#special assignment zine

[gummysharkzz]

I was lucky enough to be a part of Special Assignment- a mini-zine hosted by @clutchpowers to celebrate 10 years of Lego City Undercover! You can check it out FOR FREE right here! The zine is absolutely incredible and everyone who worked on it BLEW me away!! Plus there’s a super cute fic there that you DON’T wanna miss :]

[eskewcity]

for class we had an assignment to go to any special collection archive of our choosing and look at an item so I picked the punk zine archive on my campus and it’s making me so..

[penaconyfashion]

✨INTEREST CHECK RESULTS✨

As contributor apps approach, we have some special interest check results for you! Please take a look at our two interest check results posts, we will be referencing these results as Reverie's production proceeds~

With 199 responses, we have a solid amount of interest in the zine itself, and in participation/support across the board! We also have a wide variety of interest in merch, so we will offer several different items. Charms and photocards were particularly popular!

We will keep in mind price ranges and limited/add-on merch interest in mind as we create our bundle options~

A blend of regular story-style and article-style fics was most popular, so we will aim for an equal mix of story types! We will assign accepted writers to specific story-types based on interest indicated on their applications.

While we had several more characters appear on the check-in, we have decided to show the top ten most popular in the graphic! It seems Robin and Sunday have really been in everyone's hearts~ But don't worry, we aim to feature every single character from Penacony's storyline (so worry not, Sparkle fans and AE fans and Gallagher fans and [etc.])

We also love the wide interest in styles!

Finally: we will be proceeding with a pin-up/burlesque zine! The zine will be SFW and at most suggestive, as per general pin-up/burlesque styles that are SFW unless noted otherwise. The zine will be ship-free and focus on solo characters. As of now, it is digital-only, but we will run an interest check during creation to make it available as a physical book~ so keep following us and stay tuned for that!

Be sure to visit our Carrd to brush up on our application requirements, and thank you for all the support!

[swirls-fanart]

Black cats are bad luck.

I was assigned a zine project in one of my classes, where we all draw 5 Halloween-themed pieces that get put into a physical zine my professor is making! And like the absolute nerd I am, I had to subtlety make this all about my silly little interests, so I made each piece themed around a canon cat from Warriors 😌✨

This piece is the first one I’ve finished - made in a simplistic lineless style to emphasize everything - and it features Juniperclaw with a “black cats are bad luck” theme! The berries are yew berries (aka deathberries), and they represent how he poisoned SkyClan with their seeds, while the blood represents his victims and the weight of his inexcusable actions weighing down on him. He’s a very troubled guy who regrets his actions deeply and tries to be better, but he will ultimately spend the rest of his afterlife in the Dark Forest as punishment. I actually adore this tragic guy as a character, but I literally NEVER seen any fanart for him, which sucks!! So here’s my own contribution 😌💖

Design is mine (although he’s just dark gray and spikey, nothing special markings-wise lol)!

[clutchpowers]

SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT is a mini zine celebrating LEGO City Undercover’s 10th Anniversary! This FREE Zine includes the digital zine (16 pieces of art and 1 fanfic) plus 3 print-at-home stickers!

[[ GRAB A COPY HERE ]]

[secularprolifeconspectus]

I read your entire zine. I have the means to support an unplanned pregnancy and I am in support of innate “personhood” and am against murder in all circumstances.

Your zine thoroughly identifies the connection between Neoliberal Capitalism necropolitics and abortion but could use more resources for alternatives like your testimonial for embryo donation. I say this because your true position is one that is actually pretty common—that abortion is traumatizing but necessitated by (forced) socioeconomic conditions. While you are clearly concerned with compassion, we are still living under these regimes with no light ahead in sight so labeling yourself as “pro-life” seems like a misappropriation of the contemporary term while also /feeling/ a bit sadistic.

On a philosophical note, how do you tackle the notion of bodily autonomy in this case? Pregnancy complications aside, how can we tell women that they necessarily must sustain someone else’s body with their own? Even in a just world, women who do not wish to experience pregnancy as a medical condition will exist and they would have that right as part of healthcare. Do you assign special rights to the personhood of an unborn human that supersede their mothers? Even if you suggest pregnant folks wait until they are able to donate their embryos, you are still implying some sort of regulation (assuming not legal since you are anarchist) against their bodies. While I agree that most abortions are ultimately coercive, I am uncertain that the exceptions are minuscule enough to limit my support to only “necessary” (prioritizing bodily health over mental health/wellbeing) abortions.

I really appreciated your zine. It was very thought out and well informed. I hope to see updates soon!

Well howdy, thanks for reading the zine in its entirety. You're right, in the zine I do focus on the socioeconomic coercion angle because its an accessible point of entry for folks with left-leaning ideologies. And I did make a ploy for compassion because you have to have a pathos appeal to compliment logos, right? HOWEVER, I want to clarify that my *actual* position (not just the idea I explore in the zine) is this:

Prenatal humans are in the same metaphysical processes as us, which makes them real people with the equal right to not be subject to deliberate violence. Bodily autonomy does not justify disproportionate use of force against a dependent person.

And that's all there is to it. Abortion is ethically impermissible and a human rights violation, irrespective of contemporary regime. So I hope that earns me the "pro-life" label in your eyes, or at least an "anti-abortion" ethos. I'll take either.

Noted on the alternative resources suggestion.

I've done a detailed deconstruction of the bodily autonomy justification for abortion in this post & this post. I don't think women MUST sustain preborn people within their own bodies, but until preborn people can be safely transferred elsewhere, I think everyone (not just women) MUST refrain from suffocating, dismembering, or poisoning preborn people. Because that is how abortion induces fetal demise: it deliberately deprives the person of oxygen, compromises their body integrity, or hijacks their vital functions.

I think when there is no option to remove a preborn person from her mother's body without knowingly killing her, then we must NOT knowingly kill her. I have no interest in forcing women to DO anything. I have interest in enforcing that everyone (women included) NOT do a few things, very specifically: knowingly cause the death of a tiny, powerless person.

I want every person to have the same right to not be deliberately killed. And I want every person to refrain from deliberately killing. I recognize that this puts an unequal burden on pregnant people in the present; but consider the burden preborn people shoulder when they are sacrificed to purchase our liberty, for which we never personally pay the ultimate price. It is brutal abuse of power.

When you really think about it, the bodily autonomy argument is a bit of a red herring, isn't it? I've never heard of a person who sought an abortion simply because they "do not wish to experience pregnancy". People most often seek abortions because they do not want a relationship to a living child. It's an issue of reproductive autonomy.

Sure I have an anarchist bent, but when it comes to a literal genocide, I am first a pragmatist. If a genocide can be stopped immediately with legal sanctions, then I will accept that for now. Lives are on the line. My ideal sociopolitical framework can wait.

[taruchinator]

🌸 Teen Audiences

🌸 1k Words

🌸 For the @noragamizines!

It was almost eerie how beautiful the sight that greeted him was.

Serene and secluded mountain terrains that were undoubtedly explored by many others before him, yet none would've imagined that they were strolling right past a corpse. A twisted joke was displayed in front of the blond with the appearance of tranquil flora, which surrounded something that didn't quite belong.

A broken refrigerator— Haruki's gravesite.

Hello everyone! Alice here! ^^

Another project I was helping cook up this year was the Noragami Finale Zine! I was assigned to write a story for the Ooharai Arc (aka where my boy Yukine just goes back to his rebel roots), and I'm honestly quite happy with how it turned out~

Noragami was the first series that truly got me into anime, and that's why it will always hold a special place in my heart!

“I believe our mother was intercepting the letters, and maybe even sending them back, too…” Yuka spoke barely above a whisper, her eyes never leaving the crinkly old envelopes that lay in the box in front of her.

Haruki could only stare in disbelief at the words that left his sister's mouth. Their mother couldn't have possibly done that, could she? During his entire childhood, the woman had been nothing but kind and supportive to them both, her only flaw ever being how forgiving she was of their father's actions. Yet the blond couldn't bring himself to blame her for leaving him with that monster, even if he wanted to.

But if what Yuka said was true, he didn't know what to feel anymore.

“Not even she wanted you. Nobody wanted you.” The voice in his head whispered those ugly words as it'd been doing so recently, but Haruki did his best to ignore them. They weren't true after all, since he knew for a fact that his sister loved him. Even if no one else did.

“I knew what he was doing to Haruki, yet I never mustered the courage to actually go see him.” His sister's voice wavered as silent tears began rolling down her cheeks. “I was worried he would hate me for abandoning him, so I never stopped apologizing in my letters, hoping that one day he'd come see me so we could work things out…”

“I did come!” The blond couldn't bear hearing her say these things. Lies that she fabricated in her mind out of guilt. “I could never hate you! I'm right here, Yuka!”

