balanced.

“Are you just going to ignore me?” Shanks whined when Mihawk didn’t say anything.

“Why are you here anyway, Red Hair?” Mihawk asked instead of answering.

There was a moment of silence, silence that made Mihawk crack one of his eyes open to look at the man lounging on his couch like he belonged there. Mihawk clicked his tongue at the thought—the very notion was ridiculous.

Instead of dwelling on it, Mihawk took in the expression Red Hair was making right then. He was looking back at Mihawk, a wide, seemingly goofy smile playing on his lips… yet his eyes were serious, as serious as they were whenever someone would threaten one of the Emperor’s friends. Mihawk wasn’t sure what it meant.

But then, Red Hair opened his mouth to finally reply, “I was summoned by the promise of being hand fed pumpkin pie by my darling Hawk Eyes.”

“Again, I said nothing about hand feeding you. Are you a toddler?” Mihawk sighed.

“Yes.” There wasn’t a single hint of hesitation in Red Hair’s voice and Mihawk had to bite his cheek to keep his lips from curling into a smile.

“Then go back to your ship, I’m not your nanny,” Mihawk replied, keeping his voice carefully measured.

At that, Shanks gasped dramatically… and Mihawk knew what he was going to say before he so much as opened his mouth to do so. “You’re so mean to me! Meanie!”

There it was.

“I’m going to cut off your other arm and leave you to bleed out.”

“Ouch,” Shanks said before he burst out laughing. “We were just coming from the East Blue so we were close anyway.”

Mihawk was quiet for a moment, simply regarding the man sprawled on his couch; he took in how relaxed he seemed, more relaxed than the world ever saw him. And yet, his gaze was heavy, the deep scar over his left eye standing out in the dim light the same way it did ten, twelve years ago when it was fresh; when Shanks was just a young man who was barely coming to power. When Mihawk barely knew him.

But now, he knew the Emperor. And he knew him well enough to know when he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

"Whatever, it's not like I care," Mihawk dismissed.

“You’re terrible,” Shanks whined. “You’re seriously going to force me to admit I missed my boyfriend? My strong and handsome and oh-so-caring boyfriend?” Boyfriend?

Biting back a snort, Mihawk raised an eyebrow. “I did not ask, much less force you to admit anything,” he deadpanned.

“You just won’t admit you missed me too, will you?” Shanks sighed.

“What a pointless question. If you already know the answer, why do you bother asking?” Mihawk asked in response.

“Let me dream, you ass,” Shanks grumbled, closing his eyes for a moment before a grin took over his face once more.

Mihawk watched impassively while Shanks put his feet on the ground and sat up slowly, giving Mihawk that annoying look of his; the look that balanced on the edge between deathly serious and playful, and that always preceded something getting broken—a plate at best, Shanks’ last existing arm at worst.

And when Shanks stood up, not taking his eyes off Mihawk only to bump into the coffee table… Mihawk could only hope nothing too expensive was going to fall victim to the Emperor and his stupid ideas. So, he simply raised an eyebrow while Shanks cursed quietly, shooting a quick glare at the offending piece of furniture before his eyes turned to his lover—or boyfriend, apparently—with new-found determination.

It took only a moment for Shanks to stand right in front of Mihawk’s chair, staring down at him while Mihawk blinked at him slowly, blankly, one leg thrown over the other as he took a deliberately slow sip of his wine. Waiting for Shanks to make a move, daring him to do anything he might regret.

Like pissing Mihawk off. Or—

Before Mihawk could even finish the thought, Shanks reached out with purpose, his fingers closing around the wine glass in Mihawk’s hand, pulling it away… and Mihawk let him.

He watched in mild amusement as Shanks brought it to his own lips, taking a sip—one large enough to be considered a gulp and if it was in any other situation, Mihawk would have been offended by the disrespect paid to such good wine. As it was however, he could only smile the smallest bit at the sight of Red Hair licking his lips appreciatively.

“I have to say, I picked a really good one. And I don’t even drink wine,” he said with a small laugh.

“It’s certainly better than the swill you brought last time. Couldn’t have even been called wine,” Mihawk noted. “More like someone dumped a bag of sugar into grape juice. If the people who created that insult of a drink even knew what grapes were.”

“Oh, shut up,” Shank hissed, his face twisting in fake annoyance.

And Mihawk… couldn’t stop the chuckle that bubbled out of his chest at the sight.

Immediately, Shanks’ expression brightened, a victorious spark in his eyes as if he had just won a hard life-and-death battle and Mihawk rolled his eyes. He seriously could be such a child. Why did he deal with him at all?

He supposed it was one of those things that would never make sense… and Mihawk wasn’t sure he even wanted it to make sense.

He didn’t fight it when Shanks’ knee forced its way onto Mihawk’s chair, wedging itself in between Mihaw’s thigh and the armrest; the man himself leaned forward, towering over Mihawk and caging him in place. It was funny, how natural feeling his warmth against him felt—were it anyone else, Mihawk’s skin would be crawling but with this man, this absolute menace on the world and Mihawk’s life… he didn’t mind it at all.

Instead, he welcomed it.

He welcomed the warmth. He welcomed the weight on his legs—he wasn’t even sure when he had uncrossed them to accommodate the man who had decided to crawl into his lap as if he were a cat. He even welcomed the way his hands automatically came to rest on the sides of Red Hair’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric of his pants.

And he welcomed the lips now hovering so close to his own.

Mihawk huffed in amusement; he could only imagine how the world would react to seeing the mighty Emperor of the Sea like this—sitting in his lap, basically begging for his touch, his lips. Too bad he was the only one who would ever see him this way.

It only took a split second for their lips to connect, the kiss hungry and desperate, as if they were trying to make up for the almost three months of separation in that single touch. They moved against each other with practised ease, Shanks’ lips stretching into a smile against Mihawk’s mouth. Despite himself… the gesture made Mihawk want to smile as well.

He let his hands wander, sliding up and down the man’s thighs before moving up, slipping underneath his loose and wrinkled dress shirt until he touched bare skin.

Shanks shivered under his touch, but seemingly determined not to lose, he let his tongue run slowly over Mihawk’s mouth, his teeth scraping lightly over his bottom lip—teasing, without deepening the kiss. Not pulling away even the slightest bit, Shanks started shuffling then, searching blindly with his hand behind himself—until something shattered.

And once Shanks’ hand came to rest against his cheek, the fingers stroking his skin gently before sliding into his hair… Mihawk was reminded of the wine glass that was—had been—in Shanks’ hand, now most likely lying broken into pieces with red wine spilling all over his expensive white fur carpet.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Mihawk said flatly against Shanks’ lips.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Shanks muttered, his breath caressing Mihawk’s cheek while his fingers curled in Mihawk’s hair to scratch his scalp gently, sending shivers of pleasure down the swordsman’s spine.

Gulping heavily to keep his voice level, Mihawk repeated, “You’re cleaning that up.”

“Fine. Tomorrow. But now shut up,” Red Hair hissed before he moved forward once more—only to bite Mihawk’s bottom lip in retaliation.

As if he had any right to retaliate after ruining the fucking carpet.

Mihawk was going to make sure it was either spotless by the time the menace left, or paid for in equal value with whatever means.

But right now, with said menace licking and sucking on his neck, he couldn’t say he cared. Right now, he only cared about those lips, the fingers tangled in his hair, and the soft skin of Shanks’ sides that seemed to be burning under Mihawk’s touch… and Shank's sweet, almost delicate moans as he pulled himself closer to grind against him.

Moans so quiet that Mihawk could barely make them out—meant for his ears only.

And he was going to make sure he got enough of all of them, enough of Shanks tonight to make up for all the time they had spent apart.

—————

Zoro’s morning started just like any other. He woke up at 7 AM, got dressed and brushed his teeth, then it was straight to his usual twenty minute run around the island. After getting back two hours later, it was time for a quick shower—he didn’t see the point when he knew he was just going get sweaty again later but Perona could get fucking unbearable otherwise. She’d end up complaining endlessly about his sweaty brow, and even being on the same island with someone so ‘smelly’ and ‘disgusting’. He would really rather take a pointless shower than deal with one minute of that so he begrudgingly made his way to the bathroom before he could finally head to the kitchen for breakfast.

He wasn’t surprised to find Perona already sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of pancakes and a steaming cup of tea in front of her, the stupid ugly bear of hers sitting securely on her lap. Hawk Eyes was exactly where Zoro had expected him—standing at the stove, making the pancakes that Perona was happily shoving into her mouth as if they were the best meal she had ever eaten.

