#this zine is my new favourite possession

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Fleurette zine! My second favourite ship in Genshin, just the sheer angst of Dainsleif and Lumine (either with her as the traveler or as the abyss twin ahhh). It’s interesting to see how definitely I write Lumine now compared to here. Or maybe that’s because this is Abyss Lumine as opposed to Traveler Lumine?

Btw, leftover sales are happening right now! check @genshinflowers on twitter!

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i. Lilies

The first time, Dainsleif was caught unawares. His mind had been preoccupied, considering his new travelling companion Lumine, considering why he was even journeying with her in the first place. Home was far behind, their destination unknown, and for a man who liked facts and control, this was an unusual situation for him.

He had never been a man of passion, let alone one that followed his gut instincts.

He still didn’t know what possessed him to take her hand and follow her across the world.

“Watch out!” Lumine barked, her small hand wrapping around his arm. Despite her short stature, her grip was firm, and she jerked him back.

It was the suddenness of it more than anything else that halted Dainsleif’s steps. He glanced at her white-knuckled grip, at her slowly relaxing expression, and then at their surroundings. They were walking through a field, the sky as clear as can be. Dainsleif could see for leagues and there wasn’t so much as a hilichurl here, let alone an actual danger. Certainly nothing to provoke such a panicked response.

“What is it?” he asked, perplexed.

Ignoring him, Lumine let go and crouched down. Her white skirt trailed on the ground, collecting dirt, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, that was a close one,” she sighed, her expression softening.

“Close?” Her response made even less sense. Dainsleif lowered his gaze, following her line of sight until he spotted a small, white lily blooming on the road. “The lily?”

Lumine rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose at him. “Don’t act like it’s worthless.” She reached out, running a finger across its petals. “Isn’t it cute?”

That wasn’t a word he would have used. “It’s a sturdy plant. It would have survived.”

“Or it might not have. Better safe than sorry, right?” She smiled softly, getting up. Lumine swiped her skirt, shaking off the dust. “Aether would have agreed with me. When he wakes up, I’ll show him, and you’ll see.”

He didn’t doubt that. From what little he had seen of her brother, they had seemed like two peas in a pod. They were both far too naive for this world at war. Even this place, as untouched as it was, would see the battle fires. The idea of this place surviving as is was preposterous.

Dainsleif scoffed, “It might die before then.”

Lumine pinched his arm and glared. Her nails dug into his skin. “Don’t be such a downer. It’ll have kids. Just you wait, next time we come here, there’ll be a field of flowers.”

He shook her off. “We’ll see.”

ii. Cyclamens

The second time, Dainsleif was prepared. You couldn’t travel with someone for months without learning their idiosyncrasies and what he had learned about Lumine was she had a penchant for spotting and protecting flowers. Despite how sharp her tongue was, her heart was soft.

“Careful,” Lumine warned, her hand resting on his arm. The fact that she didn’t yank him meant she had learned something about him too.

It was an oddly pleasant feeling.

Dainsleif had already noticed the red cyclamens on the path. They swayed in the breeze, their blooms reaching for the sun. In this forest, the sunlit path was the only place for them to do so, the massive trees lining the dirt road barring the sky from small plants otherwise.

That didn’t make it any less of an annoyance. “They shouldn’t grow on paths.”

“Plants grow where they want,” Lumine chided. Despite her playful tone and mocking smile, her eyes were distant. She had barely looked at the plant, her eyes already on the faraway exit and, further than that, the distant horizon.

“Lumine?” he broached tentatively, not sure how to handle her new, pensive mood. It came and went, these days, and Dainsleif had yet to figure out the right words to say. Or if there even were any—it was hard to wipe away the things they’d seen.

Her eyes flicked to him, then the flower. There was something bitter, something exhausted about her expression. Quietly, she asked, “How long do you think we’ll be travelling?”

Dainsleif frowned. What response would relax her? What would make her smile? He felt as tongue-tied around her as he had when they’d first met, though for the opposite reason. Before, he hadn’t wanted to talk. Now he did but had no idea what to say. “As long as you want to.”

Her head bowed slightly, and he knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “That’s not what I meant…It’s just…” Lumine gripped her dress, wrinkling the cotton fabric. Her knuckles turned white. “Aether hasn’t woken up and we haven’t found a potion or a spell to do it. Instead, we’ve…”

She trailed off, curling into herself. Something in him ached at the sight. With every step they’d taken away from her slumbering twin, with every Archon and secret of the world they’d uncovered, Lumine’s smile had dimmed. Dainsleif could barely remember how she’d smiled when they’d encountered that lily long ago, the bright innocence of it.

“There’s still a few places left to check,” Dainsleif murmured reassuringly, his hand curling at his side into a tight fist. “You never know.”

“We’ve looked a lot,” she mumbled, sounding defeated.

He had never been one for false hopes, but they crowded his throat, almost choking him. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch her. “Maybe he’s awake now.”

“Maybe. It’d be funny if he kept waking up when I was gone, only to fall asleep when I got back.” Despite her words, Lumine didn’t laugh.

Dainsleif didn’t know what to say. His hand fell to his side, limp and useless. Glancing down at the plant, he said, “I’ll transplant it.”

That caught her attention. She jerked her head up, staring at him confused. “What?”

He gestured at the red blooms. “The flower. You want Aether to see it, right?”

“Oh.” She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

iii. Purple hyacinths

The next time, Dainsleif waited for Lumine to say something. A purple hyacinth sprouted tall in the center of the road, dozens of flowers curling into one another until it looked like an elaborate hair bun, the kind royalty used to wear. It was impossible to miss.

Lumine said nothing. She didn’t even show any sign of stopping. Before she could step on it, Dainsleif shot out his arm, barring her from going forward. It was a jarring reversal. “There’s a flower.”

“Oh.” Lumine looked down blankly. Her expression remained flat. “There is.”

He didn’t like her response. He hadn’t liked it for a while now. There were many things Dainsleif had expected on their journey, but Lumine changing or his feelings on that matter hadn’t been one of them. They should have stopped journeying a long time ago. They should have turned back when the darkness crept in.

And now it was too late. They would see this to its end, whatever it might be.

Still, just like those flowers reaching hopelessly for the sun, he couldn’t help but try one last time to bring back her smile. “I’ll transplant it.”

“Is there any need?” she asked bluntly, watching him with tired, dark eyes.

He couldn’t read her. Not anymore, not for a while. Had he ever been able to understand her? Sometimes, Dainsleif wasn’t certain they’d ever connected, if they weren’t just two ships in the night, passing each other by.

The ache in his chest spread. He pushed the feeling down, smothering it. Dainsleif had never been one for false hopes, but he clung to them now like a lifeline. If they saved her brother, she’d smile again. If they finished their journey, they could rest.

If. If. If.

Quietly, he tried again. “For Aether.”

“For Aether.” Lumine laughed, a jagged thing.

And then she stepped on the flower and walked on.

iv. Lilies

The last time, Dainsleif had been caught unawares. There was a familiar hand around his arm, a familiar tug to keep him in place. It was sunny, the sky above them clear, and the field was as broad as the eye could see. If he closed his eyes, he’d be at the beginning of his journey, still confused and uncertain, still naive and hopeful.

Yet, reality beckoned, forcing him to put away those childish thoughts. The hand on his arm was masculine and broad. The voice calling him was deep and excited.

“Look!” Aether chirped, his eyes bright as he pointed at the path in front of them.

The only thing he shared with his sister was the innocence in his expression.

Dainsleif looked down. A small flower poked its way out of the dirt. Even without seeing its leaves, he knew it was a lily. Even without seeing the bud, he knew it was white.

History, he found, had a way of repeating itself. There were only circles, repetitive and unending.

“That was close!” Aether sighed, relieved. He didn’t seem to notice Dainsleif’s silence. “You almost stepped on it!”

“What’s it doing all the way out here?” Paimon chirped, hovering low on the ground as she studied the tiny plant. “Doesn’t it know it’ll get stepped on?”

“Plants like to grow wherever they want to.” Aether chuckled, crouching on the ground. His cape trailed in the dirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s so cute. I wish Lumine could see it, she really likes flowers.”

Dainsleif could only stare. Truly, he was too much like Lumine. Even worse, he was following her footsteps across Teyvat, meeting Archon after Archon as he searched for her.

How long would it be till he lost his smile?

How long would it be before he broke too?

Was there any point to it all?

“I wonder what stories it could tell us.” Aether patted the top of the plant, smiling happily. “Staying here by the road, watching people travel…”

“Plants can’t see,” Paimon pointed out, scoffing at the entire idea. She threw her hands in the air. “Next you’ll be asking about its grandparents!”

“I wouldn’t go that far!” Aether held his hands up in defence. Finally noticing Dainsleif’s silence, he turned to him worriedly. “Dainsleif?”

The words were the same. The eyes were the same. A familiar ache spread across his chest. Dainsleif forced himself to speak. “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so…” Aether bounced to his feet, interlacing his hands behind his head. “I wonder how it got here.”

Your sister, Dainsleif didn’t say. Would Lumine laugh or cry that her wish came true?

The path ahead led to tragedy. He knew that, had already gone through it before. Still, there was one final act before their story ended, one final play he had to make. A last try to fix everything.

And maybe next time, Lumine and Aether would both be tugging him, reprimanding him for the flowers crushed in his wake.

[f0x-gl0ves]

THIS GREMLIN GOT THEIR BOOSH ZINE IN THE MAIL YE BOYYYYYYYYY y'all's get urself a zine at @booshquaranzine if Ur not broke!! It's so good 😍

[northernscruffycat]

Tagged by @101flavoursofweird

I’ll tag @pandirpus @krokonoko @my-artblog-is-ssjumi @yallemagne @amberrgalaxy @swamp-y and anyone else who wants to do this. But this is a pretty long one, so don’t feel like you have to :3 (On that note, I’ll be putting most of this under a cut for exactly that reason)

How many works do you have on AO3?

