An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
Rohan’s day passes into afternoon in silent concentration as he sits and draws and looks. There are so many things to see, so many little details to choose from. He’s immersed in the way the maples cast a shadow across the ground when his pulse jumps, and he notices without noticing that something is nearby. When he lifts his head, the fox is there.
He freezes, afraid to even set down his pen. His eyes greedily trace every precious detail, admiring the slim black paws and the long delicate muzzle and the way the shining coat fades from black to orange and back into black. Equally, the fox considers him. What thoughts are watching him from behind that wild gaze? All Rohan’s art is barely the equal of this creature’s least gesture, the slim arc of its throat equal to any masterwork. Rohan wants to call to it, but his voice is silent in his throat. Isn’t this familiar? Haven’t they met somewhere before?
For the month of August, writers on the JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure Writing Server were challenged to write a work taking place in an alternate universe! The following works are the result.
Cover Me With Roses by @havisham (Bruno/Giorno, Actor AU, Mature)
Bruno Buccellati, former child actor, wakes up one morning convinced his life has gone completely out of control. He's right, and he doesn't even know how right he is.
*
pretend, sweetly by @myrkks (Kakyoin/Jotaro/Polnareff, Final Fantasy AU, Mature)
The world bears down harsh. Kakyoin grits his teeth and bites his tongue and swears that he’s ready for this. He’s ready.
He meets Polnareff in Djose and Jotaro at the Moonflow.
(final fantasy x crossover)
*
Wildflowers by @sphealrical (Giorno/Mista, Stardew Valley AU, Gen)
There are three things Mista knows about living in a small town: a new face is hard to come by, one person's business (especially their love life) is everyone's business, and there's always something else happening right under everyone's noses.
*
The Sheltering Sky by @relares (Fugo/Giorno, Pokemon AU, Teen)
I’d turn away the sad impossibility of your smile. } There’s some jackass Trainer loitering in front of the Daycare, whiling away time by staring at a Pokégear cradled in his hands and leaning against the front gate.
*
The Fox Spirit and the Artisan by @nomettesbizzareadventure (Kakyoin/Rohan, Fantasy AU, Teen)
Rohan saves a trapped fox on a whim, and within a week there’s a mysterious red-headed stranger at his door, asking to be Rohan’s assistant. Rohan should refuse, but he doesn't. It's obvious that there's more to Kakyoin than he's willing to admit, and if there's on thing Rohan can't resist, it's a mystery.
--
AU. Fox Spirit Kakyoin and Artist Rohan in Fairy-Tale Morioh.
Thank you to everyone who participated! We’ll be back next month with works featuring minor villains! ; )
May Challenge | June Challenge | Parent Collection
Kakyoin moves through Morioh with trepidation, every step a carefully orchestrated affair. There was a time when his human form came to him as easily as breathing, but the intervening years have robbed him of his former expertise. Still, he remembers enough to avoid the main streets and walk with courage in the back alleys. None of the scurrying servants he passes in the streets have a word to say to him; it’s evening, and all the people of importance have already returned to their homes to be served.
Rohan ought to be in his house as well. Kakyoin spent the morning remembering how to walk on two legs, how to charm information out of people, how to talk and how to listen- and there’s a lot to listen to when it comes to Rohan. When Kakyoin had asked about an artist he encountered on the edge of town, the ladies of the market had been eager to tell him all about Rohan’s art and his workshop and his eccentric ways and strange magic and his penchant for vanishing for weeks. Kakyoin’s whole morning had vanished in listening to tales of the local eccentric artist and all his follies. It’s unfortunate to be indebted to a person like that. He’s been hoping the whole day that the man who saved him will turn out to be someone else, but as he approaches Rohan’s house, he can feel it- this is the place.
Rohan’s shop is the same building as his house, and the whole is an immodest temple to art, a painting splashed over the left side in fantastic, haphazard strokes, as if the author had lifted his brush and launched a whole landscape into existence at once. The longer Kakyoin looks, the more he sees, and the dizzier he feels. There’s a little hook behind his rib cage, a song calling him closer to the shop. His left hand still burns where the priest’s sutras caught him, and the ache reminds him that he’s fucked up.
He owes a debt, now, and he’s got to pay it back. Those are the rules. He approaches the door slowly, fighting the urge to bolt for the woods. He’s visited more dangerous places, fought more dangerous foes, but still, his heart tells him to flee, to vanish into the forest and forsake part of his magic in exchange for his deviation. All his power hasn’t done much to bring him happiness- it would be easier, perhaps, to lose his human name and remain a creature of the woods. Easier, but not correct. Kakyoin hesitates at the doorway, and then he passes the threshold and enters.