Zoro had to wonder just what kind of food the woman used to eat while at Thriller Bark. Sure, Hawk Eyes was a decent cook but nowhere as good as Curly. Zoro wasn’t sure if that said more about Perona's culinary experiences or Curly… but Zoro would be damned if he so much as admitted he might have possibly maybe kind of missed the asshole’s cooking.

Whatever.

“Good morning.” Zoro yawned, grabbing a pancake off of Perona’s plate as he passed by.

“Hey! Get your own!” Perona yelled instead of returning the greeting.

Hawk Eyes sighed, flipping the fresh pancake he was making. “Grab your own plate or you’re not getting any, Roronoa.”

Shoving the rest of the stolen pancake into his mouth, Zoro rolled his eyes, passing by Hawk Eyes to get some water since he was still being unjustly forced to live without alcohol. Soon, he would earn his right to have a goddamned beer, though. He’s almost got it, he was going to turn his blades black for sure. Any day now.

“Any sake in that fridge?” came an unfamiliar voice from behind him.

Zoro frowned, turning his head to the side to look over his shoulder to look at the man standing behind him—his red hair and that scar looked vaguely familiar but Zoro couldn’t for the life of him place that face. He was tall, his uncovered chest sported powerful, well defined muscles, his very presence making it obvious he was strong, much stronger than Zoro despite his missing left arm… but it wasn’t like that had ever stopped him.

“You talk about alcohol in front of me one more time and I’m going to cut you,” Zoro growled, full of annoyance as he slammed the fridge door shut.

“Scary,” the man laughed loudly before side stepping Zoro to get to the fridge.

Zoro simply rolled his eyes, deciding it wasn’t worth it getting mad over not being taken seriously. It was too damn early for that. So, instead, he walked away, taking a plate of Hawk Eyes’ pancakes before dropping into his designated chair opposite of Perona.

“So where are all the pumpkin pies I was promised?” the stranger asked then.

“Pantry,” Hawk Eyes replied absentmindedly while he poured hot water into a mug.

Perona’s eyes widened. “Are you giving out my pies for free?!” she asked, scandalised.

“Thank god. I’ve had enough pumpkin to last me till the next life,” Zoro muttered.

“Excuse me?!” Perona hissed, turning to glare at him instead.

Zoro simply ignored her, turning his attention back to his pancakes; they were sweet and he hated sweet things… but it was still worlds better than having to eat pumpkin pie for breakfast for the third time that week.

“Would you rather I throw them out, Ghost Girl?” Hawk Eyes asked flatly, making Perona puff up… before she deflated, begrudgingly admitting the man had a point.

The red haired man laughed loudly again. “So domestic. What a sweet little family.”

“Shut the hell up, Red Hair.” Hawk Eyes shot back, obviously not amused by the remark.

“Sorry sorry,” the man apologised… yet his voice was still shaking with laughter when he walked off to drop into a chair next to Zoro at the table as if it were a normal Sunday.

It was only once Perona had to slap the man’s hand away from her plate that something seemed to click in her mind and she froze. She didn’t move at all for a long while, simply staring at the stranger who was trying to steal her breakfast exactly the same way Zoro had earlier… until her mouth fell open and she slammed her hands at the table as she shot up from her chair.

“Shanks?!” she screeched. “‘Red Hair’ Shanks?!”

The man blinked, obviously taken aback by the sudden development. “Uh yeah?” he tried uncertainly.

“Oh my god,” she said, her hands flying up to slap at her cheeks; maybe trying to get herself to wake up from a dream.

Zoro, on the other hand, tilted his head to the side as he looked at Perona, then the red haired man, then at Perona again. Shanks. Why did that sound familiar?

Wait.

“Shanks as in the Emperor?” he asked, voice full of disbelief even to his own ears.

At that, Shanks laughed. It was a full-blown, unrestrained laughter, one that reminded Zoro of his own captain. But Luffy wasn’t there; instead, one of the strongest, most powerful people in the world was sitting next to him, laughing so hard he could barely breathe while Zoro and Perona just sat there, staring at him like he was a mirage—or maybe a hallucination.

Maybe those stupid pumpkin pies had gone bad sooner than they had thought and now they were all suffering from food poisoning? That honestly seemed more plausible that an Emperor of the Sea sitting in their fucking kitchen.

“What is ��Red Hair’ Shanks doing in our kitchen?! Why?! What’s going on?!” Perona rattled off, seemingly on the verge of hysterics.

“Stop screaming, Ghost Girl,” Hawk Eyes said with annoyance as he approached them. “This is my kitchen, be glad I didn’t kick you out. Here, your coffee,” he added, putting a steaming mug in front of the fucking Emperor of the Sea.

Or more like milk with a splash of coffee. Disgusting.

A soft smile spread on Shanks’ face at that. “Thanks, love,” he said, catching Mihawk’s wrist before he could walk away—

And Zoro and Perona could only watch with wide eyes as Shanks let go of Mihawk’s hand only to continue further up the man’s arm, moving gently over the thin fabric of his shirt until he touched bare skin. But Shanks didn’t stop there—he let his hand move higher still, his fingers sliding behind Mihawk’s neck and tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, closer… until their lips connected.

It was a chaste kiss, almost innocent—if not for the familiarity of it, and the unspoken intimacy that made even Zoro blush.

Zoro could swear it took a full hour before the two pulled away, Hawk Eyes clicking his tongue in annoyance even while the corner of his lips twitched upwards.

As he stared at the two of them, suddenly he started noticing more. There was a suspicious dark bruise on Hawk Eyes’ neck just below his ear. The angry red scratches on Shanks’ back that he had previously thought were barely healed scars now looked closer to claw marks. And was that an actual bite mark on the Emperor’s shoulder?

As if that wasn’t bad enough, his eyes then caught something white contrasting against Shanks’ red hair and he frowned, squinting slightly at the Emperor. Was that whipped cream behind his ear?

No.

Nope. Absolutely not.

Zoro decided he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to know about it. Didn’t want to see it. If he closed his eyes, if he just didn’t look…

It simply wasn’t happening.

But then, Perona’s distressed voice echoed around the kitchen again. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. When Zoro glanced at her, she looked like she was about to stab the two old men with her tea spoon just to get out of this situation.

Zoro couldn’t blame her.

“You see,” Red Hair started, “when two people love each other very much—”

“AHHHHHH! Negative Hollow!!” Perona screamed before Shanks could get another word in.

Zoro would be lying if he said watching the mighty, powerful Emperor of the Sea slump onto the table lifelessly, mumbling something about shrimps and plankton wasn’t satisfying—if completely surreal—but he didn’t even have the mind to appreciate it. He had learnt more about Hawk Eyes than he ever wanted to in the last two minutes and he wondered if there was a way to erase his memory.

As he robotically stood and left the kitchen without a word, heading for another ten minute run which would hopefully last a few hours—long enough to clear his head—he nostalgically thought back to the time when the worst of his problems was Nami threatening to double the interest on his loan if he dared to sleep through another snow storm.

Just one more year, he thought.

Just one more year and he could go on to pretend that had never seen 'Red Hair' Shanks in his life, ever, and certainty hadn't seen him half-naked, with a lazy just-fucked grin on his face in their fucking kitchen.

He could only hope there would never be a repeat of this morning—for the sake of his own sanity and limited ability to erase things from his memory.

36 notes · View notes

angel-with-a-pipette · 1 year

Text

A Splash of Color

(art by @amyhayanora)

Summary:

After having been restored to her own body, it was time for Naminé to find a permanent home. Somewhere she belonged. Somewhere she felt safe and wanted. There was a place like this and a person very eager to see her again.

Rating: General

Genre: Romance

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Disney/Square Enix.

This story has been written as part of the Rokunami zine in 2022 ❤

Thank you so much to the zine mods, the project was a pleasure to take part in and it was absolutely worth it! ❤ 10/10 would do it again

Another big thank you goes to @amyhayanora who I was lucky to collaborate with and who ended up drawing the beautiful banner to this story ❤

The Leftover sales are open for another week! Please check it out at http://rokunamizine.bigcartel.com !!

Please enjoy!

To say that Naminé was nervous was an understatement. Her heart pounded, her lip trembled and her stomach fluttered when she finally came to a stop in front of the Old Mansion. The place she might be calling home from now on.