131 at the moment. But some of those are different oneshots from FFN that I posted into one fic when porting over to AO3, so I’d be fascinated by what the actual amount of fanfics I’ve written is.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

1242922 words

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Just counting what’s on AO3, so far I’ve written for 17 fandoms. They are: Free!, Professor Layton, Hades Game, Steven Universe, Pokemon, Ace Attorney, Yu-Gi-Oh DM, Yu-Gi-Oh GX, Yu-Gi-Oh 5d’s, Sonic the Hedgehog, Super Mario, Dr. Stone, Tintin, Night in the Woods, GetBackers, Good Omens and Cooking Mama What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

‘just wanted to write a fic where senku says ‘get excited’ during sex’ (My SenGen oneshot that gets a wave of attention whenever a new chapter or episode of Dr. Stone comes out)

‘laughable’ (An Ares/Hypnos oneshot I wrote purely as a sample for a zine app and underestimated how popular that ship is lol)

‘the prince with specific tastes; the king with specific regrets’ (THAT Theseus fic. My absolute fave thing I’ve ever written)

‘Shallow Grave, Shallow Bae’ (A Reigisa fic based on Octopimp’s 50% Off! abridged series of Free!; I honestly do think this fic slaps and I’m glad folks like it)

‘Barrel of Monkeys’ (The AsaIku & KisuHiyo collab fic I wrote with Amber that was a lotta fun and I’d love to do something like this with them again one day for a different fandom. Also, I feel like we captained the small KisuHiyo fandom with this fic back in the day)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I generally respond to comments. Almost always, unless I really can’t think of anything to say in reply, which is pretty rare. Comments make me so happy and I just want to let people who do comment know that I appreciate them.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I think the angstiest fic I wrote was a Free! fic called ‘Moves Across the Land’ - the premise of which is that Makoto died as a young adult of an illness and each chapter is a different person in his life receiving a letter that he wrote for them before he died. But that one had an optimistic ending, with Haru and Kisumi unexpectedly finding a newly strengthened friendship in sharing the grief of Makoto’s death. So I guess technically the angstiest ending I wrote was a short Archie/Maxie oneshot where Maxie gets killed by Kyogre lol

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yes, but I ended up agreeing with it! Waaay back (probably more that 10 years ago at this point), I wrote a bunch of Layton/Rosetta oneshots that I now don’t stand by. One of them, in my naivety, I went too far with and breached uncomfortable territory. I got a couple of comments about how uncomfortable it was, so I ended up deleting that particular fic and felt better after it was gone.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I am a fledgling at writing smut, which is probably obvious to anyone who’s read my smut haha. When I do write it, I prefer to focus on the dialogue between the characters - I like a banterous smut scene. Also, they’re usually pretty tame. I like writing about handjobs, blowjobs and wanking the most when I do write smut.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, not that I know of, but that would be awesome! A few years ago, a kind person messaged me about potentially translating my Layton fic ‘Grasping Liquid’ into French, but I don’t think they went through with it in the end. Though honestly, the dialogue and slang in that fic is pretty much illegible in English, so I reckon it’d be a tough fic to translate.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, the aforementioned ‘Barrel of Monkeys’ that I co-wrote with @amberrgalaxy It was a lot of fun and I love it :D

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Hmm... I don’t think I have a single all time favourite. I jump through a lot of OTPs and they always mean a lot to me, but it wouldn’t seem fair to pick out a single one that’s always shined brighter than the others, because that’s not really how my hyperfixations work. But my current favourite ships are Momus/Heracles (to be narcissistic) and TheseZag from Hades Game. While my oldest ship that I’m still invested in is Yami/Seto from Yu-Gi-Oh DM.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Shockingly, I don’t have any right now. A few years ago (I think 2018?), I made a point of going back and finishing ALL my old WIPs that I’d left hanging but intended to finish, even for fandoms I didn’t plan on going back to. So that freed my conscience of them and felt pretty good. At the moment, my only WIP is ‘if found please return to the underworld’ - an AU where Zagreus does make it to Olympus, so Hades sends Theseus, Asterius and Meg to try to get him back. But I’ve only just started writing that one, so I do hope to stick with it until it’s finished.

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue. Definitely dialogue. I’m told that I capture the canon voices of characters pretty well and that’s always what I’m trying the hardest to get right, so it means a lot to me. I also feel like I’m good at keeping a fic flowing, without being bogged down by too much detail. But the downside of that is that I often sacrifice description, so I still hope to find the balance. Since Hades Game has more flowery prose than I’m used to, I think getting into that series actually helped me with this.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I do not think I am experienced enough to be able to pull this off well and would worry too much about making mistakes.

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for?

It was Pokemon, but those fics aren’t online anymore. The oldest fics you can still find buried somewhere with my name attached to them are Sonic fics.

What’s your favorite fic you’ve ever written?

‘the prince with specific tastes; the king with specific regrets’ - Sometimes I look back at that fic and wonder if I actually wrote it, since I avoided falling into all of my usual traps: I researched it properly and frequently, I kept the focus on the five main characters instead of getting distracted by introducing a million other character like I usually do, I plotted the fucker out from start to finish instead of winging it, and I worked the flashbacks into it in a way that balanced the present-day out instead of distracting from it. Also, I got the whole thing written in about two months, instead of staling for years. ...Whatever possessed me when I wrote that fic, please come back. (It was the first time I’d had two weeks off together in about three years, so I think that had a lot to do with it) OH YEAH and that same kinda villain OC who I recycle in every fandom I’m in actually landed this time. It brought me so much joy to see how much people loved to hate Momus. Those two months when I was posting that fic are easily a highlight of my life. :D

[birbleafs]

AF Zine Pre-orders + Fic Preview

Hello everyone! 

I can finally share about the recent project I’ve participated in :D In a Fowl Mood: an Artemis Fowl Zine is a charity zine that features new art and fanfiction made by amazing fans like you and pre-orders are currently OPEN from now till OCT 7th ! All proceeds will go to Make-A-Wish to benefit children with cancer. Be sure to check out @artemis-fowl-zine for more pre-order details and updates. We’re all really excited to be on this project and hope you’ll consider purchasing a copy! 🌟🌟

Here’s a snippet from my fic for the zine. Enjoy! :) __________ Strange Creatures Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your… er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas...” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts. “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face.

[heavenburdened]

GRIEVING, consumed with fear &  mad with loneliness, eden finds  himself more lost than ever ; and  soon, like the distant stars and  constellations he reads about in  books, eden no longer seems to  be part of this world. he imagines  that he is made of the galaxies and  nebulas —— light-years away and  out of mind, out of sight ; drifting  away peacefully in the cold vacuum of space & building his walls up high  —— cementing them there, strong,  as no one, not even once, comes to  break them down. A LONELY PRINCE  TRAPPED IN THE HIGHEST TOWER ;  that’s what eden becomes yet again.  yet he exudes a quiet unassuming  warmth, for he is closer to the sun  up here.

WHY HELLO THERE LOVELIES !!! i’m edie ( 23, she/hers, gmt+11, cat mum, literature nerd & tea enthusiast ) & my cute lil woc ass is so gosh darn excited to be a part of this muh’heckin amazing group ?!!?!?!??!?!?! i’m here with eden lovegrove ( and cha eunwoo’s heaven-sent face ????? can i get an amen ??!!!?? ) ; a #softnsadboi with a rrrrruff past who i’ll be introducing to you all right down below !!!!

DISCLAIMER : this ???????? is a heckin’ 1000-page novel. 2 ur left u will find refreshments n water —— pls stay hydrated whilst you read thru this ! 

[ ! ] CLICK HERE FOR A MOBILE VIEW ( less formatted for easier reading ! ) OF EDEN’S INTRO POST !  

* ╰  APPLICATION !! ❜ ───

✧･ﾟ(   atlas + cha eunwoo + cismale  ) 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒂 𝒎𝒊𝒂 !!  have you seen (   eden lovegrove ) around ? (   he  ) has been in kaos for (   one week   ). the (   twenty-four year old   ) is a (   journalist & freelance writer  ) from (   wisconsin, usa  ). people say they can be (   ascetic   ) but maybe that’s not too bad ‘cause they can also be (   forbearing   ). whenever i think of them, i can’t help but think of (   a wound too great ; that always has been & won’t heal, grief ; consumed by sorrow & mad with loneliness that yet still could not keep the boy from kindness, and softness ; emanating from starlight and filling him full to the bone   ).  ･ﾟ✧ ( penned by edie, 23, gmt+11, she/hers ).