In that instant however, reality came crashing down on him when the young girl from his memories turned into an older woman, features still the same, but laced with the inevitable grip of mortality. Wrinkles appeared on her forehead as she forced a smile. “But he never did. That means Haruki's dead, isn't he?”

“You worthless brat… wanting to leave me too, huh? After all I've done for you!”

Hiyori placed a hand on top of Yuka's in a matter of reassurance, but at this point everything they were saying was white noise to Haruki's ears. His breathing became raggedy and agitated, despite the fact that his lungs didn't require any air. Not anymore.

“That bitch don't care about you! Nobody does! Why you think she took your sister instead o' you?!”

Images of his father began seeping into his mind uninvited, and it all immediately prompted him to leave the house and travel to another location that at some point his mind had started to forget. He didn't want to believe it—he really didn't—so he had to see it for himself. He wouldn't believe it otherwise.

It was almost eerie how beautiful the sight that greeted him was. Serene and secluded mountain terrains that were undoubtedly explored by many others before him, yet none would've imagined that they were strolling right past a corpse. A twisted joke was displayed in front of the blond with the appearance of tranquil flora, which surrounded something that didn't quite belong: A broken refrigerator.

Haruki's gravesite.

“You dying ain't my fault. It's divine punishment…”

Shivers ran up his spine as his knees gave up on him, causing him to collapse as he stared at the open makeshift casket. The place he took his final breath as he kept begging for an explanation, for mercy, for anything. But the eyes that looked down on him held nothing but pure unadulterated hatred.

“See ya, Haruki.”

“I'm dead…” Haruki's voice quivered with silent tears staining his clothes. Memories flooded back in a rush, and it was all too overwhelming as he gripped at the grass below his feet. “I-I'm actually dead. I don't belong anywhere—”

Suddenly something bumped against his palm from the inside of his pocket, slightly bringing him out of his dismay. After searching into his coat, the blond was surprised by what he'd discovered, eyeing it with curiosity. The wooden omamori was rough against his fingers since it was most definitely carved by hand, and the discarded yet familiar name written on it brought a warmth to his nonexistent beating heart.

Haruki had received it from Yato a long time ago—a memory from a life that didn't seem his own despite having become a Blessed Vessel in order to protect it. The feelings of jealousy and rage that consumed him back then seemed inconsequential now, while holding a physical reminder of the people he'd left behind in search of his truth.

Haruki had simply thrown them all away.

“How will they ever forgive me?” The reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him as if he didn't have enough to deal with already. His betrayal, joining forces with Father, fighting those he swore he'd protect with everything he had. “Dad was right… nobody could ever love someone like me…”

“Yukine!”

The voice calling out eventually reached him, making Haruki realize that at some point his physical form left the battlefield to come to this place. Tentative steps could be heard rustling the grass, but the blond didn't have to look up to know who it was.

“Yukine… Are you okay?” It was a silly question, but laced with so much worry that Haruki couldn't help but lift his gaze to look into those familiar blue orbs. They held nothing but concern, which was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Yukine launched himself into the man's arms, sobbing and burying his nose into the scent of sweat that he missed so much. His entire body was shaking. “I-I'm sorry… I'm so sorry!”

Yato held him close with tears of his own flowing onto the blond's cheek. “It's okay Yukine… It's all going to be okay.”

Yukine didn't know what the future held. Fate was messy, convoluted and not always fair. But there was one thing he knew for certain—he'd never have to go at it alone.

Never again.

✦ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐌𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐌𝐲 𝐒𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬! ✦

[partiallypoison]

okay, so i wanted to write a post with a bit more information on the mcr reunion zine, since i already have a lot of people interested :)

please note that nothing is set in stone. there needs to be A LOT done before i even think about applications. the most i've done is a lot of research and gathering my thoughts about what exactly i want. however i wanted to explain myself better in case anyone is on the fence about whether or not they want to participate!!

warning: i typed way too much but hopefully it answers any questions you might have at this stage <3

first and foremost, it’s going to be a charity zine. regardless of size, i don’t want to do this for profit. that money is going to be donated. which charity, i’m not sure, but i’m open to suggestions!

for the subject matter: it’s going to be about mcr’s reunion and everything surrounding it. i want the zine itself to be almost like a scrapbook, in that it captures events of the reunion. a summoning video, the shrine show, the foundations of decay, specific shows and/or parts of shows (speeches, outfits, drum sayings, songs played for the first time in years, singing with openers/special guests).

you won’t be assigned your topic unless you don’t specify one. however, it’s first come, first serve for topics. i won’t have twenty people drawing cheerleader gerard. you have to submit multiple topics in order of preference. if you don't get any of your assigned topics, i'll do my best to assign you one as close as possible/work with you to adjust it so it's not too similar to others'.

yes, you can work on the same show/topic as someone else as long as what you want to do is different than the other person. example: two people want to do the 9/11 brooklyn show. one wants to do something about playing skylines and turnstiles in new york city on 9/11 and the meaning behind it all. the other person wants to do an art piece about desert song being performed for the first time in years. both can be in the zine, because they're different, even though they're the same show.

writers are a bit different. they can write about something if there’s already two art pieces about a show, but only one writer can do that topic.

both of those things can change, of course.

i’ll create a list of as many topics as i can think of for inspiration. the list won’t be the only topics allowed, though! there’s like 70+ shows to choose from with different things happening each show lol

depending on how many participants there are depends on how many pieces you can do. i’d say maybe two, unless you’re doing art and writing, then possibly more. if you want to do multiple pieces, i'd have you let me know in the application.

however, i wouldn’t give you all of your preferred topics at once. you’d get your first one, then i’d continue down the line. your second one would be like going back into the queue for your second show and getting renumbered hahah.

the zine will be in chronological order, with mostly art and a few written pieces here and there.

i am open to different forms of art (illustrations, collages, etc.) and writing (poetry, analysis, etc.).

collaborations are always welcome, and even encouraged!! make something with your friends!!!

there WILL be an application process, especially for something this size. i’m picturing something big, with lots of participants spanning across different platforms (hopefully). you will need to include examples of your work in it in order to be considered.

HOWEVER, i don't want people to be discouraged because of the fact that there will be a chance you will get rejected. my goal is not to reject people. my goal is to create a huge project created with love by as many people as i can get. this is a love letter, and i want it signed by as many people as possible. that's why i'm opening this multiple art forms and writing!!!

depending on the size, there may or may not be merch! prints, stickers, charms, buttons, whatever. that just depends on how many people we get for the zine itself. you can apply to do merch, or if you're not selected for the zine, i might reach out about you doing merch instead :)

and yes, i will be looking for people to help me organize this. i’ve never done this before, but by god do i want to do this for my chemical romance. if you have experience organizing big zines, please reach out to me with the name of the zine you helped organize and what you would be willing to do to assist me. i'm doing a lot of research but i know i wouldn't be able to do this on my own. i have some friends willing to help but i don't think any of us have organized anything like this before!

i think that's about it. i'll hopefully have something more concrete than just my thoughts and ideas within the coming month or so. my goal is to have this ready for pre-order by halloween (aka the First Day of the reunion) at the latest. maybe by 9/12 (aka mcr's 22nd anniversary). the next thing you might see from me might be a sideblog for the zine, and then hopefully more information about the zine itself.

thanks for your interest! feel free to ask questions, but know that i might not have answers yet.

[regular-samdragon]

I'm several weeks to late to post this, but to be fair, I've been really distracted lately by multiple financial and health related issues

HAPPY (belated) 10TH ANNIVERSARY TO LEGO CITY UNDERCOVER!!

I worked on these pieces for a free-to-download zine I was able to contribute too.

Twitter post for zine: https://twitter.com/teddytedbert/status/1637167058290085890?t=dTaIB7bsQJKDhvd20XusFw&s=19

Zine pdf download:

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Kamurocho Life Zine : Second Edition! I got assigned winter and fashion and spent a little too much time trying to figure out how Christmas was perceived in the 80s/early 90s for a few lines of description. XD That is the life. Anyways, still adoring these two.

…

…

…

…

This wasn’t normal.

In all honesty, it wasn’t like Goro knew much about normal. He had worked for the yakuza, betrayed his boss, slaved away at a hostess club for years, and now he was back with his family after a strange, tragic series of events. Hell, he ran around in a snakeskin jacket these days as he picked fights.

Normal was never a word that applied to him.