"What are you afraid of?"

Ansem the Wise, who was accompanying her on her way, looked at her inquiringly, but Naminé just shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know," she murmured, but she knew very well. Rejection . What if they had changed their minds about letting her live with them?

“They are very happy to welcome you to their home,” Ansem the Wise tried reassuring her, and despite her mostly negative experience with the man, she felt touched by the recent kindness he’d shown her. "Any friend of Sora's can't help but be open to other hearts. And I know Roxas especially is very eager to see you again."

Color rose into Naminé's cheeks, and she tried to hide it behind her braid that rested over her right shoulder, very well aware of the amused smile that had appeared on Ansem the Wise’s face.

"I hope so."

"Well then, are you ready?"

No . "Yes," she said anyway, and Ansem the Wise stepped forward to ring the doorbell.

Even though it took merely a minute or two for the doors to open, to Naminé, it felt like hours. She clutched the small potted plant in her arms harder against her chest as she dug her white sneakers into the dirt path.

Maybe nobody was home? Maybe they decided they didn't want her to live with them after all? Maybe—?

And then, finally , the double doors opened and revealed the blond-haired boy Naminé had been longing to meet again the most.

"Axel, if you forgot your keys again , I swear I'll—" he started grumbling, but as his gaze wandered from her light denim overall skirt and white shirt up to her face, recognition kicked in, and his expression turned from surprised to flustered.

“Naminé?”

“Hello, Roxas,” Naminé replied and allowed herself a small, relieved smile. Time seemed to stand still as the two of them gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Hello, Roxas,” Ansem the Wise greeted Roxas as well, who Roxas acknowledged with a nod before turning back to Naminé.

“I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow.”

“Is it a bad time?”

“No no no, not at all!" Roxas frantically waved his arms around. "It’s just that I would’ve come to the train station to meet you.” He took a step back and looked up at Ansem the Wise. “Please, come in.”

Ansem the Wise shook his head and waved Roxas off. “I simply came to see Naminé off. I hope you’ll all get along well together. Good luck.” He turned to leave, but Naminé stopped him.

“Lord Ansem? Thank you. For everything.”

"You're very welcome, my dear. Take care. You’re always welcome to visit Radiant Garden. All of you are."

He walked off in the direction of the woods, arms behind his back, and Naminé followed Roxas inside, past the heavy doors into the big foyer. There, Roxas seemed a little lost for a second, and Naminé took the opportunity to examine him more closely. Even though Roxas ran a hand through his hair and smoothed down a couple of strands, they sprang back up into their signature windswept look immediately. He looked healthy, too—the dark bags underneath his eyes that Naminé saw in his memories before were completely gone, and it seemed like he’d grown a few inches since the last time she’d seen him.

All in all, he looked happy with that slight grin on his lips as his ocean blue eyes met hers.

Naminé's cheeks grew warm.

"Sorry about that!" he told her sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his head. "I was a little taken off guard for a second there. Can I take your backpack?"

"It's okay, it's not heavy at all. But you can take this." Naminé handed him the plant and added, "This is a gift, for all of you, for letting me move in. It’s a Calathea, and it symbolizes a new beginning.”

"That's perfect for us,” Roxas replied with a smile. “Isa and Axel aren't really into that stuff, but Xion will love it. Thank you."

“Speaking of which, are they home?”

"Isa and Axel are at work. I know, I know! Who would’ve thought Axel had it in him, right? And Olette invited Xion over so she can share some of her old clothes with her for the time being.” Naminé saw him bite his lip. “How’s your situation?”

“I’m good. I’m smaller than Kairi, so she offered me a ton of clothes she can’t fit into anymore.”

“Is she okay?”

“She tries to be.”

Roxas nodded, and Naminé was very glad that he didn’t push the topic further.

"Let me give you a little tour of the house,” he said. “As you can see, we turned the foyer into our living room. The couches are secondhand, but we cleaned them all up and they're really comfortable." He wriggled his way through the couches and coffee table to a small, inconspicuous side table near the garden doors.

"And look, we just found the perfect spot for our little Calendula!"

"Calathea!" With her hand covering her lower face, Naminé started to giggle at Roxas’s disarming grin as he just shrugged at her correction before leading her through the rest of the house. At the end, there were only two rooms left for Naminé to see.

"And this is my room." He reached past her to turn the doorknob and push the door open. “Sorry, it’s still a little messy, I just finished painting the walls.”

Curious, Naminé stepped closer to the door and looked inside. Indeed, a few buckets and cans of paint were still standing next to one of the surprisingly dark blue walls, but the color worked well with the black furniture and light sheets and curtains.

“It’s cozy,” she reassured him when her eyes caught an empty stand next to a beanbag in the corner of the room. “You have a guitar?”

“Not yet,” Roxas explained as he rubbed his neck. “I found this stand in the library, I assume it was a violin stand beforehand. Either way, I want to buy one, one day. I hate admitting it, but I was always kind of jealous of Demyx's sitar.”

“That sounds nice. Having a dream to look forward to.”

Naminé smiled sadly. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, what she looked forward to. As of now, she seemed to live aimlessly, just watching the days go by.

"You can find one, too. You just need some time and a place to think about it. Which reminds me—" he pulled his door closed and turned around, to the door opposite his.

"This is your room."

"It’s the White Room."

Not waiting for a reply, Naminé walked past him and opened the door herself. As always, the evening sun's rays filtered in through the delicate white curtain as it danced in the wind.

“Is this okay?” Roxas asked. “I know you might not have the best memories of this room.”

“This room wasn't so bad, you know?” Naminé replied, and after dropping off her backpack next to the bed, she walked across the room to the wide windows to peer through the curtains. “I’ve always liked the view from here. I loved drawing the animals in the woods in my free time.”

She turned back to Roxas. “And it was in this room that we finally got to talk for a few minutes. Even if it was mostly through a hologram of me.”

“This is where you told me the truth,” Roxas remembered now and Naminé nodded. “You promised we would meet again.”

“And we did.”

Naminé smiled and looked around the room before sighing.

“What’s the matter?”

“The room wasn’t so bad, but it always felt cold with its white walls and white furniture. With my pale skin, blond hair and white skirt, I blended right in. Like I didn’t exist. And I didn’t.”

“But now you do,” Roxas emphasized, “and with a little bit of color, the room will soon feel much more inviting. Gimme a sec!”

Naminé cocked her head, but before she could ask Roxas what he meant, he had sprinted out of the room and returned just as quickly, this time with some paint, a paint roller and paintbrush in hand.

“How about a splash of color on your walls?” he asked her as he opened the bucket of white paint, then a can of dark blue paint. “We could paint one or two of your walls in any shade of blue you want. We don’t have any other colors at home currently—”

“Blue is fine! I really like pastel blue.”

Roxas grinned and handed Naminé the can. Together, they mixed the right shade and after taping off the floor and side walls, they started to paint. It didn’t take long for Naminé to hum happily as she was painting and soon, Roxas joined in. They grinned and smiled at each other as they attacked the white of the wall.

“Oh no,” Naminé murmured as she looked down at a small dresser closest to the wall they were painting. She tried to remove the paint with her finger, but it only spread over the white surface.

“What’s wrong?”

“The paint splashed on the dresser.”

Roxas climbed down the ladder he had propped up against the wall and looked at the dresser, then at Naminé, then back at the dresser before taking his wet paint roll and rolling it over the top of the dresser.

“Roxas!”

“You wanted more color in your life, so why don't we paint more than just your wall?”

"But—"

Before Naminé was able to react, Roxas scooped up some paint from the paint roller and bopped her nose. She stared at him speechless, trying to process what had just happened, and it seemed like Roxas had also just now realized what he’d done.

"Naminé? I—I'm sorry, I didn't think—"

Neither did Naminé, apparently, because this time, she was the one who dipped her finger into the paint bucket and quickly drew a line across Roxas's cheek, leaving him dumbfounded and her giggling.

"Oh, it is on ," he teased and chased her around as she tried to escape his wet paintbrush with a squeak.

At the end of the day, Naminé and Roxas flopped down on her bed, covered in splashes of blue, muscles sore from laughing and giggling, but proud of having finished painting the wall, her dresser and a few side stools for plants.

“I’ll be right back,” Roxas promised after a few minutes and dashed outside while Naminé sat up and looked over her room. She couldn’t help but smile—it really felt a lot more homey with this little change, and she got to make a new memory with Roxas while doing this.