* ╰  STATISTICS !! ❜ ───

basics

BIRTH NAME: eden park ADOPTED NAME: eden lovegrove BIRTH DATE: february 25th, 1995 ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: pisces AGE: twenty-four CURRENT LOCATION: kaos, greece NATIONALITY: american ETHNICITY: south-korean GENDER: cismale SEXUAL ORIENTATION: demisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: homoromantic

background

BIRTH PLACE/HOMETOWN: wisconsin, usa ( birthplace & childhood residence ) —— manhattan, ny, usa ( late adolescence )  SOCIAL CLASS: lower class ( birth ), upperclass ( during late adolescence / adoption ), middle class ( present ) EDUCATION LEVEL: completed a journalism degree with honours at yale FATHER: franklin park MOTHER: dolores park SIBLINGS: matthew park, christopher park FATHER ( ADOPTIVE ): chet lovegrove MOTHER ( ADOPTIVE ): amelia lovegrove  SIBLINGS ( ADOPTIVE ): everett lovegrove OCCUPATION & INCOME PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: journalist ; writing articles for guardian u.s. SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: freelance writing ; prose, poetry, essays, published in zines & online CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB? yes PAST JOBS: bookshop clerk, library assistant, florist SPENDING HABITS: very thrifty ; good at saving MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: a faded photograph of himself and his first love, now passed away

appearance / physical information

FACE CLAIM: cha eunwoo HAIR COLOUR: black EYE COLOUR: brown BUILD: mesomorph DOMINANT HAND: left hand HEIGHT: 183cm WEIGHT: 76kg INK: none PIERCINGS: none ALLERGIES: shellfish DIET: vegetarian

psychology

MBTI: infp ENNEAGRAM: type 2 ; the helper MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good DOMINANT TEMPERAMENT: melancholic PRIMARY INTELLIGENCE TYPE: verbal-linguistic & intrapersonal SOCIABILITY: medium EMOTIONAL STABILITY: stable DRUG USE: no ALCOHOL USE: yes PRONE TO VIOLENCE? no VIRTUES: ardent, profound, forbearing, sagacious VICES: reclusive, distracted, withdrawn, ascetic HOGWARTS HOUSE: ravenclaw ACCENT: manhattan accent FAVOURITES ACTIVITY: reading, baking, knitting, writing, going on walks ANIMAL: cats BEVERAGE: boricha / barley tea COLOUR: powder blue FOOD: yachae sundubu jjigae / spicy soft tofu and vegetable stew CELEBRATION: christmas MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: walking MUSICIANS: keaton henson, flyte, palace, the black skirts, banff, kelsey lu, matt maltese SCENERY: the ocean BOOKS: disoriental by négar djavadi, the uncensored picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde, when i hit you: or, a portrait of the writer as a young wife by meena kandasamy, brother by david chariandy, & 10 minutes 38 seconds in this strange world by elif shafak. 

* ╰  THE STORY !! ❜ ───

eden’s biography is trigger heavy, with the following triggers —— religious fundamentalism, homophobia, racism, physical & emotional abuse.

CHAPTER ONE : THE LONELY PRINCE.

COLOURED BY AMBIGUITY and suspended in an air of INEXACTNESS from the moment he breathed his first breath, eden park was born into the world as a simple PLACE HOLDER between his older and younger brother —— caught in the middle, outshone on both sides, and quite often FORGOTTEN, even as a child.

in amongst frank and dolores park’s hopes and dreams for their eldest and youngest sons, eden learned terribly early on that his existence mattered VERY LITTLE to anyone at all —— for while the youngest son ( matthew ) was doted upon, fussed over and coddled, and the eldest son ( christopher ) was given the responsibility of shouldering the entire burden of the park family name [ a family with important ties to the church community in wisconsin ] ; eden seemed to FADE AWAY into the background —— more an OBSERVER of his family’s comings and goings than an ACTIVE PARTICIPANT in amongst it all. growing up, eden had no particular expectations placed upon him, nor was he deemed any specific role to play ; and so he often spent his time ALONE and off and WANDERING, DRIFTING from interest to interest ; from this to that, biding his time in the absence of his parents who had their hands full with matthew and christopher, and their devotion to the religion that had gotten them through the hardships & aftermath of the korean war.

where his home life was tainted with an estranged apprehension, when eden was old enough to start attending school he discovered that this new part of the world was no sanctuary for him either. his peers pulled at the corners of their eyes whenever he passed, called him yellow, and jeered at the unusual & pungent packed lunches he brought. as the real world gave the young boy no reprieve ; eden turned to books —— opening the covers and crawling inside the pages to feel safe and at peace. with each new page, he would escape the exhaustion of his family life, and the terrors of the society around him would all but fade away. by falling into the quiet blank spaces that separated the printed, parallel lines of black, eden found himself a sanctuary of utter calm and peace ; safe at last from a world that was too cruel and too loud for his heart to bear the burden of. 

and so the days passed & darkened. ballet, books, and an overwhelming sense of BEING ALONE ; eden spent his days growing his mind & heart in SOLITUDE, quite nearly completely HEEDLESS of extremist religious views his parents and siblings propagated as the world spun madly on. eden’s ballet recitals : missed by his parents, morning mass went by without breathing a single word to anyone —— the middle bed, left untucked.  SURROUNDED by so many people and still so estranged, eden never truly was a part of the family he’d soon fatefully grow to HATE.

the only sanctuary of hope and light for eden was the one he found in a friend, then confidante, then lover ; a boy he’d met in ballet class at 8. 

the boy who changed everything for eden. 

the boy he was caught kissing at 16 in the park family’s garden ; blood red roses blooming.

SCREAMING, A BODY BROKEN, AGONY SINKING INTO EDEN’S BONES. 

FADE TO BLACK.

CHAPTER TWO : THE HEART CAN BEAT OR IT CAN BURN.

sixteen years old, and eden awakes to the sight of his lover standing over him with a smile. brown eyes fill with tears of relief & a chest so sore it could burst begins to shake with sobs. the tears clear eden’s vision ; and as he becomes more lucid, the vision of his lover fades away. ALONE IN A HOSPITAL ROOM, the boy scrambles to recollect the series of events that led to his arrival in the emergency room ; something buried deep in the labyrinth of his mind unsettling, warning him, letting him know that he’s not ready to remember. the nurses don’t look him in the eye, and the doctors reek of a sickening mixture of sympathy and pity. everything is raw, and horrid, and lonely, and eden can’t quite figure out the reason behind why his heart feels so terribly broken.

after three sleepless days and nights, a social worker visits eden —— relaying to him the chain of events that led to his broken body & weakened soul. the social worker tells eden of how he and his lover had been caught kissing among the flowers —— she tells eden of how his brother, matthew, had discovered them. then she tells eden of how his family had hatefully beat the only person he had ever loved into a coma ; and how when their rage had still not been satisfied, in a fury, they turned on their own son and brother.

THE WOUND IS TOO GREAT —— it always has been & it won’t heal, and eden’s cries rip through the hospital ward like a scream of agony. his tears make him tremble so violently he feels as if he were a rainstorm shook by lightning.

.

.

.

the recovery is a long & arduous one. knees grazed scarlet —— every night, eden PRAYS. he prays for his lover, he prays for his family, and he prays for god to change him ; to save him ; to cleanse him of his sin ; black, purple & blue covering every inch of his soft skin. most of all, though, eden prays that the loneliness and pain that grows inside his heart like a disease will cease spreading ; the boy’s pillow stained with tears as he cries himself to sleep each night. 

mutilated, torn, tortured & etched away at, eden is alive, but he is nothing but a hollow body ; a home for little more than an agonised, sorrow-drenched soul.

just one week after the incident, eden’s partner passes away ; and eden is taken into the care of the state —— never to hear from his parents or brothers again ; safe at last from them. 

CHAPTER THREE : I WILL NOT RAISE HELL; HAVE WE NOT ALL ALREADY SUFFERED ENOUGH? I WILL RAISE MY VOICE, AND I WILL RAISE CONSCIOUSNESS. 

ten months after the incident, eden is adopted into a family by the name of lovegrove —— a family tainted with far too much darkness for eden to ever call home. the lovegroves are an all-american, white family with ties to the republican party ; with the head of the family, chet lovegrove, having strong political aspirations. the lovegroves adopt eden into the family as a move for positive press, believing that having a person of colour adopted into the family will make for a more empathetic family narrative. 

and so it goes that eden park is given the new name of eden lovegrove, and once again, THE WORLD SPINS MADLY ON. while under the gaze of the public-eye chet and amelia lovegrove parade their new son eden around as if he were the sole pride of the family ( much to the chagrin of everett, the lovegrove’s biological son ), behind closed doors, they stand back and do nothing as everett calls eden words like chink, faggot, gook, fruitcake and coolie ; disdain and disgust dropping from every syllable like venom.

grieving, consumed with fear & mad with loneliness, eden finds himself more lost than ever ; and soon, like the distant stars and constellations he reads about in books, eden no longer seems to be part of this world. he imagines that he is made of the galaxies and nebulas —— light-years away and out of mind, out of sight ; drifting away peacefully in the cold vacuum of space & building his walls up high —— cementing them there, strong, as no one, not even once, comes to break them down. A LONELY PRINCE TRAPPED IN THE HIGHEST TOWER ; that’s what eden becomes yet again. yet he exudes a quiet unassuming warmth, for he is closer to the sun up here.

.

.

.

as eden grows from adolescence to adulthood —— though he leaves ballet in the past, where memories too painful to bear the burden of have no risk of being dredged up —— his love for books and writing never waivers even in the slightest. literature helps him understand himself as he comes to terms with the world around him, and writing helps him find a voice in a world where people keep trying to tell him what he ought to be. traumatised, a foreigner, a faggot, a stranger amongst his own family. an outcast, an orphan, a charity case. with his pen as a sword ; ink running like blood, eden finds his voice —— learning to use it to speak words of love and truth in a world that has only ever been cruel to him ; raising his voice so that it can be a light in the darkness. 

high society life tastes bitter upon eden’s kind palette ; and though he is treated with nothing but malice within lovegrove manor or the high society around him, eden endures the trials and tribulations of his new life in order to use his predicament for his own benefit. rather than fixating on the cruelties of his adoptive family, eden decides to focus instead on the opportunities that have presented themselves ; using the money and the connections that the lovegroves possess in order to grow into someone that his lover, lost in wisconsin but forever in his heart, can be proud of. 

a quiet renegade, eden decides to pursue journalism, graduating with honours from yale ; becoming a questioner of the common, and using his compassion and kindness and his love for words to grow into a safe-harbour for the voiceless. his first piece, an exposé on the callous and tokenistic life he has lived with the lovegroves, leaves him branded as a traitor by the family that took him in for their own devices ; and finally, after being cast out in shame, eden finds himself free at last. 

the name lovegrove suits him well, however ; love becoming him, love consuming him —— and so he keeps his adoptive surname, wearing it like a battle wound for all the world to see. writing of people’s stories, in search of the truth, kind, but lonely, this is the way that eden lovegrove spends his days. 