He wished it did. On days like today, when Makoto strolled next to him, her eyes bright with curiosity, it was only more obvious just how different their lives were from an ordinary couple on the street. People whispered and stared as they walked by. His outfit certainly didn’t help them blend in. Most gave the pair a wide berth and any punk that tried otherwise fled when Goro glared. If Makoto noticed, she didn’t say anything.

Normal wasn’t something he could give her, not without retiring. And in the yakuza, there was no such thing as retirement.

The honourable thing to do would be to leave her.

As though sensing his thoughts, Makoto gripped his hand tighter as she pointed at a wreath covered in lollipops and other sweets as they passed a candy shop. Then again, Goro had a selfish streak to him. At this point, he wasn’t sure he could leave her.

“I can’t believe they did this overnight.” Makoto sighed blissfully as she glanced up. Every streetlight had a ribbon on it and strings of light criss-crossed between buildings, creating a colourful net above the street.

“Didn’t think you’d like it so much, or I’d ‘ave brought ya here sooner,” Goro said, trying not to laugh as she fixated on a statue of a tanuki with a Santa hat. Holidays had meant nothing to him—no one in his family had ever cared for it, and so he hadn’t either. Christmas especially had been for lovers and foreigners, and he wasn’t the latter and never had time for the former.

It still meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t help but see everything with new eyes when he was with Makoto.

“It’s not that…” she replied sheepishly. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she tore her eyes away from their surroundings and towards him. “It’s just…my hometown didn’t have anything like this…it’s all new. And before…I could always hear, but not see it.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll git used to it soon.” Goro’s eyes flicked to a nearby wreath then back to her. Between specials at his host club and the endlessly looping music, he’d tired of the season two days in. “Ain’t that amazin’ after your third day of it.”

“Really?” Makoto asked doubtfully. She pursed her lips as she considered their surroundings. “There’s so much,” she swayed slightly and leaned against him, “to see.”

“It’s too bright?” he asked softly. They’d had this problem a few times so far, her freshly healed eyes only able to take in so much before it hurt.

“A little,” she admitted before pressing her face into his arm as she steadied herself. While she wasn’t as stubborn as she used to be—her confidence had been shattered after everything they’ve been through—Makoto rarely showed weakness in public.

It was a rare treat she was leaning on him. Goro half-wanted to wrap an arm around her, but she was still holding onto his sleeve like it was a lifeline. He settled for tousling her short hair. If she was more withdrawn these days, he was more open. “Cute.”

Her ears turned red as she sharply breathed in. Her reactions were cute too. “Don’t tease,” Makoto admonished.

“That’s boring.” He rejected the idea entirely. Goro had spent enough time hiding in the shadows. “And I ain’t gonna lie, not anymore.”

“Right.” That only made her ears turn a darker shade of red. Makoto exhaled softly before pushing off him. She rubbed her watch nervously as she slowly opened her eyes.

“Easy,” he warned, watching her for any signs she was overdoing it.

“It’s fine now.” She blinked a few times before nodding. “Really.”

“If ya say so…” Goro kept close as they resumed their walk. This wouldn’t be the first time she had pretended she was fine.

“I do,” she replied firmly. Makoto gazed at their surroundings in wonder. Her hand rested on his arm. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. Even in a few years.”

I bet you could. She’d gotten used to him, after all. To his world. To the way people stared whenever they walked together. At some point, Makoto had adjusted to a yakuza life.

Something in him ached at the thought. This wasn’t what he had hoped for when he’d chased revenge for her and cut whatever chains tied her to the past. Makoto was a woman meant for ordinary happiness, not a constant edge of danger.

He tightened his grip on her hand. Perhaps he couldn’t give her a normal date, but he could definitely give her a normal Christmas, gifts and all.

-x-

Le Marche was an expensive place on the best of days. Goro had come a long way from his hosting days, from the times he had to scrimp and save for every scrap of cash that his boss left him after collecting earnings. It had been fine back then. There was little he’d needed, less he’d wanted. Three meals and a roof was all he had lived for then.

Now he was flush with cash. He also didn’t know how to spend it. Makoto was as spendthrift as he was, poverty etched on her bones like a tattoo, and he always had to push her to enter a fancy restaurant, to buy the nicer coat.

She’d like any gift he’d give her. Instinctively, he knew that. The only problem was that Goro had no idea what to give her. It had been easy to act confident earlier but he was lost now. He’d never bought a gift for girlfriend before. His hostesses, sure, but those gifts had been practical or appeasing, picked with as little thought as possible.

Makoto’s gift had to be perfect.

And he had no one to ask for help. There was Kiryu, sure—they bumped into each other ‘accidentally’ on a daily basis now, with one or the other leaving with a split lip and several bruises if they were lucky. Makoto always frowned when he came back with a black eye, her hands already holding the first aid kit to deal with his scrapes. Goro never could find the words to explain why he always had to fight Kiryu, why his blood always thrummed whenever he spotted the man. It just was, and it just would be, and even if he reached 80, he’d still punch at sight.

Still, as fun as Dojima’s dragon was to fight, he clearly wasn’t a ladies’ man. Hell, Kiryu might have even less experience than Goro did, and that was saying something. Whereas his ‘brother’ Nishikiyama looked like he had a hook-up for every night of the week.

Life was unfair.

And none of this helped him pick out a present.

“Sir?” The salesman rubbed his hands nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His shoulders hunched, his head bowing slightly and showing his well-trimmed black hair. If he stood straight, he’d probably be taller than Goro.  “Can we help you?”

Civilians got intimated so easily. Goro shoved his hands in his pocket, resisting the urge to taunt. He had a goal. “I’m looking for a gift.”

“For Christmas?” the salesman asked, looking a little more confident now that he had a purpose. He stood a little taller. “Would you like to take a look at our jewellery?”

Reaching under the counter, the shopkeeper pulled out two small black cases. Inside, carefully planted on black velvet, were a diamond ring and a sapphire ring. Two larger rectangle cases were placed next to them, necklaces spread out for display. The jewels glittered in the light. “These are our most popular items,” the shopkeeper explained, clasping his hands so tightly his knuckles were white. “We have them available with other gems or metals, if you’d like. White gold is a highly regarded choice.”

“Jewellery, huh?” Goro picked up a case.

How boring. It was such an ordinary, obvious gift. Besides, it all felt too heavy for the fragile relationship they’d just started. He still wasn’t sure they should have started it in the first place; despite her actions, Makoto had not been made for a life underground. And for all her words telling him otherwise, he couldn’t fight the feeling that somewhere down the line, she’d wake up and leave.

Life had taught him much about expectations.

“Come on, find me somethin’ more fun.” He pushed the boxes back.

“Oh.” The salesman licked his lips, shifting on his feet as he looked around the shop. “What about clothing, sir?” He snapped his fingers and a woman rushed forward, a fur scarf in hand. “We have some of the latest styles. Even imported goods.”

Goro plucked the scarf and wrapped it around his neck. Standing in front of the mirror, he twirled once. It was warm but heavy. While it was the perfect size for him, it looked like it would swallow Makoto whole. “Somethin’ else.”

Another snap. Goro tried on a hat. A coat. As he reached for a dress, the salesman coughed. “Sir…uh…we don’t have any in your size.”

Goro’s lip curled, annoyed. “It’s an ugly dress.”

“R-right, sir. We’ll get another.” The salesman spun on his heel.

Goro had no doubt that he’d hate the next item. Everything here was almost too fancy or gaudy, and Makoto didn’t like either of those as much as he did. Leaning against a counter, he rapped his fingers on the hard surface as he considered the store. Was there anything else here worth checking? Maybe their wallets, or—

A watch-filled glass case caught his eye. He sauntered over. Rows upon rows of fancy watches lined the case, their faces inlaid with jewels.

Makoto still wore her watch, even as the straps frayed, even as the colours faded. A semblance of normalcy, she called it.

“Hey.” Goro waved over the salesman. “Take that out.”

Nothing in their life was ‘normal’.

-x-

On Tuesdays, unless the boss called him in for something special, Goro picked up Makoto from therapy. She didn’t need it; even now, she could argue and reprimand with the worst of his teachers. He wasn’t sure if he was protecting her or the poor schmuck who crossed paths with her.

He leaned against a wall, half-hidden in the shadows as he watched the clinic doors. Trouble tended to find him when he was open, and while he wouldn’t mind another round with Kiryu-chan, Goro didn’t want to surprise Makoto with bloodstains. Even if the blood wasn’t his. Especially if the blood wasn’t his.