Naminé pressed her hands against her warm cheeks when Roxas returned.

"I lied when I said we've been living off of pizza. We've also been living off of these ."

“Sea-salt ice cream?” Naminé asked him with a grin as she took the bar he offered her and inspected it closely.

“Yep! Our fridge is filled to the brim with these. House rule.”

Naminé giggled and under the watchful eyes of Roxas, she took her first bite of the ice cream bar.

“So?” He bounced up and down on the bed like an excited puppy, and it was at that moment that Naminé decided to play a little prank on him. “What do you think?”

“It’s salty. And sweet.”

“Yes!”

“It’s disgusting.”

Color drained from Roxas’s face and he gasped, completely in shock. “What?”

“I’m just kidding! It’s delicious, thank you.”

Roxas puffed his cheeks out and nudged her playfully. “You gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry!” Naminé giggled and soon, Roxas chimed in until enough of his ice cream bar melted that it dripped on his pants, which only resulted in the both of them giggling harder.

In the end, they calmed down, and with her heart pounding out of her chest, Naminé leaned her head against Roxas’s shoulder. He stiffened under her touch and she considered sitting up straight again, but then she felt him rest his head on her own and she suddenly felt warm all over.

“Roxas? Thank you for making me feel at home.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

#Rokunami #Roxas #Naminé #Rokunami Zine #KH #Kingdom Hearts

65 notes · View notes

hermannsthumb · 1 year

Note

Hello! For the summer prompts, if you feel the inspiration, I'd love to see "sunburn" and "mosquito" combined please! 💜

2. Sunburn + 29. Mosquitos

from summer prompt memes here

i'm at the beach for a little bit, so i am in a beachy mood and wanted to send these guys off to one too!! been so busy with zine stuff that I haven't had time to write a silly fic in a while, so here's a short one :-)

----------------------------------------------------------

“This is fun, isn’t it?” Newt says.

Hermann, swathed under a large sunhat and a loose terrycloth button-down, peers out at the ocean with an expression that Newt might call, generously, vague skepticism, and ungenerously outright distaste. But the crease in his brow smooths out as he turns his attention towards Newt, and he quirks up the corner of his mouth. Not exactly a smile from anyone but Hermann. “Er, yes,” he says. “It’s very—hot. But lovely,” he adds quickly. “Very—hot, and lovely.”

Newt hasn’t been to the beach—for non-work related reasons, which is to say a beach that isn’t crawling in, like, enough xenobiological radiation to kill him under ten minutes without the proper PPE—in what must be almost fifteen years at this point, back since the days when he used to crouch for hours over tide pools and scribble barely-legible notes in a composition book before he had to hustle back off to campus for class. Baby’s first field journal. The Pacific coasts are still very much a gamble for a fun day out, but they’re chilling outside DC for the week while they’re traded between nearby universities and fancy banquet halls to get their hands shaken and backs patted or whatever, and by God (Newt decided) he was going to take Hermann on a good, proper beach date if it killed him. Metaphorically. Hopefully not actually with kaiju blue poisoning, because that would suck.

Whether through the lingering effects of their drift or Hermann just being fluent in Newtonian mannerisms at this point, he picked up on Newt’s ulterior motives for insisting on getting a jeep from the car rental place pretty much immediately. He was at least surprisingly chill about it all: all he did was tell Newt, calmly, that he’ll need to stop off at a department store for the proper attire, and that Newt might want to consider a motel room as well so they don’t have to spend seven hours on the road in one day, both of which were pretty reasonable requests. Newt was just planning on swimming in boxers. Not like anyone but Hermann would be able to tell the difference.

They hit miserable traffic on the world’s most terrifying bridge while the A/C sputtered tragically at them (Newt is so asking for a partial refund, it’s July man, come on), and Hermann stared out the window at the ocean a long drop below without making a peep while Newt tried to awkwardly fill the silence with anything that came to his head. Mostly about how much fun they were going to have. They shelled out ten bucks for parking at the public access beach and even more money to rent a tattered umbrella, and the beach was just enough on the wrong side of practically empty that it set both of them on edge (though Newt could tell Hermann was trying to hide it). People are still a little wary of setting foot within fifteen miles of an ocean.

It's romantic, Newt told Hermann, and he tried to rub sunblock on his shoulders sensually, but accidentally jabbed his thumb in the wrong way and made Hermann full-body recoil away from him. I can handle that, he told Newt tersely, but he gave Newt a small thank-you kiss anyway as he wrestled the bottle away from him. The umbrella doesn’t work—too many metal prongs broken with age or over-use. Newt wonders if they dug it out of the bottom of the pile or something. Not wanting to risk getting impaled by a spoke, they ended up closing it and just hoping the sunblock does the job right.

“You’re hot and lovely,” Newt tries, lamely.

Hermann doesn’t acknowledge Newt’s half-assed flirting beyond a small sigh. Newt can’t blame him. Hermann lifts the brim of his hat, peering at a fly that’s just landed on Newt’s calf, and Newt winces a second later when it bites him. "Fuck," he says, and slaps at it. It buzzes away angrily to Hermann’s ankle, presumably to bite him too, so Newt leans forward to valiantly shoo it again. Hermann looks down at him in mingled annoyance and fondness. “Biting flies,” Newt sighs. “Forgot about these bastards.” Benefits of living in various UN-sanctioned basements for ten-odd years, weird bugs that like to cause you bodily harm are a rare occurrence.

“Newton, ah,” Hermann says, adjusting the brim of the hat against a sudden gust of slightly fishy sea-breeze, “how long did you want to stay out here? On the beach, I mean?”

“As long as you want, dude,” Newt says. It’s date-day, and when they drive back they’ll be consumed by their lectures and suits and making good impressions again, so he wants to enjoy himself for as long as possible. More specifically he wants Hermann to enjoy himself for as long as possible. Then again—he’s hot and a little on the sting-y side of tanned, and he’s pretty sure he just saw a mosquito settling on Hermann’s shoulder. “Why, did you want to leave?”

He sounds pathetically hopeful and immediately feels guilty about it. He hyped this up to Hermann so much, he’s not gonna ruin the guy’s fun. “No, no,” Hermann says. “Of course not. I’m having—er—a wonderful time.” He begins to scratch absently at his shoulder. There’s a small bump rising up from what looks like a gnarly patch of sunburn.

“Cool,” Newt says.

“Bit buggy though, isn’t it?” Hermann says. He scratches at another mosquito bite on his ankle.

“It’s not too bad!” Newt says. “I can deal with it.”

“If you're sure,” Hermann says.

They pack the rented jeep up around sunset when the public beach blessedly closes at last. Newt drops the busted umbrella twice on the dunes on the hike back to the parking lot, and Hermann (who’s clutching on to Newt so he doesn’t lose his footing on the uneven ground) finally loses his sunhat for good when he tries to bend down to help Newt the second time: it’s caught in the wind and blown out to sea. They watch sadly as a wave swallows it. “I’ll buy you another one,” Newt says.

They sit in silence in the jeep for a few minutes when Newt starts it, enjoying the A/C (however weak it is) after a day spent in the thick humidity. Hermann’s bony shoulders and fine cheekbones are lobster-red. He’s scratching absently at his thigh. It’s the first time Newt’s ever seen the guy in shorts, and he can’t even enjoy it through the uncomfortable haze of guilt. “Newton,” Hermann finally sighs. “I very much appreciate your, er, enthusiasm for the day, but—” He touches the back of his red neck, wincing, and cranks the A/C up a notch. “—perhaps next time, we might just see a film, or go for dinner?”

“Oh, my God,” Newt says. He sags in the driver’s seat. “Fucking yes, please. That was awful.” It’s cruel to rip them from the comfort of their underground lab and drop them back into the elements of, like, the great outdoors without some build-up, even if this was in fact all Newt’s doing. Like a zoo putting a penguin in a lion habitat or something. Except Newt was the one to tell them to do it.

“It was terrible,” Hermann agrees.

“Why the hell didn’t you say something?!” Historically Hermann has never, ever had a problem bitching at Newt about even the slightest inconvenience or perceived annoyance.

“You went to all that trouble,” Hermann says, “and I was trying to be—” He grits his teeth. “Nice.”

“Gross, dude,” Newt says. “Don’t ever do that again.”

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #saturnvalleycoffee

32 notes · View notes

objectheadzine · 1 year

Text

WELCOME TO THE 10TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE OBJECT HEAD ZINE!