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.

.

ink-stained fingers & a sorrow-drenched soul that only wants to heal ; the stars, the moon, a study of the human condition through prose and endless essays. a journalist at guardian u.s., and a freelance writer, eden lovegrove is an ink splatter of words thrown against kaleidoscopic feelings —— messy, hurt, lost, ardent, sincere, broken, human, and so much stronger than he knows.

WHERE ONE STORY ENDS, ANOTHER BEGINS : ATLAS IN OLYMPUS.

“ SOMETIMES I GET THESE VISIONS — HORRIBLE VISIONS OF INEXPLICABLE VIOLENCE, GRIEF & SORROW [ … ] LIKE REMNANTS OF A PAST LIFE BLEEDING INTO MY PRESENT. ”

over the course of the past six months, eden has started experiencing some truly horrendous nightmares —— these terrors sometimes even creeping past the border of sleep, haunting him in visions during hours of waking. 

trauma from the park household, trauma from the lovegrove family ; that’s what eden believes, and that’s what his therapist believes. how could they know that these visions are actually coming from a past life ? one where eden was condemned to hold up the celestial heavens for eternity, as atlas. 

“ TAKE A BREAK, SON. A VACATION. THE WORLD WILL STILL BE HERE TO WRITE ABOUT WHEN YOU GET BACK.  YOU GOT A GIRL ? TAKE HER SOME  PLACE NICE. ”

eden doesn’t know how to tell his editor that he’s never had a girl, and nor will he ever. but the vacation doesn’t sound like too terrible an idea —— so eden packs up his belongings, and asks a man at the airport counter what the cheapest & earliest flight to someplace nice would be. KAOS, the man says. the island of kaos. and just like that, atlas finds his way to olympus. 

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.

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eden’s toes curl gently into a horizon of golden sands ; soft waves lapping at his feet as he relearns how to breathe. a softness emanates from the setting sun ; filling the broken man, full, to the bone. the world is wide —— and for the first time in his life, on this strange and beautiful island called kaos, eden feels like he might be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. 

since arriving in kaos one week ago eden’s nightmares have been getting worse ; and the visions, strange, violent, and full of glimpses of sorrow, split his head with migraines —— yet curiously, eden does not feel as if he is breaking  —— on the contrary, it feels as if he is on the very edge of awakening.

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–— AAAAAND, SCENE !!!!

 i’ll get to posting some replies to starters & interacting tomorrow ( because i’m eXHAUSTED after an excruciatingly horrendous day at work today ), but please like this post if you’d like to plot something up ??? OR LITERALLY JUST slide into my dms and throw headcanons for our muses at me pls ?! bc i’m awfully awkward and idk ?? how ?? to aPPROACH PEOPLE for plotting !!!!!

okie bye i’m going to go make some dinner and then shall slumber for 2000 years, but ilu all already and am so excited !!!! to start !!!! writing !!!!!

[marsjapanashleymorton]

Japanese legends of Yokai

Yokai are a class of supernatural monsters, spirits and demons in Japanese folklore. Yokai also translates to ghost, phantom and strange. In Japanese culture, there are a lot of artists who focus their work on Yokai - creating some really interesting and different designs.

*Yōkai often possess animal features (such as the kappa, which looks similar to a turtle, or the tengu, which has wings), yet others appear mostly human like kuchisake-onna. Some yōkai look like inanimate objects (such as tsukumogami), while others have no discernible shape. Yōkai usually have spiritual or supernatural abilities, with shapeshifting being the most common. Yōkai that shapeshift are called bakemono (化物) or obake (お化け).*

*Japanese folklorists and historians explain yōkai as personifications of "supernatural or unaccountable phenomena to their informants." In the Edo period, many artists, such as Toriyama Sekien, invented new yōkai by taking inspiration from folk tales or purely from their own imagination. Today, several such yōkai (e.g. Amikiri) are mistaken to originate in more traditional folklore.*

I really like Yokai as a whole and think it has a really interesting concept. There are almost no restrictions when it comes to these designs and anyone can create them. Depending on the time period, the *supernatural* theme can be perceived in a different way, although over time this shows the development of Yokai artwork. A long time ago, people would create their Yokai monsters to scare others, some were even known to dominate particular regions. This shows how seriously people took Yokai, although I would think the characters created are unbelievable! 

I really like the style of this artwork too. It has a realistic element to it, although not realistic enough to be believable. The detailing on the creatures works well, as I have also included a lot of fine detailing on my zine artwork inspired by these designs. I feel like this kind of artwork gives a clear fantasy element which is what makes the whole concept unrealistic. The colours used are often very subtle I notice greys/browns and natural colours are very popular. My favourite design of the three is the third, as you can see all of the fine fur detailing on the monkey, contrasting against the background with the flowing water. I feel like the monkey design is more on the realistic side, although the eyes really stand out to me, whereas the water is clearly created with a combination of block colours. Overall, I feel that this contrast works in favour of this piece. 

[vldaustoryzine]

Meet Shi, a merch artist for the zine!

Hello! I'm an amateur artist from SEA region and I love doing watercolor so much. I'm also learning digital art now and it open my eyes to a whole new world~ like there's so many things to explore. But I still love watercolor the most 

What is your favourite VLD episode and why?

Space mall because it reminds me how simple this fandom was for me at that time. Only happy memories. Oh and also the black paladins, because the animation in this episode is so amazing.

What mythical/fantasy being would you be and why?

I don't know... maybe a goblin? Lol. I have a strong need for money and possessions.

Favorite fantasy/mythology book/movie/tv series/other?

LOTR trilogy and The Hobbit. I also love to read Narnia books.

What got you into writing/doing art?

Anime haha. My cousin introduced me to anime and taught me how to draw back then.

Find Shi here: tumblr | twitter

See the rest of our contributors here!

[idiopath-fic-smile]

Oh my goddd I was scrolling back through your blog and the 1950s lesbian exr is a thing that just could not conceivably be any further up my alley (I realise what this sounds like and I apologise), so I was wondering if we could get another little snippet? No pressure ofc. PS I love your writing and even if we never get any more of tscosi it's still probably my favourite podcast of all time

Hi!

Thank you so much. There will definitely be more Starship Iris eventually, but I really appreciate that.

Re: the fic, I was simultaneously trying to write a historically accurate-ish look at 1950′s American lesbian identity and activism, and give it a bit of a noir feel, which in theory I think you could do because holy shit these women were risking so much, and they had to basically be spies anyway because the FBI was legit trying to keep tabs on them and their meetings. I don’t really know if I’m the person to do it, though; this feels pretty damn far out of my lane, to be honest.

I really wish there was more historical fiction about this cause in this period; you can find some fascinating shit just doing a cursory wikipedia crawl. Like, the first lesbian periodical was created in 1947 by a 25-year-old who was working as a receptionist at RKO Studios; her boss was like ‘just look busy so people think I’m a big deal’ and so she was secretly using company equipment to type and format a zine about lesbianism, like 25 years before the APA stopped calling homosexuality a mental illness.

Anyway, I only wrote about three pages; I stopped when I realized how long it would need to be, and how much work would be involved, and also frankly it’s a lot easier to situate Enjolras in a fic about queer activism post-Stonewall, because the D.O.B.-era organizing tended to be pretty assimilationist. Like, I think their work was important and has been unfairly neglected, but I still think Enjolras in any era would chafe at their gradualism. 

Enjolras isn’t even mentioned by name in this, but uh I think you’ll be able to find her. 

(Head’s up: this is the very opening of the story, it’s from Grantaire’s POV, and she has not begun to work through her issues yet, so quick content warning for period-typical internalized homophobia and self-loathing, as well as period-typical sexism. Also, historical note: from what I can tell, “lesbian” had negative connotations even within the community at the time.)

“Grantaire, are you alright?” said Murray. He didn’t try that hard to hide his laughter. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly.

“You’ll need to set aside your small-town attitudes if you want to succeed in the big city,” Chester added. “There’s all sorts here, as you can see.”

Grantaire nodded. There was nothing more dangerous than someone desperate to prove they were more Bohemian than you, she thought. She wondered if they were only doing this because she had corrected Chester about Rothko. Maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut. She could have just let him be wrong and avoided the whole adventure, or prank, or byzantine office hazing ritual–whatever had inspired them to take her here, of all places.

The Musain. Run by the mob, of course, but that wasn’t what made the place so notorious. There wasn’t exactly a neon sign screaming gay bar! But even if Grantaire was as naive as Chester and Murray seemed to assume, she probably could’ve put the clues together herself from the clientele, men mingling with men and women mingling with women. 

How much looking was too much looking? It all felt like too much. She tried focusing on the grimy wall of bottles behind the bar, except one of the bartenders had hung a poster of a pin-up girl back there, naked but for a strategically-placed ukulele, grinning a slick, lipsticky grin. There was no safe real estate to rest your eyes on. Every inch was dangerous, an admission of something.

“I’ll be right back,” she croaked. “Ladies’ room.”

“If you can tell which one it is,” laughed–Chester? Murray?–who even cared, she thought, ducking into the crowd.

The water did not help like she’d hoped. Grantaire switched off the tap and wiped at her face, badly wanting a cigarette. She wondered how much longer she could hide in here before it got suspicious. Two or three minutes, she figured, but when she stepped back into the bar she’d need to be perfectly composed.