A small ring and he looked up as the clinic door opened. Makoto stepped out. Goro almost stepped out but she smiled as a man stepped out beside her. Her therapist. He’d met the man a few times and what he’d suspected then rang true now—the louse was interested. It couldn’t be more obvious with the way the therapist turned to Makoto, the way he smiled and squeezed her hand.

Goro clenched his hand, knuckles white.

Makoto laughed, eyes crinkling.

He released his fist. She was happy. She was relaxed.

She was having an ordinary chat with an ordinary man. This was a chance, one that he had been waiting for. If he left now, if he cut off all contact, this man would step in. Makoto could live a long, blissful life, have her 2.5 kids, have uncomplicated joy.

All Goro had to do was turn around, like he’d planned to from the start, like he would have done if she hadn’t grabbed his hand all those months ago and forced him to stay.

Makoto turned, her eyes meeting his immediately. At this point, he was certain she had a gift, she seemed to catch him precisely when he didn’t want her to. Her smile remained and she bowed to her therapist before hurrying across the street.

“Hey,” she greeted, standing in front of him, her eyes meeting his inquisitively. He was certain she could see right through him now.

Goro resisted the urge to duck his head. “Hey.” There was an awkward silence and he hurriedly filled it. “Good session?”

“Yeah. He said it shouldn’t take much longer.” Makoto reached down and squeezed his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Goro’s eyes flicked from Makoto to across the street, where the therapist was still standing. Their eyes met and the man spun on his heel and returned to the office. It was almost childish, the part of him that wanted to smirk and taunt the man.

Oblivious to it, Makoto kept her hand tucked in his as she tugged him forward. “Let’s go home.”

Maybe it was just his pride, but her smile looked brighter than it had been with the therapist.

“Here.” Goro pulled out a small box from his jacket pocket, pressing it into her free hand. “Take it.”

Makoto stared at it curiously and laughed. “Now? You really have no sense of timing for a big shot host.”

She’d gained quite the sharp tongue these days. Still, two could play at that game. Goro slowly reached for the box. “I’ll take it back.”

“No!” She glared at him, yanking her hand away. “Mine.” When Makoto was confident he wouldn’t take it away, she fumbled with the lid with a hand. “This is harder than I thought.”

Goro stopped walking and pulled his hand free from her grasp. “Easier?”

Makoto paid him no mind as she yanked the lid off the box. Inside, two brown straps were carefully placed on red velvet. She stared at it, tears welling in her eyes.

“I thought your strap—” Goro cut himself off as soon as he noticed her expression. Panicked, he reached for the box. “Why are ya cryin’? Did ya hate it that much? I can take it back.”

“No, it’s not…” Makoto rubbed her eye as she clutched the box to her chest. “I’m just really, really happy. This watch…it’s important to me…”

He felt oddly bitter at the thought. “Normalcy, right?”

“Yeah, but…it’s more than that now.” Her expression softened as she stared at her beat-up watch. “You returned it to me after everything. It’s what connected us together. So it’s very, very important to me now.”

Goro couldn’t reply, couldn’t think. Somehow, that was harder to hear than a love confession. It was deeper, truer. His skin heated up and embarrassed, he looked away. “Should…” he cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

“Yes.” Makoto tangled her fingers in his once more. Her small, lithe fingers held his hand tightly, as though making sure he couldn’t get away. Goro had long thought he was the one trapping her, but maybe it was the other way around.

All this time, maybe it had been Makoto trapping him.

[gravehags]

impera ghouls' fav art medium bc I just dropped out of art school lmao I hope I didn't forget anyone (I kinda went overboard so it's a long one sorryyyy)

- Mountain's kinda obvious, but he really likes working with natural materials. Enjoys woodworking and land art. Despite his size, has very deft hands and is extremely delicate. Makes a trip to the farm each season to get some beautiful fresh and golden hay to weave it into ornaments and jewelry. And let me tell you that's a testimony to his skill cause I literally cried over hay last October and I had to soak it in water to be able to bend it. The texture was disgusting and I got destroyed at the critique anyway lol

- I've already said it before, but Cumulus is totally into stamp carving and linocuts. 11/10, very calming, probably has rough hands since you have to use lots of white spirit to get the ink of off the lino, and you gotta use a special rough scrub to get ink out of your skin. Puts her creations everywhere, gives you and the ghouls little cards and patches she printed herself :)

- Cirrus and Sunshine probably share the serigraphy workshop. It's a very delicate craft, especially when you go for traditional paper stencils. But worry not, ghoul claws are sharper and more precise than your average cutter. Though, a intricate multi-colored stencil implies there's a lot of drying time involved, especially on fabric. They always have some kind of brunch during that time, with tea and snacks and such. Invite you to join them if you happen to pass by. (it's them who print the merch I know it)

- Aether makes very cool metal sculptures. He's got both the strength and the patience for it. You know those adorable little bird-shaped garden ornaments made from scrap metal ? Yeah he did some because the local old ladies are always commissioning him to make them. Also the workshop's babysitter, has to keep on eye on Swiss and Dew when they start beefing with a circular saw on their hands.

- Rain is very skilled in needlework. Originally considered himself a better painter, since he's got a sharp eye and is good at color theory, but discovered all the ways you can use embroidery and sewing with an artistic approach during a workshop in his first year. Sewed a costume made out of dried orange peels and called it 'orange leather' once. Also interested in book binding. Will get snappy if the others call him a little grandma while he's embroidering.

- Phantom is a photographer, and a pretty good graphist as well. He's too shy to admit it, but he really does know how to present his work. Has the cleanest portfolio around, and is probably a huge perfectionist. I mean, perfectionism is kind of a must in art school but bug is an anxious wreck (give him a hug). Very gentle, handles the lenses and lights with lots of care. Mainly photographs landscapes and nature mortes, but enjoys taking portraits as well. Takes a lot of self-portraits and will very shyly ask you to pose for him. (I photographed myself as Judith in Klimt's Lilith II : Judith and Holofernes for an assignment and ngl would love to hold bug's head with my tits out on camera)

- Aurora makes little pop-up zines. It's a prefect way for her to give way to both her gentleness and chaotic nature. While pop-ups may look tedious to make, it's actually lots of fun, and you can get pretty chaotic with it too. Has a whole collection of patterned and textured papers, she made most of them. Probably has a 'cool paper stash' she hasn't touched because she doesn't want to 'waste them' and said paper is like Christmas wrapping paper from 2016 (it's me I'm guilty).

- Dew is more interest in contemporary art, especially sculpture. Little guy has no patience and likes to break stuff, I see it as a match made in heaven. Uses his fire ghoul abilities to burn different matters and experiment with them. Kinda see him as my friend who burnt a humongous quantity of human hair for a project. Was pissed no one cuddled him for two days because of the smell.

- Swiss is totally a performance artist. I mean, technically, all of the ghouls have a huge affinity with it, but Swiss especially. A big fan of contemporary composers like John Cage and Karlheinz Stockhausen, as well as Bahaus performance art. He likes to let loose, have fun exploring his body's and voice's capicities in an artistic light. Probably submitted some kind of sextape as a project, but it's okay because the professor likes provocative stuff.

- BONUS : all of them probably were nude models for the evening classes at some point. I haven't included anatomical study in the hcs because no one in their right mind would enjoy sitting on a stool and drawing Greek statues for 8 hrs straight, but none of them would mind being the models for the 2 hrs 6pm classes. Although they'll probably ask you for a massage afterwards because of how tiring it is to stay in the same position for so long.

-unhinged family anon

These are GORGEOUS omg thank you so much for sharing these they’re all so on point!! 🩵

[xtrablak674]

Make Mine Apple

Let's be clear I never had a computer growing up in any of the homes I resided in, whether my mom's apartment, my god-grandma's house or my paternal grandparents home. Computers weren't a thing even considered or even a forethought. But I have been fascinated with computers since I was a child and more widely technology. I wouldn't be as bold to say I was a futurist, but I loved the idea of a future where humans used technology in smart ways. This is a philosophy that I still hold on to today.

Apple Macintosh SE

My first computer was an Macintosh SE, sold by Apple from nineteen eighty-seven to nineteen ninety. I got one used from my friend Ricardo 'Campi' Guzman. I can't recall how much I paid him for this very classic Mac but I never regretted it once. It traveled with me on my four month European tour and was a staple in the publishing of my early nineties zine Fashion Fag Magazine. Based on this that would mean I got it from him sometime around ninety-four when I signed the lease for my first apartment, and I gave it back to him as payment for removing the carpets in my current apartment in ninety-seven. The three best years of my life with my first Apple computer, which for all intensive purposes was a portable computer albeit it nearly weighed twenty pounds. I remember when we traveled on tour I always insisted to the flight attendants that I always board with my computer and my Apple Stylewriter printer that was also in the bag I got from Campi.