2 months left!

In celebration, the 2024's edition will be a Grab Bag - draw whatever object head you like (so long as it fits the guidelines, see below). In Lieu of a theme, all submissions MUST HAVE ASHLEY (the megaphone mascot) in the piece! Feel free to make him as large or as small as you want in the composition. He can be hanging out with your characters or he can be on a flyer, just so long he's somewhere in the picture! Reference of all his outfits can be found here. But don't feel like you're restricted to his previous outfits. Feel free to dress him up in anything you'd like. Content is also free for whatever! You want to date the lil man? Go for it! You want to tease or go on the attack? Also fine! Ignore him and let him live his life? Sure thing.

ALL submissions will be accepted as long as they fit guidelines and each person has a limit of up to 3 submissions. Submit your pieces to the zine email objectheadzine(@)hotmail(.)com along with the email/website/name you’d like to be credited as. (Feel free to omit emails if that is more comfortable). When you’ve finished your piece(s), you are allowed to post them to your blogs as long as you link back to the zine blog! This will be a DIGITAL ZINE ONLY and will be available free upon completion (donation optional).

The guidelines are as follow:

Illustration-quality works in either digital or traditional mediums. Both colour and b/w acceptable; background required. *BG can be as simple as a pattern or colour block! Avoid utilizing a camera to submit your images, please use a scanner.

The default size will be 6″x9″, 300 dpi (1800px x 2700px) but feel free to go larger or smaller, so long as it follows those proportions. Please work in a vertical format.

For consistency’s sake, keep faces to a minimum (You can have eye(s) or you can have mouth(s) but don’t have both in a humanoid arrangement.)

Ashley, the megaphone head mascot, must be included in your piece. He can be small in the picture or a large factor but he must be included. When submitting, if he is not obvious, please point him out to me. References are found here.

Please go for original characters (or fanart of your friend’s characters) and not so much established object heads (e.g. the popcorn and soda heads from No More).

If you want to include humans, that’s fine as well but keep the ratio of people to object heads 1:1.

Content should be at most PG-13: Romance is fine but after-hours business should not be implied, Blood is fine but no gore. In the end, use your common sense.

Feel free to draw a comic or just an illustration! A comic counts as one submission.

Some facts about Ashley that could help with your piece: He's 5'2", he's of Chinese nationality, he's a TV show host, he's a bubbly, happy-go-lucky kind of guy and he has a Samyoed dog named Cotton!

Note that if a submission does not meet the above guidelines, I will either reject your submission or suggest improvements that would help your piece fulfill them. Please email me at objectheadzine(@)hotmail(.)com if you have any further questions and I’ll do my best to reply promptly. If you do not receive a message from me within a few days, please send it again. Final pieces submitted should be either in PNG or a one layer PSD file format.

Want to share your piece as you're working on them? Come on over to the Object Head Zine discord!

THE DUE DATE FOR SUBMISSIONS IS NOVEMBER 9TH.

#object head #object heads #object head zine #objecthead #objectheads #objectheadzine

229 notes · View notes

rumalumasuns · 4 months

Text

Lout of the Count's Family Zine - Sample #2: Lost in a Child's Paradise

Hope everyone's doing well! This post is to promote a pay-what-you-want charity zine related to Team One from the webnovel/manhwa Lout of the Count's Family I had the pleasure to write some pieces for. Please check it out!

“Team Leader! You can’t just run off like that!” said a panicked company worker. Roksu ignored him, storming off from the meeting room he just came from, his pursed lips and crossed brows showing his great ire.

The worker, apprehensive of what the heads of the company would say, tried to chase after Roksu, widening his steps for a chance to catch up, but to no avail.

“Too bad. Tell the higher-ups that today is my day off. If they don’t let me have it properly, I’ll quit,” said Roksu as he walked out of the organization’s building, his long tan coat flowing behind him.

He couldn’t believe he was called in for an “urgent task” that could’ve been easily handled by any other team at a lower level than his own. It was his day off, for goodness sake! He was supposed to be picking up his niece from daycare, not dilly-dallying with any sort of menial task, especially on this important day.

Once he reached his company building’s parking lot, Roksu got into his car, closed the driver’s door with a loud SLAM, and secured his seat belt. His phone connected to the Blacktooth speaker of the car, starting to blast an old movie soundtrack he found in the MeTube playlist of the original Kim Roksu.

Although the music somewhat calmed him, Roksu was still annoyed by the earlier encounter with the company worker, so he aggressively drove out of the lot, his brows furrowed and his grip on the wheel tight.

While driving to the daycare, he received a call from Sohoon.

“Team Leader, did you just leave the building?”

Roksu groaned. He knew that concerned tone meant Sohoon was going to nag at him for being rude to that random worker. So, he used his secret weapon.

“Please, dongsaeng-ah. I’m kind of busy at the moment. Can I call you back later?”

There was a long pause on the call before Roksu heard a flustered huff from Suhyeok’s end.

“Heh heh… d-dongsaeng?… Jeez, Team Leader. You… Seriously, you have to tell me more about this later, okay? Minah sunbae is also gone... Why am I the only one working today? :(”

“Thanks, dongsaeng-ah. See you later,” replied Roksu, smiling amusedly at his subordinate’s whining.

With another huff, Sohoon ended the call.

Even though that short call lifted Roksu’s spirits a little because he got to tease Sohoon, Roksu was still a little bitter and quietly complained to himself about how he was going to be late as he drove faster to his destination.

Eventually, a one-story pale yellow building came into Roksu’s view. In the space in front of the building was a large yard with patches of grass surrounded by a painted white fence. From the yard, high-pitched shrieks of laughter were heard as little children were playing games like soccer and hopscotch. Outside the gate, other guardians were also picking up their children, walking hand in hand with them to get to their cars and go home or another destination.

Roksu double-checked his bag to make sure that he brought his wallet and ID. Having one annoying inconvenience was enough for the day. He didn’t want another problem at the daycare with some random daycare worker thinking he was a threat or kidnapper. It wasn’t his fault that his dark clothes and height made him look scary to the children. Though, that was a story for another day.

After parking safely in front of the daycare, Roksu slowly got out of the car.

“Uncle Roksu!!” shouted an excited high-pitched voice.

Did you enjoy it? If you want to read the rest, please check out this link here if you haven't already! For more details, please check out @passingrecords

#lout of the count’s family #kim roksu #kim rok soo #kim min ah #vanguard team one #team one zine #fandom zine #pwyw zine #passing records zine #passing records #lcf

3 notes · View notes

kumeko · 11 months

Text

A/N: For the Seasons of Change zine! My long fic was based in the fall and I wanted to write a flustered Dimitri. A very flustered Dimitri and Byleth knows what she’s doing to him. Though, my summary sounds a lot kinker than what I wrote XD

…

Dimitri prided himself for his discipline. Unlike his strength, which was unwieldy at times and entirely innate, this was something he had worked on. Something he had earned. Years had been spent, diligently sticking to his tasks, depriving himself of most modicums of pleasure that could distract him. Temptation always existed, the key was learning how to ignore it.

When he’d first met Byleth, he’d thought they were two of a kind. She had been raised as a mercenary, after all, forced to pack lightly as she moved from place to place. There was little room for indulgence, not when every action could have life or death consequences. It was something he had admired since they’d first met. Her eyes were always clear as she looked forward, allowing her to see the full picture of whatever scenario they found themselves in.

At least, that was what he thought.

It was hard to believe that right now. Not when Byleth was sitting between his legs, her back pressed to her chest, her arm grazing his knee as she flipped pages. This close, he could feel her warmth, hear her breath, see the shades of green in her hair. The library was empty save for them, no one around to witness this embarrassingly indulgent scene. As it was, Dimitri hoped no one passing by looked up through the window and caught them in the alcove.

How had they ended up like this? Dimitri swallowed as he stared down at messy moss green hair. His own papers hung limply between his fingertips; he’d long since given up on concentrating on them. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had grown in the past five years. Byleth nestled perfectly between his legs. All he had to do was hunch forward and he could fold her entirely within his frame.

His ears burned.

This wasn’t the time or place for these thoughts. The flags around Garreg Mach were at half-mast still. While it had been five years since the start of the war, it was only now they could truly see the school’s wreckage. Former students shifted through the rubble, clearing space for supplies and soldiers. Allies died on a daily basis and civilians had long since learned to hide when there was smoke on the horizon. A war raged across the continent; this wasn’t the time to wonder what shampoo Byleth was using.