Then again, neither of her new colleagues seemed too perceptive. Case in point: this present stunt, designed to unnerve her in an entirely different direction. Even now, she could at least detect a certain sick humor about the whole affair. She was still half-smirking when a woman walked in. Grantaire looked away on instinct, but foolishly, right into the mirror, to be pinned instead by the stranger’s reflection. There was just no catching a break tonight.

Grantaire had seen the stranger already from the other side of the bar, would have noticed her from a hundred paces. She was tall and athletic-looking, dressed like a man in a button-down shirt and trousers. Normally a girl of that stature slouched, pulled in her shoulders as if apologizing for taking up the space, but every line of this woman’s body was utterly assured, self-possessed. Her hair was cropped short, and there was a stark beauty in her strong brows and sharp cheekbones, feminine without a trace of softness.

Her eyes slid to Grantaire and away again: registered and dismissed in a single motion.

Grantaire dried her hands—slowly, because she still did not really want to go back. Anything was preferable, maybe including this.

In a way, it was almost a relief to see that nothing had changed. Seasons came and went but Grantaire was still Grantaire: a bundle of too-tight nerves and awkward elbows, scratchy throat, furtive gaze bouncing everywhere it shouldn’t. Still nursing a fascination with the most dangerous-looking female in the area. A puppy dog panting after a wolf.

Grantaire snorted, echoing in the cramped space. The woman looked back at her.

“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbled.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Your friends seem to be having a good time,” she said. Her voice was cold and dry as the Arctic Desert. Searing sun, powdery snow.

Chester and Murray weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination. They were barely co-workers; Grantaire had only been at the magazine for five days, had only arrived in the city three days before that, had been hired sight unseen by the eccentric editor-in-chief on the strength of a portfolio sent by mail and a first name that could pass as a man’s. It was even odds that once the bossman returned from his honeymoon and discovered his brand-new cartoonist was a she, Grantaire would be right out the door again, no chance to slip a single drawing into the lineup. As it was, her presence at the office had the air of a lingering typo.

Best-case scenario, her new employer would turn out to be one of those awful tyrants who refused to acknowledge any degree of fallibility, and he’d keep her on out of sheer hardheadedness. Perhaps after a year or two, she’d fade from a novelty to a background detail, and she’d finally grow up enough to stop trying to prove herself when it mattered the least.

None of it was worth explaining.

“They’re harmless,” said Grantaire instead. “That new intellectual type. They like modern art and smoking marijuana and pretending to understand poetry. They’re not here to gawk, not really.” She could not make herself shut her mouth. It was like having a fit. “They only brought me by to try to get a rise out of the girl from Skokie,” she was saying. “They’ve got nothing against your kind.”

“My kind,” the woman repeated, and Grantaire gave a helpless inward flinch. Was it rude to imply someone was a homosexual simply because she was wearing trousers at a gay bar? It didn’t look like a costume; she wore it with too much grace. “Don’t you mean ‘our kind’?” the woman said.

Grantaire froze, still clutching a wad of paper towel. She hadn’t expected to feel caught out. She had almost hoped for it, maybe, some slight terrified swoop of the stomach, but one foot inside the Musain, one glance at the flesh-and-blood patrons flirting under threat of police raid, had put it to rest.

(“Welcome to city life,” Chester had said, with a chuckle. “Meet your new neighbors!”)

Grantaire could only stand there, in the drab skirt and blouse she had picked specifically to blend in at the office, and measure the distance in miles, in light years.

She threw the paper towel in the trash, made herself meet the woman’s eyes. Grantaire was a head shorter, but somehow it was her spine that craned down, her shoulder blades that pulled together, her posture that begged forgiveness for the sheer fact of her blood and muscle and skin.

“I’m nothing like you,” said Grantaire.

“Really?” came the reply, unimpressed. “Because I could’ve sworn I saw you in here last week. Minus your friends.”

It had to be a bluff, thought Grantaire. Without two rowdy men at her back to make the whole thing a joke, she had barely managed to step in before she’d hightailed it back out.

It had to be a bluff, unless it wasn’t.

First Chester and Murray, and now this. Grantaire had just about had it with people trying to shock her by telling her things she already knew. Sex perverts exist, Grantaire, on one hand. You’re one of them, Grantaire, on the other.

At some point, a girl reached her limit.

“Oh,” said Grantaire, “I’m a lesbian, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

The woman blinked at her, not expecting—what? The directness? The word? The slightest illusion of a backbone?

Grantaire bared her teeth in a grin: another illusion. Nothing but well-honed reflex at this point; every bone in her body knew how to lie.

“And that’s the beginning and end of what we have in common,” Grantaire said. It had been a long day; she gave herself the petty satisfaction of slamming the door on her way out.

“Feeling better?” Chester asked, all mock-sympathy, when she returned. “Maybe a ginger-ale to settle your stomach?” It had the shape of an offer but the taste of a dare: can you stay long enough to drink it.

“Throw in some whiskey and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she said. Murray laughed. Her head hurt.

“Don’t look now, but there’s a woman, if you can call it that, watching us,” said Murray in a low, amused voice. “Think she’s got her eye on you, Grantaire.”

For once in her life, she wouldn’t rise to take the bait. “You’re hilarious,” said Grantaire without looking up. “A regular Bob Hope.”

“They still laughing at Bob Hope out in Skokie?” Chester said.

“It’s Illinois,” she snapped, “not the Mesozoic Era.”

“Mesozoic,” said Murray, as though he’d never heard anything so ridiculous. “Big word for a little lady.”

Mesozoic. Eight letters. But it didn’t matter how you contorted yourself; somebody would always find a way to be sore at you for being too much of one thing or another.

Grantaire hunched down on the stool, away from the sweep of those imagined eyes, and forced herself to smile.

[cheektrout7]

Groundbreaking ceremony held COMPANY BLUE GLOBAL

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[kumeko]

A/N: For the Dandelion zine! I wanted to explore my favourite trio (though, Yennefer would not like being included like that XD) post series.

Summary: Jaskier’s prized possession was a crate of wine Geralt bought him as an apology. Twelve bottles that he only brought out for the most important of occasions: dates with Geralt, rants with Yennefer, picnics at Ciri’s castle, and more. A look at Jaskier over the years.

…

…

…

…

i. First bottle

There were very few things that Jaskier wouldn’t forgive. Oh, he could and would hold a grudge; he had mastered the art of pettiness by the time he’d turned ten. But that was something entirely different than carrying hate, to nurse it and feed it until it became an entity on its own. Jaskier preferred forgiveness; it was better to drink with old foes than avoid them. Besides, it never hurt to keep things friendly when he could.

He had enough enemies from past dalliances as it was.

However, forgiveness required an actual apology, which was why he wasn’t exactly excited when he found Geralt for the first time in months. It didn’t hurt that he was also sitting on his bed in the inn, expression carefully blank, as though they’d gone on another adventure together and hadn’t fought at all. It figured the Witcher would just wander in and expect everything to be fine.

“How’d you get in here?” Jaskier asked, quietly closing the door behind him. Innkeepers and maids liked to talk and this was complicated enough without bringing in half the neighbourhood to hear.

“Your door was unlocked,” Geralt answered simply, his voice low and rough as though he hadn’t spoken for days. Knowing him, that had to be the case. Despite his relaxed posture, his golden eyes remained fixed on Jaskier as though waiting for something. At his foot was a small, wooden crate and Jaskier didn’t remember seeing that before.

“You know that’s not an answer, right?” Knowing it’d take an army to pull Geralt off his bed, Jaskier settled for grumpily leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. He had forgotten how tiring it was to pry information from him.

Geralt studied him for a minute before admitting, “The cook let me in.”

Which was the answer, but that wasn’t the question Jaskier really wanted to ask. Why? After that day on the mountain, after months of utter silence, why now? With anyone else, he would have guessed loneliness or regret, but Geralt was ‘above’ that. Or rather, Geralt squashed his emotions into a pit of denial so deep it would take years to dig it out. Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Bribery. Of course. Next time, I’ll bribe them to keep you out.” Breathing in through his nose, he counted to ten before asking, “What are you doing here?”

This time, Geralt took even longer to respond. As a self-proclaimed ‘man with no feelings’, he didn’t really have any nervous ticks that gave away his thoughts, nothing that Jaskier could focus on and say, He’s anxious because he’s scratching his nose. “I came to meet you.”

“Again, that’s not an answer!” Jaskier growled, resisting the urge to toss his lute at him. All of this was sobering him up. “And here I was, happily inebriated,” he complained.

“I can fix that,” Geralt offered, nudging the box forward. A heavy thing, it slowly slid across the wooden floor. If it scratched the planks, he’d force Geralt to pay for damages.

“No thanks.” Jaskier wrinkled his nose, already imagining its contents. Though, with Geralt, it was probably ten times worse than what he was thinking. “What’d you put in there? A monster’s head?”

Geralt gave him a blank look, as though he were an idiot. Jaskier didn’t know why he felt a swell of fondness at seeing it again, he hated that look. “Why would I do that?”

It was a fair point. Not that he’d admit it. Jaskier looked away scornfully and scoffed, “I don’t know. Why do you do anything you do?”

There was something extremely annoyed in Geralt’s expression and privately, Jaskier was thrilled. A little frightened, but thrilled. It was getting to him. “It’s a case of wine,” he stated flatly.

“Wine?” That caught his attention. Jaskier eyed the box before resisting the urge to take one out. Knowing Geralt, the flavour would be terrible, but still. It was free wine. One should never look a gift horse in the mouth, especially one that would still get you drunk.

“Yes, for you.” He motioned for Jaskier to take the box. “Just take it.”

These were more words than Geralt used in a week. Jaskier withdrew his hand, resting it at his side. Even though he knew the answer, he asked, “And why are you giving this to me? Didn’t think you were one for presents.”