Apple Powerbook 5300

Part of the goal of my ninety-six European tour was to save up for a laptop and I had my eye on the 5300 released in nineteen ninety-five. I didn't realize at the time that this was not only the first of Apple's Powerbook series but also the one with the most manufacturing problems that lead Apple to replacing mine with an Apple Powerbook 1400c

Albeit this being a black mark on Apple it was very exciting for me as a customer and a fan to have purchased one Apple laptop and then a few months later get a brand spanking new Apple laptop for at no additional cost.

Apple Powerbook 1400c

This Powerbook was sold from ninety-six to ninety eight and as I said replaced my fifty-three hundred. I still have this laptop today and it still works. I briefly lent it to my grandmother who used it as a word processor for her church projects. At nearly seven pounds it was half the weight of my SE and it found itself a lot of the time traveling around with me in the hard-plastic German children's backpack that I had acquired during my European tour.

If I recall correctly this fourteen hundred was the very laptop I was pretending to work on when my supervisor at Kirshenbaum Bond & Partners extended my temp assignment indefinitely having learned that not only did I know how to use Quark, Photoshop and Illustrator but was quite technologically savvy with all of the Microsoft Office applications also. I want to be clear I deliberately did this in an effort to illustrate my value beyond someone who can just set up food for a meeting which is why I initially was recruited.

On this laptop I would produce my last issues of Fashion Fag Magazine and also create The Streetwalker a newsletter for the New York Peer AIDS Coalition the non-for profit that I volunteered at after leaving GMHC over creative differences. It was a golden time for me with the burgeoning of the internet I would soon need to upgrade to something for a more modern time. America Online was cute, but the beginning of the end of dial-up internet was coming.

Apple iMac G3

This all-in-one desktop computer was sold from nineteen ninety-eight to two thousand and three, I acquired the tangy orange one and used this quite powerful and underrated model to launch my design firm specializing in websites, branding and product design. It also was my partner in my fledging fine art photography career being the first of my computers in which I started to archive and edit my photos with the very adult applications like Lightroom.

Before I lent this computer to my late brother and his wife, where it would meet its demise, it was present as I first started exhibiting my work publicly transforming from a graphic artist to a fine artist. This computer was present for my first and last long term relationship and my exploration of high speed internet with DSL and consequently Cable. Those previous laptops had been all about that dial-up life, something I had now left behind me for the faster speeds of Internet 1.0.

Apple Macbook Pro

Introduced two-thousand six I acquired mine in early 2008 a fifteen inch I remember it cost around three thousand dollars this was not just a computer but an investment and one that paid off for me in triplicate.

Wow, this laptop was with me through my return to corporate America now as a freelancer, my various art exhibitions including my New York Times reviewed show, presenting my work nationally, internationally and at museums. It came along with me for my trips to India and Africa, it entertained my nephew during his visits, edited my fledging dabbles in video, and my first short film.

I have Adobe's Creative Suite on here Photoshop, Illustrator, InDesign, Flash and Lightroom, Microsoft Office, Excel, Adobe Acrobat and of course Apple's own iMovie, I never did learn Adobe Premier just never having the opportunity. I felt like I could do anything with this computer and I did. I stepped up my pussy game creating the most impressive proposals for my art, letterhead for my fine art career, impressive graphics, promotional materials, and the highest resolution for the birth of my art into the real world.

This would also be my last proper computer. After this baby I wouldn't need as much power and would move my computing to the iPad (3rd Generation) then my first iPad Pro 10.5" and now my iPad Pro 11" which I am writing this missive on with my Apple Magic Keyboard, which has seen better days.

Unlike a nibling of mine who must own stock in Apple and owns, the Apple Watch, iPhone, iPad, Macbook Air and AirPods I have always found its best to limit myself to my technology especially if I can find everything in one device I don't need the redundancy. I stopped wearing a watch years ago, I have been adamant I never want a cellphone, as I just said my days of heavy lifting are over so no more need for a laptop and I have never liked things in my ears. Besides my iPad Pro can make phone calls and tell the time, I don't need it tracking my biometrics.

I also think I am from a generation who actually enjoys mono-use appliances. I own a turntable and a set of Yamaha studio speakers for my return to vinyl. I ditched my microwave for an induction cooker, and utilize a humidifier every winter and sometimes a space heater. There are no smart devices in my home, which is why I was annoyed when the landlord recently moved our intercom system to an app, when the analog version worked fine for decades.

As a person who loves technology I still like to be smart with what I use and what I don't use. I am not the person to run out and get something just because its trendy like Fitbits which had their moment like Tomagotchi's in the nineties. You won't find a landfill with a bunch of electronics that come out of my house yearly. It took me nearly twenty years before I gave up my flatbed scanner, and my Canon color printer I sold on eBay after I didn't need such a powerful printer anymore. Oh and I have never owned a television my entire adult life.

Up until the last few years I still was hangin on to that free PC by Compaq I got nearly twenty years ago even though I had discarded the monitor and keyboard a while ago. If there's one thing even as just a asterisk that I would like to be remembered for its my technological savvy and design aesthetic. Personally they were both creative aspects of my personality, and as everyone knows the best brand for creative folks is Apple, and we've been friends since I got out of college.

[Photos by Brown Estate]

[hockeyassforposterity]

A beginner’s guide to goalie equipment

//

I���m taking a class dedicated to zine making and self-publishing this semester - and I made this for my first assignment. It’s twenty eight pages, printed on cream coloured paper, and saddlestitch bound with blue linen thread.

You guys seem to love goalies so I thought you might like this. I also love goalies, but in a sort of narcissistic way.

//

Full transcript with page numbers below the cut

(3) Under normal circumstances, there are six players on the ice from each team. One of these players is a goalie.

Hockey has a lot of rules, but to understand goaltending, you actually don’t need to understand most of them. All you need to know is that your team’s objective is to put a vulcanized rubber disk into your opponent’s net. This is called a goal. If you’re a goalie, then all you need to do is to stop your opponent from doing that to you. Most goals wins. Simple.

If items in pairs are treated as a single piece, then my goalie equipment consists of eleven pieces. They are as follows:

//

(4) It’s called a jock or a jill depending on your personal plumbing. This is the one that keeps you from getting hit directly in the junk.

They make ones specifically designed for goalies, but I don’t have one. After thirteen years as a full time goalie, this is the only piece of equipment designed for players that I still own.

“Jock and Jill went up the hill…”

//

(5) They look like shorts but they call them pants.

Goalie pants have extra padding to protect the front of your legs and very little padding on the back. If you fall on your ass, it’s gonna hurt. Ask me how I know.

//

(6/7) In comparison to the skates worn by players, goalie skates are shorter. The boot sits in this hard plastic dish called a cowling that keeps your feet from getting broken. New goalie skates have these built in.

Skating technique for goalies is based on pushing laterally rather than gliding forward, so the blades are straight instead of curved.

I’ve had my skates for almost ten years.

//

(8/9) Big, box-shaped pads made of synthetic leather that attach to your legs with straps, designed to take up as much space as possible. Hard enough that pucks bounce off, but soft enough to move in. Smooth on the sides so they can slide across the ice.

//

(10/11) If I needed a visual metaphor for goalie pads, I would represent them as wings.

//

(12/13) A piece of cut resistant fabric and padding that wraps around the neck and is secured with velcro, protecting it from cuts and from the impact of getting hit.

There’s an additional piece of hard plastic that hangs off the goalie mask by strings so you won’t get hit in the neck at all. These are known colloquially as danglers.

Neck guards are not mandatory in the NHL or PWHL. Some players wear them, but most players don’t. It’s your life, but I think you should wear one.

It is mandatory to wear a neck guard in minor hockey.

//

(14) One big piece of equipment that covers your entire upper body. A lot of little plates all connected to each other.

There is a lot of padding on the front.

And no padding on the back.

Goalie equipment is like a turtle shell, but in front of you instead of on your back. You have to learn not to be afraid. You won’t get hurt if you let yourself get hit head on.

//

(15) Why do they wear jerseys in any sport? So everyone looks the same, but with numbers to still be identifiable, I guess. In hockey, the number 1, but also the number 30 and 31 and other numbers in the 30s are widely considered to be numbers specially for goalies.

//

(16/17) A lot of goalie masks have custom paint jobs. My dream is to someday paint my own. If you know someone who could help me with that, please give them this zine.