Not that Byleth had any issues with their current positioning. While he panicked internally, she continued to flip through their scout reports with ease. Her fingers didn’t tremble as she turned the page, her breathing was even, and she didn’t even flinch when he discretely readjusted his position. His heart beat so loud he was certain she could hear it. Yet, if she noticed his tension, she didn’t mention it.

He wished she would.

Glancing at the door, Dimitri exhaled softly. Maybe the gods were listening to his pleas; for once there were no soldiers barging in with news. He couldn’t get caught like this. He was the leader of the army, in the middle of a continental war. He was a king reclaiming his kingdom and people. He was a commander still dressed in mourning black.

He was utterly frozen in place.

They hadn’t been this close since their school days, when they’d meet in cloisters and shadows. Byleth tilted her head and her hair shifted slightly, just enough to reveal a pale nape. It would be too easy to lean down and kiss it. To roughly grab her wrists and turn her jaw and—

Dimitri bit his cheek hard. He shouldn’t be thinking of this. He shouldn’t be remembering other, similar times they’d been like this. And he definitely shouldn’t be remembering what happened after his teeth grazed her skin.

The numbers on his reports told him just why he shouldn’t have such frivolous thoughts. There was no such thing as an easy victory, and Edelgard had always been a brilliant tactician. They’d be lucky if they eked out a win.

“You’re staring,” Byleth stated nonchalantly as she flipped the page. Despite her words, she didn’t move, didn’t try to escape.

So she had noticed. That made him feel marginally better. His neck heated up slightly and he didn’t need a mirror to know that his embarrassed flush had grown. Dimitri cleared his throat. “I am surprised you want to sit like this.”

“Why?” she asked, her thumb flicking the edges of the report thoughtfully. Gracefully, she pushed back a stray strand of hair behind her ear and glanced back at him coquettishly. “You want me to move?”

“No.” The words shot out of him like a cannon, escaping his lips before he could even think. Dimitri closed his eyes and winced. Maybe it was the library, maybe it was their closeness, but he felt like an awkward teenager again, filled with Sylvain’s terrible advice as he tried to court the one he had long admired. The years just melted away, leaving behind the naïve boy he had forced himself to forget. “That…that is not why I asked.”

“Good.” Byleth chuckled softly, relaxing further into his embrace. Her hair tickled his nape, her shoulders lowering as she reclined against his chest. She patted his knee. “I like my spot.”

She had to know what he was doing, how he was reacting. Dimitri couldn’t even pick her up and move her away. With the way he felt right now, he was too afraid he’d accidentally toss her.

Too afraid she’d see his trembling hands for what they were.

He forced his gaze outside the window. The warm sunlight had forced him to abandon his fur-lined cape long ago. It should be easier to form his thoughts when he focused on a make-shift camps outside, the soldiers continuing their work despite the turmoil and changes of the past few weeks.

Somehow, not seeing her made it worse. He could feel every place they connected, as though she were burning him. The clean, simple scent of soap filled the air, erasing every other musty smell in the library. Byleth had always used the plainest, cheapest cleaning products. Her soft, even breathing was barely audible over the thrumming of his heart.

“Are you certain? Is it not uncomfortable?” Dimitri asked quietly.

Byleth snorted, incredulous. “Do I ever second guess myself?”

“No,” he reluctantly admitted. Every move of hers was decisive, regardless of the outcome. Whether it was war or selecting their cooking schedule, Byleth never backed down nor looked back. Her gaze was always firmly set forward.

“Then there’s your answer.” Byleth licked her lips as she turned a page. In the semi-transparent reflection in the mirror, Dimitri caught a flash of pink tongue.

He should work. Dimitri glanced at the papers dangling from his grasp. It was a logistics issue, a fault in the supply chain. He needed to fix it before the next battle. Yet, the words swam and clashed against one another, none of them feeling important right now. None of them mattered when Byleth was this close.

Maybe Byleth sensed his growing unease for she sighed and set down her papers. In a single, swift move, she turned in his arms to face him. Her eyes glowed in the sunlight. Her hands gripped his shoulders lightly. This was worse. There was nowhere to hide from her gaze. She remained silent, simply observing him.

“Byleth?” he choked out.

“Is something wrong?” It didn’t sound like a question. Not when she stared at him so pensively. Even now, she was ever the teacher, pulling answers out of him to questions he didn’t even know he had.

“This…” Dimitri couldn’t get up, trapped as he was under her. He weakly gestured between them. “We should not be like this.”

“Shouldn’t be like what?” Byleth pressed impatiently. Her breath ghosted his neck.

He caught his reflection in her eyes, his flat lips, his wide eye, his clenched jaw. Regardless of how he felt, at least he didn’t appear overly flustered. Maybe that was what experience did. It calmed him and he slowed his breathing.

“We shouldn’t be this close,” he gently chided.

As usual, his warning rolled right off her. Shame and embarrassment didn’t exist for her. Byleth raised a brow. “There is no one to see. Even then, you are a king. Who would complain?”

“Still…” Dimitri trailed off. The civilities of the court meant little to Byleth, though they had been drilled in him since day one.

Byleth pursed her lips. “What’s wrong?”

There was a simple answer to the simple question. Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to say it. To utter it aloud would shatter this moment and as guilty as he felt, he was still only a man. A greedy man.

“Dimitri.” She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek. It was impossible not to lean into her touch, to close his eye and simply accept her kindness. Her thumb gently stroked his skin. “Please.”

“Is this allowed?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible.

“What is?” Her other hand rested on his shoulder, her clothes rustling as she sat up.

He didn’t open his eye. It was easier to talk like this, to pretend he was only saying this to himself. “This.” His right hand gripped her waist lightly. “Any of this.”

“Why?” Byleth asked. The hand on his shoulder slid down his arm and squeezed his hand. He could feel her calluses and scars, the reminders of all she had ever fought for.

Like him. Even when she hadn’t even known his name, she had fought and protected him. He turned his wrist, interlacing their fingers as he wished for some of her strength. Even with his bloodline and crest, Byleth had always been far more powerful than he would ever be.

“We’re in a war.” The excuses were easy enough to say. Even without his ghosts reminding him, Dimitri doubted he could forget. “People have died—Rodrigo is dead. The country’s torn apart. I…What I’ve done…”

The blood on his hands couldn’t be explained away as merely self-defence. There was a difference between killing and slaughtering, and he had crossed the line far too many times.

“War doesn’t stop us from living,” she answered easily. “We’ve all done things. My hands are no cleaner than yours. You’ve regretted and repented, that doesn’t mean you need to stand still.”

Straight to the point and blunt as ever, Byleth cut through his fears with a single stroke. Everything sounded simple when she laid it out. Her words left no room to argue.

Yet, he had to try. “But—”

Byleth tightened her grip on his hand. “Dimitri, look at me.”

He couldn’t reject her command. His eye flew open. Her expression was soft, far softer than he’d thought possible for her.

“What is wrong?” she asked a third time.

This time, he couldn’t lie. “I’m not allowed this. After all I’ve done, I…I can’t…I shouldn’t…”

Her thumb moved from his cheek to the edge of his lips and Byleth pressed lightly, effectively shutting him up. “Dimitri,” she said carefully. “You are allowed happiness. Always.”

His stomach roiled. “After everything—”

She cut him off. “Especially after everything. There are none who know you who would wish otherwise.”

Edelgard was the easy rebuke, but he couldn’t say his childhood friend knew him. Not anymore. That summer felt impossibly far away, a mirage, a dream, a fleeting spark that had died before it could burn. The possibilities that had existed when they had danced had popped like a bubble by the time they reunited.

As though she sensed his thoughts, Byleth added, “Those that truly know you wish for your joy.” She squeezed their interlaced fingers. “Me especially.”

“And I yours,” he replied automatically, his free hand rising up to cover hers on his cheek. “Always.”

She smiled faintly. Her smiles were always like that, quicksilver, almost impossible to catch. It wasn’t long before her expression grew somber once more. “Then please, stop denying yourself.”

“Is it denial?” he asked half-heartedly, a last-ditch protest.

“I lost five years,” Byleth replied. She looked away, out the window. Not for the first time, he wondered what she saw. The crumbling buildings outside or the school of yesteryear? When she saw him, did she see the diligent youth or the mad king? Sometimes, her gaze seemed far away, as though she were living in the past and not the present, as though she were there and not here.