“It’s…” Geralt shifted uncomfortably, the bed creaking in response. With his hulking frame, he looked out of place in the small room, his shoulders hunching slightly so he’d take up less room. “It’s…for that time.”

“For that time?” Jaskier prodded, knowing immediately what he meant. At his core, Geralt was an awkward man. For all of his roughness and combative prowess, he was clumsy in the ways of the heart. Luckily, that’s what Jaskier excelled at. And he wasn’t going to let his friend stumble through life, unable to actually say what he meant. More importantly, he wasn’t going to let this go without a proper apology.

“On the mountain. When we…when I…” Geralt rubbed his neck, looking more and more embarrassed with each passing second.

“Ah, yes, the mountain where you declared we weren’t friends.” Faking a frown, Jaskier tapped his chin. “What was it you said, again? Something about—”

“Don’t be annoying,” Geralt grumbled. If Witchers’ could flush, he would be redder than a tomato by now.

That stopped Jaskier in his tracks. Glaring, he snapped, “Annoying? You came here to beg for my forgiveness—”

“I’m not begging.”

“—and you think you can talk like that?” Jaskier rested a hand on his hip, ignoring Geralt’s quick aside.

“You have a point.” Geralt paused, clenching his fist. He looked away. Taking a deep breath, he slowly unfurled his hand. “I was wrong then.”

“For?” Jaskier pressed, unable to stop himself.

Geralt glared at him and spit out, “Everything.”

Well, that wasn’t quite what he was looking for, but he’d take it all the same. Jaskier hummed happily as he reached for the casket. To be perfectly honest, he had forgiven Geralt the moment he’d laid eyes on him, but no one needed to know that. He had his self respect and dignity to protect, after all. Flipping open the lid, he pulled out a dark green bottle and held up to the light. “A red wine, huh? Perfect for a catching-up drinking session. I need some new songs.”

Geralt groaned.

-x-

ii. second bottle

There were many places Jaskier expected to bump into Yennefer—in a ballroom, at a court, in front of Geralt’s corpse. Ironically, she would probably be the reason his stupid friend got killed and not any of the monsters he hunted. The one place that had never crossed his mind was the broom closet of a minor noble, while he was on the run from said noble’s guards.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He smiled charmingly, or at least as charmingly as he could while still panting from exertion. Behind him, there were shouts and angry footsteps as the guards looked for him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked flatly, as though she wasn’t the one hiding in the closet. Somehow, she always appeared composed and he hated her for it. Yennefer glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “No, let me guess, another one of your affairs?”

“What gave it away?” As the sounds grew louder, he pushed her to the side and squeezed his way in. “Ugh, this is so tight.”

“What are you doing?” she hissed, stubbornly pushing back against him. “Find your own hiding spot.”

So she was hiding too. He tucked that info away for later, for when he wasn’t in life-threatening danger. Shoving, he wormed into the gap next to her. “There’s no time!”

“Oh for god’s sake,” she snapped, letting off a string of curses before grabbing his hand.

“Awfully forward of—” Before Jaskier could finish his sentence, the world turned topsy-turvy and suddenly they weren’t in the closet anymore. No, they were in his room in the inn and the world was spinning around him. Falling on all fours, he heaved as he tried to regain his bearings. “What…was…that…?”

“Teleportation.” He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she slowly examined the room.

“Magic,” Jaskier groaned. He had always thought teleportation was useful before this—if he could just escape all of his trysts so easily. He had been utterly wrong. It was better to face the wrath of every guard than it was to go through that again. “Oh god, does it always feel like this?”

“Only if you’re not used to it,” she replied tartly, peeking out his window. Clearly she didn’t like what she saw, as she sniffed and added, “Quaint place.”

Jaskier wondered just how many times she had vomited before she’d gotten used to this feeling. It was a strange, humanizing thought, and he pushed it to the back of his head. “I’m not as rich as you.”

“No, clearly not.” The bed creaked as she sat on it. He could just see her hand pressing against the bedsheet. She clicked her tongue. “Definitely not.”

There was nothing like spite to force a man to compose himself. Jaskier forced down the bile in his throat and unsteadily rose to his feet. “Then go back to that noble, huh? Oh wait, you can’t.”

Yennefer looked at him sharply. Honestly, what did Geralt see in her? She looked like one of those governesses, never smiling, never laughing. Then again, neither did Geralt most of the time and he was still with him. “Don’t talk about matters you know nothing about.”

Jaskier waited a minute for her to elaborate. When she didn’t add anything else, he rubbed his forehead, frustrated. Of course she wouldn’t explain. Another thing she shared with Geralt. He wasn’t sure why he found one endearingly annoying and the other just plain irritating. “If you don’t say anything, obviously I’m going to know nothing about it.”

Her glare grew deeper. “I could turn you into a frog.”

“You wouldn’t,” he sneered, challenging her. At least, that was the plan, but his voice cracked half-way and he wobbled slightly as he tried to find a stable position. There was no bite to his words, he could tell it by the way she smirked. Stumbling onto the lone chair in the room, he sat on it backwards, leaning his chest against the chair back for support. At least he didn’t have to look as wobbly as he felt. Just how long was this motion sickness supposed to last, anyways?

“Hmm, don’t think I have to.” Every word from her felt like a taunt. “So what was it this time? Another fling?”

Averting his eyes, Jaskier didn’t bother to reply. Sure, he was predictable. Geralt just had to look at him to guess what he was up to, but he wasn’t sure how to feel about Yennefer of all people figuring him out. They’d barely even talked. They weren’t even allies, just people who sometimes worked together because Geralt forced them too. Maybe he really should reconsider his affairs business if even strangers knew about it.

Jaskier frowned. Or maybe Geralt had blabbed during pillow-talk. Sure, he wasn’t much of a talker, but she was a witch, after all. Maybe she’d gotten it out of him. “Did Geralt tell you?”

Immediately, Yennefer scowled. “No,” she hissed between clenched teeth, looking like a lioness ready to pounce. It reminded Jaskier of the Queen of Calanthe, and he swallowed. “Of course not.”

“Oh.” Jaskier wasn’t sure what to make of that. If Geralt had apologized to him, he must have gone to Yennefer too. He rubbed his neck. “So, uh, he didn’t try to give you an I’m sorry gift?’

Yennefer snorted, a completely un-ladylike and inelegant move. “I wouldn’t let him.”

“Oh.” Well, that explained it. Honestly, he would never understand their relationship, and he really didn’t want to. “He gave me wine.” Jaskier gestured at a box near the foot of the bed. “It’s surprisingly good, considering he picked it.”

“He must have had help.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t understand himself, let alone others.”

Look who’s talking, he almost said, but he’d tested his luck once today. There was no point in trying it a second time. Jaskier had experienced enough curses to last a lifetime. “Probably. Wish I could have seen that conversation. ‘I need an apology gift for abandoning my friend on a mountain’.”

Yennefer replied scornfully, “At least he left you. He tied me to him, the bastard.”

This was the first he’d heard of it. Jaskier bit his lip. Geralt was his friend. Yennefer was a horrid woman. Geralt was his friend. This sounded really interesting. Geralt was his friend. “I don’t—”

At the same time, Yennefer looked out his window and if looks could kill, Geralt would be dead right now. “And that pig of a nobleman might have had a cure for it.”

“How’d you end up in the closet?” Jaskier asked, before he could stop himself. Internally, he sighed. Well, if he was going to do this anyways, he might as well go all the way. “This seems like a long story, want some wine?”

-x-

iii. third bottle

There were many idyllic ways Jaskier liked to while the hours away. Wooing a noble lady, practicing his songs, lazing about in the afternoon sun. Sometimes, as a treat, he liked to do all three at once. If he were entirely honest, almost anything he did was an utter waste of time and that was precisely why he liked doing them. There was no pressure, no demand, just time spent spoiling himself.

Therefore it was entirely unexpected when Geralt joined him on a grassy hill for cloud watching of all things. Sure, he had returned from yet another monster-hunting/city-saving adventure, so he was due for a little rest and relaxation. Yet he had never accepted that as a reason before. Flat on the ground, Jaskier glanced to his right, at the profile of his stoic lover. Quiet, unsmiling, it looked like Geralt.

“What is it?” Geralt asked, still staring up at the clouds. He hadn’t so much as moved and Jaskier wondered if he just had a second sense for observing things.

Well, it sounded like Geralt too. So it had to be him, as odd as it was. “You’re lying here.” Jaskier blurted, not sure what to say, how to say it aside from stating the obvious.

At this, Geralt turned his head and looked at him. “Yeah?”

“You.” Jaskier gestured at Geralt for emphasis. “Are. Relaxing.” This was the exact opposite of what Geralt did. Maybe he was sick. Or maybe he’d gotten cursed again. In Geralt’s line of work, this wasn’t exactly uncommon. A monster, a witch—Jaskier’s eyes widened as he found the perfect suspect. “Was it Yennefer?” He wouldn’t put it past her to pull some petty revenge for an inane argument

“Yenn—” Geralt cut himself off, rolling his eyes before looking up at the sky again. “She didn’t do anything,” he answered gruffly.

“But you know she would,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, a little put out. That answered his other question—Geralt had apologized and Yennefer had forgiven. Great. At least none of Jaskier’s flings had the tendency to put them into life-threatening situations. Maybe he should amend their open relationship to not include dangerous witches.

“I’m just spending time with you,” Geralt added and Jaskier felt the sigh more than heard it. Their arms bumped slightly, sending a tingle up his spine. “I can stop.”

Before Geralt could get up, Jaskier latched onto his hand. “No, it’s fine.” There was no point in ruining a day out over his suspicions; they had few enough of them as it was. Besides, with another day or two of lazing about, he’d be proven right. Curses always took forever to disappear. When Geralt gave him a dry look, he smiled. “Come on, just a little longer.”