The interior of the shop is silent. His skin prickles, a cold unease passing along his spine, and he glances upwards to find a row of spell-tags hung over the entrance. It’s strong spellwork. There’s a prayer for prosperity, and protection against thieves, and something else Kakyoin can’t read, something dark and thickly-written that makes the fine hairs along Kakyoin’s arms stand on end. He drops his gaze from the roof and surveys the shop. Beyond the small foyer, a large room beckons. Scrolls of artwork adorn the walls and in between there are rows and rows of paper screens, creating a winding path from wall to wall, like a stream between rocks. The composition soothes his thundering pulse, and he allows himself to be steered to the far wall, where the path begins. There’s a terrible ache in his chest. It’s been so long since he stepped foot in a human house.
He meanders through the paintings uneasily, until an image catches him and leaves him dizzy, breath caught in his throat, pinned between one moment and the next. On the paper, a black wolf stands snarling, locked in combat with a monstrous cat-demon, its shoulder marked with a black star. Kakyoin takes a hesitant steps forward, eyes locked on the wolf. He remembers that mark, that look. He remembers Jotaro. A wave of longing rises up in him, and he turns, intending to bolt for the exit, and then-
Pain blossoms in Kakyoin’s side. There’s an ink bottle in the air. There’s paper in the air. Pieces of paper hang in the sky like bubbles, and then Kakyoin realizes that someone’s collided with him. He snatches the ink bottle from the air before it can fall, then turns his attention to the man sprawled across the ground. It’s him. Rohan. The man who saved him. His papers are sketches, and they’re everywhere; Rohan begins to pick them up, muttering about ink washes. When Kakyoin bends down, intending to help, Rohan snatches the paper away from his hands.
“Who do you think you are?” he demands, glancing upwards, then freezes. His eyes catch on Kakyoin’s face, and Kakyoin feels- a tug, like the pull of gravity when stepping down a slope. Rohan looks different when seen with human eyes. He’s thin and pale, with layers of shadows under his eyes, his messy hair held from his face by a thin headband. There’s ink under his fingernails. His clothes are extravagantly beautiful, made with a precision and care that would put many courtesans to shame. Rohan sets aside his papers without dropping his gaze from Kakyoin, and then he shamelessly extends his hand and tugs at the loose curl of Kakyoin’s hair.
“Watch where you’re going when you’re in my store,” Rohan sneers, though he’s the one that barreled into Kakyoin. Kakyoin opens his mouth to say so, but Rohan covers his mouth with one hand, frowning.
“You’ve got red eyelashes,” he says, staring into Kakyoin’s face. Is this how humans behave, or how they’re supposed to behave? “Lavender eyes, how peculiar,” he says, almost to himself. “Have we met before?”
Kakyoin slides his arm between the two of them and wrenches Rohan’s hand off his face, but Rohan doesn’t look perturbed.
“No,” Kakyoin says. “We haven’t.”
“Strange,” Rohan says. “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere, but at the same time, I would remember such a unique color scheme.” His eyes flit along Kakyoin’s body, as if he’s just now remembering that the rest of Kakyoin exists, and he frowns. Kakyoin feels the tickle of unfamiliar magic, and his hand goes to the hilt of his sword.
“What are you doing?” he demands. When Rohan doesn’t answer, he lifts his sword and lays it against the pale expanse of Rohan’s neck, ignoring the jangle of his nerves that says that he owes Rohan and this is wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Quit posturing,” Rohan says, eyes still fixed on Kakyoin’s collarbone. “You’re here to ask me a favor. You want to work as my assistant.” His eyes go back up to Kakyoin’s face. “I’ll allow it,” he says, waving one hand carelessly. Kakyoin drops his wrist.
“What did you do?” he asks.
“I read you,” Rohan says, already heading back towards his workshop. “Don’t ask me questions now, I have work to do.” There’s the weight of a compulsion in the command, and Kakyoin feels it like something stuck in his throat. He chases after Rohan, following the sim green of his headband as Rohan weaves past shoji screens and elegant lacquer cabinets and through winding, maze-like doorways. Kakyoin loses sight of him in the studio for a moment, and by the time he finds him again, Rohan is already seated and working.
A slim dark line streaks across the canvas, ink soaking into the paper. A beat, and then another line follows the first. Piece by piece, a picture emerges from the canvas, like a landscape seen through fog, like the distant murmur of voices resolving into words. Kakyoin’s desire to strangle Rohan dims and blurs, and he finds himself seated, watching in silence as Rohan spins mountains and forests from nothing. His exhaustion is catching up with him, his body still heavy with the toll of the weeks of running, his hands itchy with freshly scabbed over wounds. Sleep presses in on him, and his eyelids begin to dip, and he drops into sleep with the sound of Rohan’s brush scratching the canvas still in his ears.
Part 1. I’ll be posting this as I go along! I’d like to have weekly updates but like.... don’t count on it.