I want to cover it in hands, because I love drawing them - but I’m worried that would make me look like a freak. Maybe that’s the point, everyone always says that goalies are weird.

Goalies wear pads and goalies wear art and goalies have special numbers just for them. Goalies do not have to look the same.

//

(18/19) It’s loud when you get hit in the head. If you get hit hard enough, the material of the mask will flex to mitigate the force of the impact and the straps keeping it attached to your head will pop off. So you don’t get hurt, your mask is designed to fail.

I once heard someone say they could never be a goalie because they aren’t mentally strong enough.

I don’t think this is true. Every kid cries at first when they get scored on and then sooner or later they stop. You will learn how to fail.

//

(20) Called a catcher or a trapper, but sometimes just referred to casually as the glove, it has a pocket to catch the puck. You have to break it in like a baseball glove. My dad and I spent years playing catch to break in my first glove.

My parents have two daughters and no sons. After we were born, people would ask my dad if he was disappointed to have no sons.

I don’t know why. You can play catch with your daughters.

//

(21) The blocker goes on your dominant hand and is the one you use to hold the stick. It’s a glove with a literal block of padding attached to it. If you position it properly, pucks will bounce off.

Like your pants, like your chest protector, like your mask, you have to face the puck head on. If you’re afraid, then you’ll get hurt. Do not be afraid.

//

(22/23) Hockey sticks are made out of molded carbon fibre and are hollow on the inside. Goalie sticks have a wider section at the base referred to as a paddle. The ideal paddle length varies depending on your height. You wrap the blade and end of the stick in tape for increased grip.

When I was fourteen I subbed as a goalie for another team at a tournament. My first crush on a girl was on a player on that team. She was blonde and wore glasses. I don’t remember her name. I haven’t seen her since.

There is a company that makes hockey tape with a rainbow pattern explicitly as a symbol of inclusion.

Last year the NHL banned its teams from wearing specialty jerseys in support of causes, any cause, on the ice. Later, they banned players from using pride tape on their sticks. When Travis Dermott used it anyway, the ban was overturned.

Marie-Philip Poulin is the captain of the Canadian national women's team. She plays on the same team as her wife, Laura Stacey.

We’ll get through this, please don’t be afraid.

//

(24/25) Goaltending works by covering as much of the net as you can. Obviously, the taller you are, the easier this is, but the way it’s actually achieved is with angles.

The closer you are to the puck, the less net there is to see. The better you face the puck, the less net there is to see. And of course, the faster you get to the puck, the better.

I am not tall, but I can get to the puck anyway.

If I needed a visual metaphor for goalie pads, I would represent them as wings. Why else would they call it the butterfly?

//

(26) How to be a goalie, in four simple steps:

Learn how to put on your equipment.

Learn to fail.

Learn to fly.

Do not be afraid.

[goldie-locks-and-gold-trees]

Ugh I can't wait to finish this drawinggggg

I'm already on the prep work for a special commission plan (bc I like planning ahead) and im hoping to be done with this current project by next week.

I will be assigned stuff for the secret santa and a zine I'm drawing for next week. Thank God I have a couple months to work on those. I don't know if I'll be able to finish the commission plan by when i want to? I hope I'll be able to! Ugh my brain huuurts..... gn everypony.....

[joz-yyh]

Jailhouse Rock - For DDZine2023

SUMMARY: Already strapped of their senses, Damian and Tardif are assigned a special mission by the heiress. Now in a town far away from home, a mix of self-sabotage and hilarity lands them behind bars and while the flagellant is excited by the prospect, the bounty hunter needs a bit more convincing. Purely a crack fic (with a dash of spice). Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (violence / suggestive themes / swearing / hints of DD2)

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant

WORD COUNT: 4,097

READ ON Ao3: Here!!

READ ON DDZine: Here!!

A/N: So happy to have been able to take part in DD Art Zine 2023! Please go check out all the other great entries on the official website!!

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

"This the place," Tardif asks his haggard companion, the pair walking through a treacherous mine of puddles plaguing the road.

"Think so," Damian replies loosely, appraising a signboard that reads, “The Crossings” that welcomes their arrival.

It was hard to see, especially with the gloomy conditions, a flash of lightning blazing across the night, illuminating the carved wood.

Judging by the skyline of shingled rooftops, the population was bigger than what they were used to, the modest accommodations of Hamlet easy enough to navigate around.

"Ye got the map don't ye," the bounty hunter grumbles, soured by the almost constant downpour of rain that had dampened their journey.

There was no use for a torch in such dreary weather, and though this town was advanced enough to offer enclosed street lamps, their weak gleam still struggles to survive the elements.

"What map," the flagellant remarks, a coyness that clearly shows he's probably misplaced it.

Tardif scoffs. The bastard is enjoying this, vexing him on purpose, doing everything he can to make it worse.

"Ye tellin' me ye lost the letter?"

Tardif must not have been thinking clearly (he really wasn't) to have left him in charge.

The heiress had sent them on this expedition just as soon as they returned from another, the brooding tactician unable to plan as he normally would, the stress threatening to consume his mind.

"Oh, the letter," enunciates the sing-songy voice, correcting his companion's word choice, "yes, I have it."

Damian slips scarred fingers into his robes, procuring the item in question for Tardif to see, the parchment erotically nestled around the grove of his inner thigh, no safer place for it.

"Good, make sure it stays that way," Tardif huffs, noting the sprinkle of droplets now darkening the paper.

"Of course," he concurs, putting it back in the same private quarters he found it.

Tardif's gaze lingers, watching it disappear back down the provocative sway of fabric. Stupid flagellant. Stupid weather. Stupid surprise mission.

He can never understand how he walks in these unbearable conditions. Even the bounty hunter's boots are soiled, almost soaked through, and Damian is traipsing around barefooted.

As they pass the wooden gates, the brute makes sure his steps are extra sloshy, splattering the flagellant with all the mud he can, trying not to think about the rain wreaking havoc on his armor, probably aiding in its rust.

The streets are almost barren thanks to the weather (still more lively than Hamlet's standards), but those who are out, braving the storm, address them with cold, judging stares.

A traveling mercenary and a flagellant are bound to stand out and Tardif admits he’d do the same towards any newcomers dressed as they are, but this curious speculation seems more odious than most.

"There! That's him," cries a balding innkeeper, pointing an accusing finger in their direction,

"Don't let him get away!'

Tardif is under the assumption the frantic loon of a man (his actions making Damian appear sane by comparison), might be insinuating him of all people, but that just couldn't be, wouldn't be possible.

As villainous a reputation as his mask bore, not even he could commit a crime that quickly.

The bounty hunter strides ahead, not about to involve himself in petty domestic affairs, having more important matters to attend to.

"My, they're quite friendly here, aren't they," the flagellant chirps in his partner's ear, smiling at the swarm of angry faces threatening bodily harm.

"Not everyone gets their rocks off from pain, ye know," Tardif gripes, almost slipping in muck.

"They should. The world might become a better place," the flagellant counters, imagining a bloody parade of devout apostles flogging in the streets.

The mercenary scoffs. For him maybe it would be, but Tardif isn't about to get sucked into an ideological debate.

"Where we goin' again," the bounty hunter asks, distracted by the mob at his back, mapping out an escape route just in case.

"The manor house," the hooded priest supplies, leading them toward the big white pillars in the distance.

Tardif sees it, doesn't like how much ick he'll have to trudge through to get there. Why do these wealthy types always have to live on a blasted hill?

"Right, knew that," the mercenary spits, his memory conveniently returned, "got sidetracked."

The holy man doesn't question him and despite their heated pace (he won't admit that he's been following Damian's lead), the throng of activists persist, nipping at their heels.

“Look, he's wearing the mask," spouts the persistent inquirer, leading the uproar, "it’s the same guy who beat me half to death!"

Whoever beat him over the head didn't do it hard enough. If they had, he'd be properly unconscious right now and Tadif wouldn't be dealing with this quagmire.

The huntsman flips through his mental lineup of bounties, revisiting old marks. He always remembers a face, especially when it concerns business and he does not, for the life of him, recognize this whackjob of a man.

"Someone you know," the flagellant teases.

"Ye think yer funny, don't ye," the bounty hunter gripes, side-eyeing him, not at all amused.

Damian grins, relishing the admission. "I do."

Judging by the uniforms assembling a perimeter ahead, the authorities have gotten involved, sealing off the road and dwindling their options for escape.

Shit.

"What do you suggest we do," the flagellant asks, hoping Tardif wouldn’t resort to mutiny.