“Fine.” Geralt lay back down, though he didn’t pull away. “A little longer.”

His eyes were soft, Jaskier noted silently. So very soft. He wondered sometimes, how long it took for Yennefer to forgive him, how long it took for them to finally talk. If they still looked at each other overwhelmed and as though they didn’t know what to do with their emotions.

If that look had ever changed to the one Geralt had now, domestic and gentle. There was such an easy thing between them now, where Geralt would scoff at Jaskier’s latest messy affair and Jaskier would bemoan his partner’s inability to be romantic. An easy thing that didn’t really need explanation or words, really. Even now, they just lay there, soaking in the sun, enjoying the breeze. Pure boredom at its best. “I wish we could just always do this.”

“Don’t you always do this?” Geralt asked, not a hint of mockery in his voice.

“I’ll have you know I do actual work.” Jaskier paused, before averting his eyes. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Geralt agreed, and this time Jaskier knew he was teasing him.

“A lot of the times,” Jaskier corrected. “As fun as it is getting chased out of every kingdom, I’m getting too old for that.”

Geralt rolled over to his side, his brow furrowed. “You’re getting old?”

That was either a compliment, or Geralt was the densest man alive. Probably the latter. Pointing at a strand of grey hair, he nodded. “Not all of us are immortal.”

“I’m not immortal.” Geralt reached and gently touched the hair. “And that’s only one.”

Jaskier snorted. Why was he stuck with immortal beauties for companions? At least Ciri would understand his plight. “One can lead to more, and I want to have something nicer than a room at an inn when that happens.” Having had enough of the topic, he gestured at the picnic at their feet, utterly forgotten. “Let’s finish that bottle. There’s no point in lazing about if we can’t get drunk while at it.”

-x-

iv. fourth bottle

“You’re going into academia?” Mystified, Yennefer glanced at her goblet, at the ruby red wine inside, and then up at Jaskier. “I’m not that drunk.”

Regrettably, they were sitting in one of Ciri’s rose gardens, and not in Jaskier’s room, so he couldn’t just toss her out. Not that it had stopped him from trying before, but the guards refused to believe that Yennefer’s tongue was a lethal weapon and should be treated as such. It didn’t hurt that Ciri was taken with the older woman and he could only blame her terrible taste on Geralt. Like godfather, like goddaughter, and he worried about Ciri’s future partner.

“What’s so funny about that?” Jaskier asked, and immediately he wanted to take his words back. They gave her too many openings.

“Seriously?” Yennefer asked. When he glared at her, she scornfully laughed. “And I thought it was a prestigious academy.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also a teacher somehow, so I guess anything’s possible,” Jaskier snarked back. Luckily for her, she was seated opposite of him on the round table, or he’d have kicked her shins. Actually, maybe he could still—

“Don’t be like that,” Geralt sighed, dropping a hand on his thigh to stop him. He and Ciri sat opposite one another, and not for the first time, Jaskier suspected this seating was on purpose, to prevent some accidental fight.

“Hey, I wasn’t the one who invited her.” Jaskier pulled his wine bottle closer. Honestly, if he’d known she’d come, he wouldn’t have used one from his secret stash. “Why is she even here?”

“Oh? I thought we were friends,” Yennefer drawled, thatching her fingers and resting her chin on them. There was something utterly evil in her smile. Magic was the only reason no one else had noticed.

“Friends don’t make fun of each other,” Jaskier retorted before gulping down his wine. He was too sober to deal with her.

“Congratulations!” Ciri piped up, smiling at him over her goblet. “I think you will be a great professor.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier beamed back at her, though he couldn’t resist throwing one more barb. “See? This is how friends treat each other.”

Ciri giggled, amused. “You two are friends, though.”

“Loosely,” Yennefer muttered. “Very loosely.”

“Ciri, are you drunk?” Jaskier asked, worried. Actually, now that he thought about it, should she even be here, drinking with them? It wasn’t like he could tell the queen to stop, but still. Someone had to keep an eye out for her, and her other two babysitters were utterly incompetent with children.

“Not in the least.” Ciri smiled sweetly, before swirling her wine. At his disbelieving look, she added, “I have had a glass a night since I was eight.”

“Eight?” Jaskier’s first taste of wine had been at 18. Noble children really were nothing at all like the commonfolk.

“I know my limits.” Ciri took another delicate sip, her expression too dignified to remind him of any of his hometown’s children. “Now, what are you teaching?”

-x-

iv. fifth bottle

Jaskier woke up to a dry mouth and the lingering taste of vomit. There was an uncomfortable turmoil in his belly, one that promised he wouldn’t leave the toilet for hours, and his head pounded like a drum. Lying on his back, he stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling, his right hand curled around a cool, glass bottle. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out that it was one of Geralt’s apology bottles, and that it was utterly empty. Actually around him were several other vintages of alcohol, and he didn’t have to guess to know where they’d gone.

He was never going to drink that much again. And this time, he meant it.

There was something heavy and warm on his waist. Jaskier looked down to find a hairy, muscular arm, and followed it up to find a sound asleep Geralt. Memories of last night, in bits and flashes, returned, and he resisted the urge to groan. No wonder he was so drunk, it was the only way he would have agreed to this. Only way Yennefer would agree to it too. He didn’t have to crane his neck to know that she was already gone. If it weren’t for Geralt’s arm, he’d be gone too.

It had been a mistake. An utter mistake. No matter what had changed in their relationship over the years, he and Yennefer were never going to be more than friendly enemies. Drunken, sloppy kisses weren’t going to change that. Jaskier breathed out his nose, glancing up at Geralt. His expression was entirely unguarded and content. Well, at least one person had enjoyed it.

When Jaskier received a raven a week later, a letter informing him that this would never be repeated, his only regret was that he hadn’t sent it first.

-x-

vi. sixth bottle

It was hard, being a teacher. Harder than any job Jaskier had done before, and he’d fought monsters with the best of them. Well, to be precise, he had watched people fight monsters, but he had been on the front lines for each encounter and that had to count for something.

Still, none of that had prepared him for standing in front of a classroom, day in and day out, and having dozens of students watch him with bored eyes. There were a few eager beavers in his class, but the vast majority came in expecting a bird course. Or were from his fan club, and Jaskier took no small amount of pride that even as his hair greyed, he still had it.

And all of that was easy compared to grading all of his students at the end of their term. His table was swamped with papers, with tests and projects and things he probably shouldn’t be marking but got foisted on him because another teacher had seniority. There was a reason that Jaskier had made his final exam a pure performance one, he hadn’t wanted to deal with any paperwork nonsense after.

Leaning forward, he delicately plucked a paper off the table, grimacing at the tiny cramped writing that filled both sides. It was even worse than he thought. Immediately, he dropped the sheet and headed to his closet, pulling out a small box of wine he stored safely beneath his many clothes.

If he was going to do this, he might as well be comfortable.

-x-

vii. seventh bottle

“Why do you look so good?” Jaskier bemoaned, kicking his legs as he sat on the edge of the rooftop. A small part of him worried that this was dangerous, to be drunk and on a rooftop with no rails. The rest of him realized that while he hated it, Yennefer did have teleportation magic and the worst he’d suffer was nausea. However begrudgingly it was, she’d save him.

Probably.

“Hard work,” Yennefer replied bluntly, sipping her wine as she stared up at the night sky. Even now, there was something elegant about her profile, about the way her hair flowed in the cool breeze.

It only made Jaskier hate her more. “You and Geralt are stupidly good looking. And immortal.” He gulped his wine, ignoring the taste as he chased a blissful buzz. “You know how old that makes me feel?”

“As old as you are?” Yennefer hazard a guess, her tone completely dry and disinterested.

“Exactly!” Jaskier picked up the bottle, refilling his glass once more. He couldn’t remember just when they’d started sitting here on the rooftop, having monthly bitching sessions as they complained about coworkers or students. It seemed being teachers had done what Ciri, Geralt, life-changing experiences, or even time couldn’t: made them actual friends.

He would also never tell her that. Biting his lip, he shoulder bumped her. “You shouldn’t get both. Either be good looking or immortal, but not both.”

“It’d be useless to be immortal if we couldn’t move,” Yennefer pointed out, rolling her eyes. “I’m not living to a thousand and using crutches.”

They had this argument every year and, as far as Jaskier was concerned, they would continue to have it till he died. “You have magic, what do you care if you can’t walk? Another stupidly unfair thing.”

“Fine, it’s unfair. Life’s unfair,” Yennefer sneered, looking down at him. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“I’ll tell Ciri to ban you,” he immediately shot back, not bothering to think about his decision for a moment.

“Oh?” Yennefer grinned and if he were just a little more sober, he’d recognize it for the trap that it was. “Go ahead.” She held out a scroll of paper and a pen. He should have wondered where she’d gotten it.

He was too drunk to care. “Fine, I will.”

Jaskier spent the next three months too embarrassed to visit Ciri.

-x-

viii. eighth to tenth bottles

If there was one thing Jaskier had learned over the years, it was that there was no point in hoarding things. Time passed, people came and went, and it was better to enjoy the moment than to regretfully look back at it.

So he drank when he wanted to, kissed who he wanted to, and loved like there was no tomorrow.

-x-

ix. eleventh bottle

There was nothing Jaskier loved more than to lie by the riverbank, tucked comfortably into Geralt’s side. His head rested on his love’s chest, his breathing soft and slow as they watched the clouds pass. Lying like this, it was easy to forget how his bones creaked and complained when he walked, how his back ached when he stood, and how Geralt’s touch had turned even gentler with the passage of time.