And then she turned back to him, her stare steady and solid.

“I lost five years,” she repeated, louder now. “Not just my time. Your time. Our house’s time. The things I missed…” She swallowed hard. “Even before that, the people I missed…”

He didn’t have to ask to know she was thinking of Jeralt. Of her father’s last conversation, of the questions left unasked and unanswered, the things she didn’t say or do. His death had come far too quickly.

Her intertwined fingers squeezed his one last time before she extracted them from his grip. Both her hands clasped his face, forcing him to still. “I have lost many things and I have more regrets than I want to bear. I am tired of losing things to rue and ghosts.”

When she laid it out so clearly, he felt foolish. Maybe he’d been the one stuck in a stasis for five years, barely growing, barely changing. The ghosts lingered still, in the corner of his eyes, reminders of a guilt that he doubted would ever leave him.

But just like her regrets, they didn’t have to come any further than that. They could live in the shadows, buzz the back of his head, but no longer control his actions.

He gave up. “Me too.”

“Good.” She leaned forward, kissing him softly. He stiffened, surprised. After a moment, she pulled back and rested her forehead against his. “Let’s not lose anything else.”

“Oh,” was the only intelligible sound he could make. He had forgotten how daring she could be.

“Glad you get it.” She smirked as she pushed away. Her hand reached down for the long-forgotten reports. “Then I don’t want to hear about this again.”

Something gnawed within him. He had forgotten just how much he had craved her touch.

Maybe it was time he took a step forward himself. Before Byleth could retreat any further, Dimitri grasped her neck, his other hand clamping down on her arm as he pulled her closer. Giving into temptation, he folded her into his frame as he kissed her. Her hands immediately wrapped around him, her nails digging into his back, and maybe he hadn’t been the only one denying himself recently.

#dimileth #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth eisner #fire emblem three houses #dimitri x byleth #fe3h #fanfic

7 notes · View notes

b0tsbby · 11 months

Note

hey i know we’re both probably more focused on the more pressing news out of palestine right now so let this sit here as long as you need it to but when you’re coming back to the idea of a knives zine id love to hear more. your idea to have it raise some support warmed my heart. i know that’s kind of a strong message to lead with when i didn’t follow you until today but i recognized your url on my dash as one of the few knives posters that clears my boyfriend’s exacting standards of knives posting

Yea. I must admit I kinda felt for a moment to give up on the Knives Zine because I couldn’t find help but I just think it’s so much bigger than me, or should be so much bigger than me. Mainly cause I don’t have money and there’s a lot of silent genocides going on that I’m kinda sick of! I just wanna combat this form of helplessness in a way I think I can do best. So I mean if a Knives Zine is one way then so be it I suppose?

I don’t know what I’m doing ever. But I just hope I can produce something truly, significantly good in my life.

Edit: But yea! He really means a lot to me! My head is kinda in the clouds rn regarding fandom cause obvious reasons but I just think he’s such a misunderstood character that really, could do with some form of a love letter? At least for all the knives appreciators and people, who really don’t get him but would like to, and of course the hypothetical person who would come across it accidentally and, actually really end up connecting the dots when it comes to his nuances.

#B0tstalks

8 notes · View notes

razorsadness · 4 months

Text

The end of April/first half of May was a really bad time. First L., the octogenarian gay man who is a neighbor of mine, whom I help out sometimes and like to visit with, was in the hospital. One of our other neighbors (who also helps him out) notified me, so that I could grab his mail when they couldn’t do it. Fortunately, he’s since come home and he’s doing okay, but I was so worried.

During the time he was in the hospital, D. (my 12 y.o.) was having some health issues (side effects from his meds), so I was calling around to/taking him to various doctor’s appointments and pharmacies to try and get that figured out.

And if that wasn’t enough, at the very end of April my mom had a big health emergency and had to go to the emergency room. And after that she had to go in every other day for more tests and whatnot, so I had to help a lot with my parents’ dog, and cleaning, and etc. Which of course I don’t resent having to do, but it was a lot on top of everything else. Not to mention, there was a period of a week or so when we didn’t fully know what was going on and thought she might be imminently dying and I couldn’t stop crying and yes, I have a complex relationship with my mom that is not always the healthiest, but I do love her, and want her to stick around for a good long while.

Because of all of the above, I had to cancel a bunch of plans for things I had really wanted to do, and it bummed me the fuck out. Again, it’s not that I resent having a responsibility to the other people in my life, but I was just fucking sad. Not to mention that everything I canceled was the fun and interesting stuff, so all that was left in my life for a couple weeks was the shitty stuff. And all work and no play make Jack a dull boy, y’know?

No, I didn’t become a maniacal axe murderer, but I did cry all the time, and the littlest things set me off so my poor partner and kiddos got snapped at a lot. And I couldn't sleep because of everything on my mind, and of course the lack of sleep made me even more stressed and moody. And speaking of axe wounds...I got my period twice in May because of all the stress.

Despite giving up fun things and focusing on responsibilities for a couple of weeks, I still got behind on pretty much everything, art/work-wise. I managed to complete the 30/30, but I failed on the fundraising aspect (I didn't even get halfway to my fundraising goal, and some of what I did make is money I put in). And I didn't finish April's mini-zine for my zine subscribers until May, or May's until almost June, and now it is June and I'm just finally about to send out April and May's zines and the perks for the people who did contribute to the fundraiser. I'm trying not to beat myself up over it, though, because that would just make me stressed again, just when I'm finally chilling out a bit.

In mid-May, we took the kids on a day trip/field trip to Chicago, primarily to visit the Shedd Aquarium. It was a great day; filled, of course, with nostalgia. We took Amtrak, so of course I had all of the train feelings. Every train song I know (and I know a lot) got stuck in my head. When I saw the southbound train approaching the Sturtevant station, I started singing "Mystery Train." Train, train, comin' 'round, 'round the bend... On the train down, I saw two egrets in the wetlands of southeast Wisconsin/northeast Illinois. I also overheard a conversation between two women who were talking about their kids. One was talking about her 14 y.o. daughter and said: "I used to be a little worried she was a lesbian, because she was kind of a tomboy, and her best friend is a lesbian. But then she started wearing dresses and makeup so I know she can't be a lesbian!" And I was just thinking: oh, oh honey, do you not know that femmes exist? At Union Station, I saw a few older skinheads hanging out in the Great Hall, and as I got closer to them I realized—holy shit, I know a couple of them. Not like, super well, but they were guys that ran in some of the same circles I did circa oh, 1998-2004. One of them smiled at me and gave me a nod. I'm not sure if he recognized me, too, or if he could just tell I had similar subcultural roots. I thought I looked pretty normie that day, but I find that no matter what I'm wearing, fellow queers and people with similar subcultural backgrounds can usually recognize that I'm one of them. (By the same token, I've had bigots clock me as an LGBTQ or just a freak even when I think I look pretty normie.)

As always when I'm in that part of Chicago, I got my own poem ("Way Down Here on Canal Street") stuck in my head. Way down here on Canal Street / the bike messengers stare you down / and businessmen brush right past you / in their rush to get out of town...

The Shedd Aquarium was awesome; the kiddos loved it, and I loved it, too—I hadn't been there in about 27 years, so it was like a brand-new experience. There were so many queer babes working there, which was nice, of course. The weirdest thing that happened is that I saw an ex-something-or-other of mine; he was there with his wife, just as I was there with my husband and kiddos. He saw me, too; we both went wide-eyed like we'd seen a ghost, and it was sorta like that, considering we hadn't seen or spoken to one another in like twenty years. We both pointedly avoided saying hello to each other, though, and honestly, thank god. I call him an ex-something-or-other because we never actually dated; we had a very ill-advised fling and it kinda ruined both our lives for a bit.

It's funny, though not entirely surprising, that I ran into not one but three people from my past. Chicago is a massive fucking city, yet every time I am down there, I run into at least one person I (used to) know. And it makes more sense if it's in the context of a zine fest or a punk show, or even at an old haunt like Delilah's, but at the aquarium and the train station? (Insert Tom Waits in that one interview, saying: Everybody knows me...at the dump.)