As much as he would love to turn this into an all-out brawl, he reserves to be passive just this once (for Damian's sake).

"Just keep movin'. Follow my lead."

The bounty hunter tactfully steers them down a side alley, but before he can reach for the fuse of his flashbang, a shadow leaps out, subduing him from behind.

"Get yer bloody hands off me," the mercenary shouts, kicking and flailing with sharp jabs of his elbows.

It's not often Tardif comes across a thug more burly than himself, but he has to give the son of bitch credit, not many were ballsy enough to attempt a full nelson on a trained killer.

You'd think that Damian would do something to alleviate their current predicament, but the masochist is lost in a daze, the horde of townsfolk closing in.

"You thought you could rip me off,” the innkeep asserts, the first to arrive on the scene, spouting more slanderous drivel, “well tough shit. I know your name, Mack!"

"That ain't my damn name," Tardif snarls, resisting arrest, but despite his best efforts, his captor will not budge.

"You think I'm that stupid," his naysayer declares, getting in his face, "You want us to believe that there are a bunch of guys going around wearing the same mask as you?"

"They haven't got a name fer how stupid ye are," Tardif snarls under his breath, wanting to kick his ugly mug clean off.

Standing on his metaphorical soapbox, the alleged victim turns to his audience, pleading his case for all to hear. "Bastard would rather kill a man than pay for his tab! Stole my horse to make his getaway and now he’s back for more!"

The crowd murmurs, fear-mongering abound, the authorities seemingly convinced by this riling testimony.

This drunkard must have a personal vendetta against him. Why else incite the masses?

"And who's he supposed to be," the cue-ball with a ponytail demands, indicating Damian with an unimpressed sneer, "Your backup?"

"Damian, tell them," the bounty hunter growls, craning his neck towards the good for nothing flagellant who so far hasn't lifted a finger in his defense.

Finally, the priest snaps into action.

"No, wait," the hooded man intervenes, holding out a placating hand, stepping up to the front line, "You must take me too. I am his accomplice. We'll go quietly."

Tardif stares at him in disbelief, eyes as wide as saucers, too shocked to even breathe.

"Are ye mad," the mercenary barks, "Wot the hell are ye doin'?!"

Through the slits of his visor, Tardif watches on as the flagellant wrists are shackled by a group of lawmen, his deranged companion mouthing the words, "trust me."

Trust him?

Oh, no — they're not just screwed, they're utterly fucked.

The bounty hunter wilts, losing his will to fight back, the two heroes escorted to the nearest jail to await their completely fair and unbiased trial.

----

"Make yourselves at home," the warden tells them, unlocking Tardif's handcuffs through the bars, "you're going to be here awhile."

The bounty hunter rubs the life back into his wrists once he's free, remembering all the reasons why he hated being dressed in irons.

To his right, he listens, watching as Damian is released from his binds, the key making a distinct windup as it twists open.

This "jailer" of theirs seems to be a greenhorn by the looks of it, probably assigned to a task he's sorely unqualified for, simply filling in an empty post, and to top it all off, he's distracted. Tardif takes note of all these details. Especially, the fact of how incredibly tired the young man is, carrying the smell of drink and debt on him like cheap perfume.

Should be easy to manipulate if they play their cards right, Tardif assuming the part of a perfect inmate up until the guard removes himself from the room, blissfully out of sight.

Forget everything else, right now, all Tardif wants to do is to give that religious fool a piece of his mind.

"Some mister righteous, ye are," the huntsman barks, jabbing his companion's scarred chest with a reprimanding finger, "Aren't ye supposta seek truth and justice and all that?!"

"How else were we to sort this out," the flagellant reasons, gritting his teeth, "Do you want another parading around as you, branding you as a thief?"

"Coulda helped me beat them all up," the mercenary growls, pissed that things didn't go exactly that way, "coulda done our business n' left."

"I sorely doubt that. Given our apparent reputation, do you think the mayor would believe us? Any request we made would have been denied."

"Coulda shown them the letter," propounds the bounty hunter, but it seems Damian has a rebuttal for that too.

"It matters not. They were in no state to listen. Only our confession would have pacified them."

"That's bullshite speculation and ye know it."

The two continue to stare each other down, exchanging bluffs of opposition until the mercenary sighs in defeat. Arguing with his confounding logic was a waste of time.

"Make yerself useful and help me look fer a way out," Tardif grumbles, stepping away from their debate and toward where the bed and the wall meet.

Kneeling down, gloved hands pry at the straw lining the brick, testing for a weak spot while Damian drags his feet, meandering towards an alluring set of chains suspended along the adjacent wall.

He runs passionate fingers down the length of them, inspecting their quality, a delightfully wicked idea coming to mind for their use.

"Tardif," the flagellant calls softly, but the man in question pays him no mind.

"Tardif," he echoes again, a little louder this time, but still to no avail.

"TARDIF!"

Snarling, the bounty hunter drops what he's doing, standing to his full imposing height as he faces the holy man with murderous intent, "Wot the bloody hell do ye want?!"

"I got stuck," the flagellant replies simply, a finger indicating one of his wrists now manacled above his head

"Ye fuckin' idiot," the bounty hunter huffs, anger transforming into laughter, muffling the sound inside his glove.

"Aren't you going to come over here and untie me," the flagellant suggests, his voice an obvious lure to entice him closer.

With pouty lips, the kinky sidekick yanks on the chain to show the extent of his helplessness, selling it further, whimpering like a pathetic mutt.

Even as he approaches his prey, Tardif knows he's in for something dangerous. Damian was predictably unpredictable, but that's what he liked about him, the thrill of never knowing what to expect.

The mercenary glares at him, his helmet practically touching the skin of Damian’s crooked nose, daring him to try something as he reaches up to unlock the shackle pinning him in place.

Clack.

He shouldn't be surprised when his wrist is ensnared by the remaining metal clasp, now a twin to his partner, but he is.

"Wot the hell are ye doin," he grumbles, outraged that the deviant priest had bound him as well.

"Helping you focus," the flagellant grins, arching forward, brushing their lower halves together.

"Is that what ye call it," the bounty hunter snorts, not completely opposed to the compromising position they find themselves in.

The baggage of their last excursion still lingers, eating away at him, making him more baited than a pint of ale and he needs something to take the edge off.

"Mmmm-hmmm," the flagellant drawls, putting a knee in between Tardifs legs just a little too roughly, making the brute growl in warning.

The axeman pitches forward, catching himself with a leather glove against the wall. His breathing has turned heavy, this proximity tantalizing.

Should he play Damians game? It’s probably not the best idea to encourage him, but to see a man of Light, usually so demure, suddenly flaunt himself for the taking is an intriguing sight to behold.

Rather than reaching for a means to pick the lock, set himself free, the brute hooks his hand around the sash of his partner’s waist.

"That's it," the flagellant goads him, a bandaged calve wrapping itself around his partner’s belt,

"I'll make it easy for you."

"Coulda done this back home," comes his chastising remark, but his voice is winded, defeated.

"But we're not at home," the priest purrs, adding the other leg, squeezing the bounty hunter with both, bringing him flush, "Are you really going to wait? Wouldn't you rather punish me now?”

Tardif scoffs indignantly, rolling his eyes, "'course yer turned on. Startin' to think ye had somethin' to do wit' all this."

"Please, I am just as innocent as you are,” Damian tells him, a coy little smirk working it’s way onto his lips, spelling trouble, “but seeing as we're both stranded here, shouldn't we seize the opportunity?"

"Should be workin' on an escape plan,” the mercenary sighs, reiterating their priorities, pliant to the solicitation despite his words.

"I assure you, I am working on one right now," he says, using his free hand to pull down the brute’s cowl. He does so with languid movements, allowing the bounty hunter time to intervene if he so desires.

He doesn’t.

Breath a heated temptation between them, Damian leans forward, connecting their mouths.

The brute presses back the moment he does, hard enough to force his partner’s head back into the brick, a noticeable impact, the masochist groaning into their kiss.

Lucky for them, their unassuming bailiff returns just in time to spy the nefarious plot taking root.

"Hey! Knock it off," he calls, banging on the bars, trying to dissuade the prisoners from their suspicious proclivities.

“Should we stop,” Damian asks in a hushed whisper, training his peripheral vision on their irked overseer.

“Not until he opens the lock,” the bounty hunter whispers against parted lips.

“Hmm, I don't think I want him to,” the flagellant chuckles, the sound rumbling in his throat, his scarred mouth pulled into a smile.