It was easy to forget that Jaskier was old. Not getting old, not turning old, but old. His hair was entirely silver now, his skin wrinkly and paper thin. Geralt’s muscles were just as firm as ever, his body unchanging.

No, not entirely unchanging. Jaskier sighed contentedly, listening to his lover’s heartbeat. All those years ago, it would have been impossible to imagine Geralt like this. It was harder now, to remember those early days, to remember that gruff Geralt. Harder, but not impossible, and perhaps the good thing about having immortal friends was that they never learned to let go of things. If he forgot, Yennefer was certain to remind him.

“Should we go back?” Geralt asked, his voice low and soft.

“Not yet.” Jaskier closed his eyes, content to just laze the day away here. “The bottle’s still full.”

It had been empty hours ago, but Geralt merely tightened his grip and nodded.

-x-

x. twelfth bottle

Geralt wiped the tombstone, his touch reverent as he cleaned Jaskier’s marker. Somehow, it was never as dirty or overgrown as he’d expected it to be. Maybe Ciri still had a guard come out to clean it every now and then. Crouched before it, Geralt ran his fingers along Jaskier’s name, along the numbers and words he had memorized over the year.

He had known before this, just how deep grief could be. How regrets could linger and fester until they haunted every step. What he hadn’t known was that a life lived happily, filled with memories and joy, could leave him feeling full even after loss. That death didn’t have to hurt, though it ached every now and then.

There was a soft pop behind him and he didn’t have to turn to know just who’d arrived. Leaning forward, he kissed Jaskier’s name before standing up. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“We were friends,” Yennefer replied, her expression soft. She’d been wearing it more often these days. “Somehow.”

“Somehow,” Geralt echoed, chuckling. Jaskier had that effect on everyone, worming his way into their hearts until it was hard to imagine lives otherwise.

“And I have the fitting marker for his anniversary.” Yennefer pulled out a bottle.

Geralt’s eyes widened and he snatched the bottle. The label had faded, worn with time, but even still, he recognized the bottle. They’d had too many of them over the years for him to forget. “There was one left?”

“Exactly one.” Yennefer gracefully knelt by Jaskier’s grave and set out three glasses. “I don’t know what he was saving it for, but maybe it was this.”

“I doubt it, he never looked that far ahead.” Still, he sat down beside her.

Taking back the bottle, she hummed her agreement. “You’re right, he was never one for thinking.” She uncorked the bottle, and carefully filled the three goblets.

“He thought sometimes,” Geralt half-heartedly defended Jaskier, unable to refute it entirely.

“Sometimes,” Yennefer agreed once more, picking up her glass. For once, she wasn’t in the mood to argue. She sniffed the wine and smiled. “Hmm, smells good. I suppose some things do get better with time.”

Geralt chuckled. “You should have told him that.”

“And let his head get any bigger?” Yennefer snorted inelegantly, before holding up her glass. “To Jaskier.”

“To Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, clinking their glasses together.

[ashrynex]

Reflection

* pictures taken during final exhibition

A few personal objectives that I had hoped to achieve this semester were

1) to properly use the adobe creative cloud (illustrator, photoshop & indesign) as I had barely any experience prior to attending class here at RMIT. My goal next semester would be to further experiment with different functions, and options available within the application.

2) to understand what "communication design" really is. I've read the course outline upon choosing it as my degree of choice, but didn't fully understand the whole concept. As of now, I still have more to learn, and progress but certain aspects of Comm Design has been engraved into my brain.

during the course, i've discovered several historical art & design movements which included the medieval-type, early-print, conceptualism, bauhaus, modernism & my favourite, pop-art. I personally feel that the addition of popular and mass culture into art serves beautifully in our current era. the skills in which I've learnt are type-making, prototyping, collaging, planning, group-work, layout, zine-making & researching. To add on, i've also discovered the concepts of critical thinking, design ethics, grids and page-space, material literacy & many more.

a creative that inspired me during the course would be "Marianne Brandt" as she possessed unique talent, eventually becoming a director of the bauhaus metal workshop in 1928. As of now, her designs of lamps, ashtrays & teapots are considered timeless examples of modern industrial design.

the pop-art movement challenged the traditions of fine art by including imagery of popular & mass culture. this movement stood out to me as a few things that arose from it impacted my life as a teenager- comic books being one, while advertising another. the idea of incorporating something new & challenging a norm inspired me to think out of the box.

I honestly didn't think there would be so much hands-on work as I pictured the course to be more digital based. it made me realise that design isn't only focused on a computer but should also be experimented physically. furthermore, I would love to experiment on visually communicating through a design (advertising, possibly?)

[georgiamrobertscop3-blog]

Conclusion

My initial concept changed from wanting to explore how gender neutral photography had the capacity to change people’s opinions on non binary identity, to assessing how gender neutral photography influences social perceptions on non binary identity. The intent of the project became more considered and developed due to the difficulty in assessing how gender neutral can change opinions, and alternatively to how on the whole gender neutral photography can influence social perceptions, as researched within the dissertation aspect. 

The initial inspiration came from attending two exhibitions, Made You Look: Dandyism and Black Masculinity and the Essence of Gender exhibition. These two experiences allowed me to find practitioners who are pushing the gender boundaries through their creative practice, and therefore influenced the techniques used within my work e.g. documentary style, angular photography including neon lighting to portray pride of self. David Bowie, a gender fluid icon, provided me with the historical element to my initial research as he represented a new type of individual, in the same way that Michael is pushing the gender boundaries. Gender neutral is becoming more and more evident within the fashion industry, from gender neutral collections to campaigns by brands such as Diesel. This was an aspect explored within my dissertation with quotes such as, “in the past couple of years, the lives and experiences of non-binary individuals have become increasingly visible across facets of media and community. While individuals have always chosen to be referred to as they, rather than associating themselves with a gender through the use of he or she, this year the choice has sparked global debate” (Syfret, 2016). 

Producing my own gender neutral photography presented its challenges as it was determined that gender neutrality does not yet have a set aesthetic, as discovered from my varied focus group results. Therefore I attempted to create a gender neutral aesthetic through an authentic muse who represents these contemporary, fluid views on gender. By focusing on Michael’s styling and the composition of the photograph, I was able to control the aesthetic of the final series of images without producing a controlled, contrived aesthetic. Previous to this, I adopted the techniques of Hassan Hajjaj of whom I did a case study. It was deemed that I was being too literal in my approach of photography as I was merely adopting Hajjaj’s style, instead of including my own personal creative aesthetic in order to create an innovative result. Therefore I considered my own creative aesthetic, combined with various creative influences. 

The initial 6 muses provided me with an insight into contemporary views on gender. It was interesting to photograph people with varied opinions on gender and identity, however all muses considered that the future looked more non binary that it ever has previously. These are all positive connotations of the non binary identity, proving that perceptions on identity are changing positively and it is slowly becoming the norm. From here I determined that Michael Savage would become my final authentic muse as he is the only person who recognised himself as fluid instead of determined by his sex. He showed me his free approach towards his identity and styling, and this was made more visible through his possessions within his favourite location, his bedroom. This authentic approach to my photography was influenced by Kristin-Lee Moolman.

In order to adopt a more creative and innovative approach, I looked at photography from books including ‘No Fashion Please!’ and discovered fluid expression of gender in photographs by Erwin Olaf and Vivienne Westwood which displayed a more shocking approach to styling by featuring men in women’s clothing. I adopted this to Michael’s styling and asked him to wear his more eccentric pieces, without having to provide any clothes myself as I still wanted to create an authentic image. The final photoshoot intention was to display Michael’s contemporary views on gender representation through his styling and location, in order to influence views on non binary identity. 

In developing ideas through the shoots I determined that locations that weren’t Michael’s bedroom were unsuccessful in portraying Michael’s interests, views and opinions on identity. However I could have developed other locations more in order to make a more informed decision. I could have undertaken actual shoots within Michael’s favourite locations such as various cafes in Leeds, to assess the aesthetic. Although I am happy with the location within the final images as they are authentic of Michael’s aesthetic, I could have used props and styling to portray Michael within other locations. I did not want the composition of the photograph to look to contrived though, which may have been the evaluation of other locations. In addition, it may have been good development to consider the use of the neon light in various other spaces to consider its aesthetic. 

In order to provide primary research for both my practical and dissertation work, I asked Romily Alice and Megan Helyer questions regarding their practice. In addition, I interviewed Michael Savage twice to show consideration of his views. In addition this provided me with confirmation of Michael’s contemporary views on gender representation, which was included in the layout of my final consolidated zine. The zine is a good representation of the ideas produced throughout this project, assessing whether the photography can influence people’s social perceptions on non binary identity. This is a factor I considered within my dissertation with the quote, “the fashion magazine and fashion photograph tend to be regarded by many historians and critics as ephemeral and exiguous forms of cultural production”, (Jobling, 1999, p. 1). Therefore by including my photographs in combination with tactile elements explored throughout the project such as Michael’s photographs, I am able to create a zine to portray current views on gender representation and therefore current societal and cultural breakthroughs. This contributes towards the normalisation of topics such as non binary identity which changes perceptions on it. 

Was my intention met? By contributing to the already visible collections of gender fluid or gender neutral photography, I am adding to the normalisation of non binary gender. This in turn, changes observers perceptions as it is no longer a shocking concept to them. However, as explained earlier, gender neutral does not yet have a set aesthetic that can be determined by everyone. Therefore my photography can be taken in any way, as proved within the varied answered to masculine and feminine posing within the focus group. Therefore, by portraying an authentic view on gender representation through Michael, and providing his interview within the zine, the combination of photographs and words will more likely provide the observer with the gender neutral aesthetic. However, although gender neutral does not yet have a set aesthetic, it is evident that the future is becoming more fluid.

- Georgia Roberts.