After leaving the aquarium, we wandered around the Museum Campus/Grant Park/Northerly Island for a while, and I took a bunch of photos. I saw Navy Pier sticking out into the lake and got that same old poem of mine stuck in my head. Above the Ferris wheel on Navy Pier / the golden light is fadin'... We sat at an outdoor table, got harassed by red-winged blackbirds. I saw ghosts (legitimate ghosts, not just people from my past) darting around out of the corners of my eyes. I told my kids about the time I went swing dancing at the Field Museum after dark.

Then we headed to Printer's Row and had some really good Japanese food, before heading back to the train station to catch our train home. As our Uber driver neared the station, we went by a wall that had once had some graffiti on it. It had been painted over, but you could still see traces of the graffiti beneath the paint. The light hit just right for me to read what had been written there before they painted over it: Sweet Home Chicago. And yes, oh yes; I thought, once again, of that Lucy Sante quote about New York I think of every time I'm in Chicago: ...I was changed forever by it, my imagination is manacled to it, and I wear its mark the way you wear a scar. We had just enough time for the kids to have a snack and P. and I to have a beer in the station food court/bar before catching the Hiawatha north. On the train home, I watched the city fall away from me, water towers and loft apartments fading into the gloaming, and I felt happysad, the way I always do when I've been in Chicago and have to leave again.

Back at the train station in Sturtevant, C. and I spotted the first cricket of the year, and in the car on the way home, the DJ on my favorite radio station played Sufjan Stevens's "Casimir Pulaski Day," which, after a day in Chicago, really hit me straight in the gut.

Since then, life has been mostly about catching up on writing and art stuff, while also trying to take it easy on myself. After all the stress of late April and the first part of May, I decided that one of my goals for this spring-into-summer season is to get healthier, both mentally and physically. So I've been drinking less coffee and more tea; less booze and more sparkling water. I've also been cooking delicious, healthy meals, doing yoga regularly, and taking long walks, as well as reading a lot of books and watching the new season of Doctor Who + a bunch of filmed plays.

Two Saturdays ago (i.e., not just this past Saturday, but the one before), I had an adventure day with C. (6 y.o.). It was the nicest day we'd had in a while, after days of rain, so he really wanted to do some outdoor exploring. D. didn't want to go, and P.'s back was hurting, so we decided P. would stay home with D. and C. and I would go out. At first I was a little annoyed, thinking it would be a waste of my time to do that when I could be home doing writing work, but then I was like: "Damn, that's the must-be-productive-24/7 capitalism mindset talking. How could spending time with my kiddo and going out exploring in nature ever be a waste of time?!" So I packed a picnic lunch and off we went.

We went to two places where I have so many memories from the past, oh, 25 years—Petrifying Springs Park, and the beach near Carthage College. I like taking my family to places (like Chicago, like Petrifying Springs) where I've spent a lot of time; it's nice to create new memories that involve all of us, so I'm not just nostalgic for ye olde days when thinking of those places. (Not that I won't still be nostalgic for ye olde days; what I mean is creating new memories with beloved people in beloved places makes it so that I'm not just nostalgic for a long-ago time.)

We started at Pet Springs. We had our picnic lunch, and then hiked around a bit near the marsh and the Pike River. Then I let C. have some playground time, and I got my flirt on with a hot dad who was there with his kids. I was wearing my Tom Waits shirt and he said: "Great shirt. I love Tom Waits." An attractive guy with a lot of sailor-style tattoos, who obviously spends quality time with his kids, and likes Tom Waits? Gimme. So we chatted for a bit, and casually flirted. It wasn't heavy or serious flirting—on either of our parts—just that sort of casual flirting that's like "oh, this person is intriguing and attractive, and maybe in another life we might've had something."

It's weird to me that some people think that flirting is outside the bounds of a monogamous relationship. I mean, I guess I can understand if it crosses the line into serious flirting—i.e., flirting with the intent to pursue something more, or making a lot of sexual/romantic comments—but some people think even casual flirting counts. Whereas I think everyone should do more casual flirting—people in monogamous relationships, people in poly relationships, single people, even ace and aro people. Casual flirting is good for the soul, and it doesn't have to "mean" anything.

After we left Petrifying Springs, we drove to the beach. Because of the direction we were coming from, we drove part of the way on the spur road that connects the east-west county roads with Highway 32, and I thought of another one of my own poems—"Highway 32." Particularly the part that goes: here is the spur road back of / the river flanked by the / cemetery & the trailer park.

We spent a good hour exploring the beach: we discovered a party hut built from stones and driftwood, and walked the labyrinth, and got our feet wet in the cold cold lake, and picked up cool rocks.

The past week and a half has involved a lot of nostalgia (what else is new?). I've been sorting through stuff from Mays n' Junes (n’ other times) past (it's almost nostalgia-blogging time again), and it hit me, like really hit me, that it was twenty years ago that I first saw World/Inferno live. And it really did change my life. And then I thought about how May also marked 19 years since Kimball died (well, March was the anniversary of his death, but I didn't find out until May), and three years since Jack Terricloth died, and how I used to think of Kimball when listening to certain W/IFS songs like "Brother of the Mayor of Bridgewater" and "Thirteen Years Without Peter King," and how now I think of him but also of Jack when I hear those songs. I don't think I'll ever get over either of their deaths. That's the weird thing about grief. You can learn to live with it, you can grow around it, but you don't "get over" it, not in the traditional sense of the phrase.

I don't know. I feel kicked in the chest by the passage of time, always, like where does the time go? How are these things that I still remember so vividly things that happened ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty years ago? But on the other hand, I'm constantly mystified at how easy it is to be hurtled back in time to the site of a memory in a way that feels physical, like almost literal time travel. Like last week: I was listening to Billy Bragg for the first time in a while, and wearing this vanilla scent that smelled just like this incense I used to use as a teenager, and suddenly I was eighteen again, sitting in the spare room at the house on College Avenue, burning incense, listening to Billy's plaintive British voice, typing away on my old electric typewriter.

I've had some vivid and intense dreams in the past week. In one of them, I basically dreamed the entire plot of a novel. In the dream, I was reading the novel, but then I was also in the novel. The dream woke me up in the middle of the night and I jotted down notes about everything I remembered. And in the morning, when I reread them—they actually made sense, and I think there's the seeds of a good story there. It's speculative fiction/soft sci-fi, somewhat dystopian but also hopeful. So thanks, subconscious!

The other notable dream I've had of late was more of a "fuck you, subconscious" one. In that dream, I reconnected with Sullivan, and we got back together—and ended up making it work, this time around. It was a beautiful dream, don't get me wrong, but it hurt to wake up from, and know it was only a dream, and an impossible one, at that. It's not that I'd rather be with him than with P., or that I'd rather have that life than the one I currently have. It's just—it's just the unfairness of life, that we can't be with all the people we've ever loved, or live in all the places we've loved, or even pursue all the interests and careers we might have had. So what I felt waking up from that dream was not regret, but saudade—a longing for the way things might have been.

Also last week I trimmed a good inch off my hair (most of which was split ends) and trimmed my bangs shorter again, and it's a miracle how much better even a little trim can make me feel about myself.

Now it's June. Magic month. I've already seen the first fireflies of the summer. They're early, this year, and I'm happy. The rabbits that live in our backyard, that C. initially christened Paul Westerberg and Tommy Stinson, had five babies. C. has since renamed them, but I still think of them as Paul and Tommy, so it's extra specially hilarious to me when I think: "Oh, Paul had babies, and Tommy's the dad!" Happy Pride, MPREG is real! Haha. Speaking of Pride and silliness—the other day, I was typing "Oscar Wilde" into a note on my phone, and autosuggest thought I might be meaning to type "Oscar Wildfire," and now, holy shit, if I ever get to do the drag king thing, I have my stage name.

It's also P.'s and my anniversary week—we've been married for fourteen years, together for fifteen. Today's our official wedding anniversary, and is also fifteen years to the day from the night I first told P. I was in love with him. I know I say this every year, but despite all the ups-and-downs of our relationship over the years, and my boundless longing, there's still no one I'd rather be doing this with than him.

My mom gave me a few peonies from her yard so I could put them on our table, because peonies were my wedding flower, and now my whole house smells of their heavy perfume.

And this weekend is shaping up to be pretty good. On Saturday night, I'm going to hang out with Beagan—we're going to the closing reception of the art show of another good friend of ours, and then we're going to have a drink and catch up back at her place. And on Sunday, P. and I get to have a date night. My parents are going to watch the kiddos and we're going to go have a beer at a new-ish local brewery we've been meaning to try, then come home and grill up some steaks and veggies.

5 notes · View notes