A crimson hand tangled in the fabric of his partner's cowl, Damian pulls him back in for another round of vicious kisses. Tardif worries for his disguise, thinking his lover might rip it to shreds if he's not careful, but then again, that seems secondary to the rampant stroke of their tongues.

With the two troublemakers keen on defying orders, the jailer fumbles with his keys, trying to open the cell door before their undulation escalates any further.

“Move on my signal,” the bounty hunter tells him, resisting the tug of arousal.

“Now,” the flagellant gasps as their cell creeks open.

“Now."

BOOOOOOOM !!

Just as Tardif gives the word, an explosion of stone follows, disorienting clouds of dust and debris piling into the room, the very foundation around them rattled to its core.

As the rubble settles, the blunt head of a battering ram can be seen breaching the side of the building, demolishing metal and brick, creating a sizable hole.

"Someone call for backup," Barristan says through the fog, resting his mace upon his shoulder, his pose statuesque.

Boudica's fierce silhouette cuts in after him, occupying the space beside the old man with a powerful howl, "KREEEE-YAAAAAA! What a rush!”

The jailman is stunned, realizing with abject horror these unpredictable events were above his pay grade. “This is crazy,” he shrieks before running off, seeking reinforcements.

"I'll go silence our whistleblower," deems the soldier, stepping down from the dock, off to fulfill his duty.

"You sure you're fast enough, *skilpadda," Boudica taunts, chaos still ringing in her decorated ears.

The man at arms laughs, loud and hearty. "Been hunting down stragglers long before your time, girl. Just watch me!"

His weapon crackling to life, electrifying his mustache, the veteran takes off with a speed that invigorates his age and the hefty armor plate he bears.

“Damian, tell me I am dreamin',” Tardif grumbles, fearing he'd finally lost himself to delusion.

“You're definitely not,” he assures, just as surprised, "that was quite the signal you gave. You must teach it to me."

Tardif snorts, his attention divided, eyes landing on the prostrate lump by the hellgirl's feet, "Must be dreamin'. That sad bastard looks like me."

“Yes, I can see him too,” the flagellant nods, the impersonator clad in a near-perfect rendition of his costume.

Must be none other than his evil half, the cheapskate doppelganger that the inkeep was yacking on and on about.

“We ran into him on our way here,” Boudica informs them, kicking the fraud’s unconscious body off the wooden slab, “Thought he was you. Convinced him to tell us everything.”

Well, that’s one mystery solved.

"Tolda ya that wasn't me,” the brute says under his breath, just loud enough for his partner to hear, fearing the same tragic fate, “I never woulda talked.”

The morbid priest seems to agree, despite the palpable sweat breaking out under Tardif’s gear.

As the imposter's listless bulk rolls into the cell, sandals stomp onto his backside, the female barbarian asserting her dominance, both Damian and Tardif flinching as she approaches them next.

"I should gut you *svín where you stand,” she says, a harsh grimace, reaping their punishment.

"Not my fault the bloody flagellant got us thrown in here," Tardif spits, impressing all his weight against the man in question, putting as much distance between him and the hellion as possible.

Hands on her hips, Boudica throws her head back and laughs, one loud booming crack, "Ha! All you *fífl managed to do was make a mess of everything."

“What of the mission,” the flagellant asks, poking his head out, goal-oriented despite the circumstances, “Were you able to talk terms?”

“Barristan bartered for supplies. A steep price considering the damages.”

“Wot damage,” the bounty hunter growls, brows knotted in anger for being framed for yet another scandal.

The hellion smirks, gesturing her fur fisticuffs at the destruction all around them, “this damage.”

Done with her lengthy exposition, the braided woman takes up her glaive, both men shirking away, intimidated by what she intends to do with it.

"Don't move," she advises, aiming for their chains.

It’s not often Tardif seeks the Light’s protection, but he closes his eyes and prays, staying stock still until he and Damian are liberated from their restraints.

“AAAKLYORAAAHHH,” the exiled warrior cries, severing the links with a barbaric yap.

The bounty hunter exhumes the stale breath in his lungs, patting himself down from the spark of adrenaline, accounting for all his limbs while Damian seems disappointed with the lack of amputation.

"What are you waiting for,” Boudica calls, already boarding their ride home, “I need you to drive.”

Damian and Tardif make no effort to move, but for very different reasons.

One man has grown attached to their surroundings and wants to stay.

The other is still too awed by the bizarre string of circumstances, lacking the coherence to act on her command.

Boudica's dark chestnut eyes narrow, the grip on her weapon tightening, incensed by their goosenecking.

"Board the getaway wagon right now," the valkyrie warns, her dark lips curling around a snarl, "or I will feast upon your *böllur."

This proves to be quite the persuasive technique, the boys jumping onto the wheeled contraption to save themselves from the hack of her blade.

----

It’s sunset by the time they report back to the heir's estate, the overcast conveniently clear.

Barristan, Damian, Tardif, and Boudica are lined up before the antique desk of their employer's office, their formation serving a higher purpose. It was a rarity in itself to come face to face with their mysterious benefactor, a clear indication of how badly the two degenerates wedged in the center had failed in their duties.

The heiress sets down her reading glasses, finished with the neighboring correspondence, her mouth set into a grim line.

"Do you have anything to say in your defense," she prompts, a forced air of stately composure. Tardif takes the opportunity to size her up, noting how she appears older, matronly despite her youth, how she continues to stare behind heavy eye makeup, awaiting an explanation from him.

He speaks bluntly.

"Sorry, Damian got horny and fucked everythin' up," he shrugs, trying to get a rise out of her ashen face, "Ye should punish him, he likes it when ye do that. I ain't takin' none of the blame."

Damian turns to his partner, astounded by this callous declaration, his scarred mouth opening to protest.

With a fist around his collar, Boufica swiftly reins him back in, suffocating his response.

"Oh, you won't be going anywhere,” the regal woman declares, expression stern and unreadable.

"Wot," the bounty hunter deadpans, his temper ignited. Aristocracy be damned, he’s not about to let anyone push him around, regardless of what their signed contract says.

The heiress stands, fully clad in gothic ruffles, lacey stockings and gloves to match.

"You two will be staying here with me in the manor,” she portends, boots clacking on the wood as she circles around to face them, “waiting on me hand and foot, tending to my every whim."

She swipes her dainty finger along the desk, rubbing away the film of dust between her thumb.

"Yer jokin’," Tardif wagers, attempting to call her bluff, but she merely smirks.

"On the contrary. Consider it a training exercise," the heiress drawls, velvet hat and veil unable to hide her glee, "Boudica, please show them their uniforms."

The hellion is more than happy to oblige. She hands the second hanger to Barristan, the garment clearly meant for Damian, its contents hidden beneath a stark white sheet.

The two corroborating warriors synchronize the unveiling, lifting up the cover in a flute of effervescent surprise. There, in black and white, was a pair of objectionable high-skirted, degrading poofy-sleeved, bow-in-the back maid outfits.

Tardif thinks now is a good time to shrivel up and die.

Damian, on the other hand, seems thrilled.

"Over my dead body. I ain't wearin' that."

"Yes, you are," the group vouches, their voices meeting unanimously.

Tardif heats up under his helmet, underestimating his popularity. It's a complicated emotion, one part ego boost, one part crippling emasculation to know that everyone in the room wants to see him dressed up in such servile fashion trends.

At least he'll witness Damian in one of these frilly things too, splitting the shame, (if the masochist would even consider it that). Still, the mercenary would have preferred an ensemble that came with a pair of britches instead.

"The mask stays on," the brute stipulates, snatching the dress out of Boudica's hands while the hellgirl snickers at his misfortune.

"A small price to pay,” the patron lady permits, sending both Boudica and Barristan along with them to the fitting rooms to assure their compliance.

As the heir eagerly awaits their return, she rifles through a bucket list of chores. Perhaps, scrubbing the floor on their hands and knees to start with, then running her a nice hot bath before finally preparing her a candlelight dinner.

Who's to say what will happen in between, but the night will end with them tucking her into bed, wishing her goodnight with a doting peck on each curve of her rosy cheeks.

{Finis}

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

(*Rough translation notes for Boudica's Old Norse tongue: skilpadda = turtle / svín = swine / fífl = idiots / böllur = balls)

[fairylight-art]

Park Jimin as Envy 🐍

I’m back with another bookmark design that I made in 2020, this time for “Inferno - A BTS Seven Deadly Sins Fanzine” 💚.

I was assigned to draw Jimin representing “envy” so I tried to add some elements and colors that could be related to the sin.

This was my first contribution as an artist to a BTS zine so it has a special place in my heart 🥺.