#I unfortunately already have Reed and am attached to her

[greenscreenbutblue]

just noticed during my RS-6 auto that Vendela's roses light up when she attacks. Haven't read E13 so idk if it's plot relevant but it's a cool little detail and would make me wanna use her more.

[stevetonygames]

Spotlight Post: Canon Soulmate Bonds

Yooo, this is a blog takeover, Mizzy here, ready to champion one of my favourite fictional causes: canonical soulbonds in the Marvel universe.

We all love a good soulbond fic. Words on your body, names on your wrist, red string of fate...so many glorious versions, and all of them *completely awesome*. The problem sometimes with starting a soulbond fic, though, can be all the worldbuilding required to make it work. But what if I was to tell you that no worldbuilding was necessary? That you could technically write a soulbond fic without having to set it in an Alternate Universe? What if you could set your soulbond fic *directly in main canon?*

Marvel 616 delivers you a canonical soulbond mechanic… not once… but at least *twice*. There could be more. There’s a lot of comics to go through and I’m only smol. But here’s the two I know about and I’m here to introduce you to today. :)

The was a ripple of mild confusion around fandom when Kevin Feige announced that the Eternals were getting a title movie in the next phase of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Created by Jack Kirby in the 1970s, in a wild combination of mythological fascination and spite at DC comics for not letting him finish his New Gods saga, the Eternals were an offshoot of humanity, created by the Celestials for humanity’s protection; this reason for their existence would lead them into their ongoing conflict against the deadly Deviants. There have been a few Eternals runs (notably one run by Neil Gaiman, which did not serve to bring the Eternals the commercial success Marvel was searching for with the title, that nevertheless remains the most fun and accessible Eternals volume), but they’ve not yet really reached wide-reaching traction among even the most die-hard comic fans. The MCU might change that, and here’s hoping, because I love these nearly-immortal idiots, and I’m hoping not to be alone in that for much longer. :D

But even my Eternals-happy soul has to admit, Eternals canon for the most part is dense and can be convoluted, and the spellings—both of their character names and one of the main fun parts of their existence, the Mahd W’yry—are enough to give one a headache. The idea of the Eternals is that they’re long-lived and have interacted with human history over the years in various impactful ways. You might think at first glance that you’ve never heard of the Eternals Sersi, Ikaris, Makkari, but I think you wouldn’t find Circe, Icarus, or Mercury unfamiliar names.

The Mahd W’yry is a symptom of the Eternals being so long-living. In order to stop them going insane, the Eternals have to bond into something known as the Uni-Mind, which basically squishes all their consciousnesses together into one, where they can share memories and blend temporarily into one mind. Regularly bonding into the Uni-Mind allows them to stave off the Mahd W’yry. (Yep, that’s just a headache-inducing spelling of ‘mad worry’, we know.)

Anyway, did you need to know all this? Eh, maybe, a little bit of canned backstory is always handy for you to briefly glance over and promptly forget. Because along with some dense mythological adventures, some glorious angsting across beautiful landscapes, and that ability to turn into a big massive floating brain, the Eternals also gave us a beautiful gift:

The Gann Josin.

In Avengers #361, Ikaris comes down to Earth and decides that Sersi needs to be bonded to Dane Whitman, an Avenger who canonically didn’t have any powers, he was just a *really good guy*, destined for tragedy. Honestly. That’s his bio. Really good guy. Destined for tragedy. The character creation in the 90s was peak talent. Dane, sadly, was in love with another woman, but did this matter to Ikaris? No. Apparently the Eternals don’t know about the dangers of letting himbos like Ikaris have life-changing powers, like the ability to create the Uni-Mind. 

Because the power to control the Uni-Mind also gives an Eternal the power to form a Gann Josin bond. And that’s what Ikaris does in Avengers #361—he forces a Gann Josin bond on Eternal Sersi and tragic human Avenger Dane Whitman.

Gann Josin (sometimes Gan-Josin because what is spelling continuity in Marvel comics) is both the name of the bond, and the title given to an Eternal and their chosen life-mate. It has a bunch of cool side effects. Both Gann Josins get glowing full-red eyes. It’s a really intimate tiny form of the Uni-Mind (without the part where you become a big floating brain), and creates a small scale mental union. The Gann Josin bond makes the Eternal and their partner lifelong soulmates. As the bond progresses, it creates a telepathic/empathic bond that strengthens in time. According to the Eternal Sprite, humans are rarely chosen by Eternals for the Gann Josin.

Now, Dane Whitman does manage to break the Gann Josin several issues later. But… it’s not easy. It’s rare. When Dane manages it, it is called an “astounding act.” It’s pretty dang hard, in other words. There’s every chance your chosen Gann Josins won’t have the mental fortitude of Dane Whitman to break it. (Although, we’re talking about Steve and Tony, and are there any bigger stubborn idiots in the universe? Probably not.)

But Mizzy, I hear you saying. I don’t want to write about Ikaris, even if he is a party king and that sounds pretty nifty. I don’t know anything about the Eternals and I don’t want to go down that gnarly rabbit hole.

That’s totes fine, my friend. I am here to save you. Because in very recent canon, during Jason Aaron’s turn at the helm, the Eternals are all dead. Very dead. That whole Mahd W’yry thing got ‘em, it got ‘em good. But before Ikaris died, he granted his Uni-Mind power to someone we all know and love.

Yep. Tony Stark. Tony Stark currently has the power of the Uni-Mind.

Which means that Tony Stark can now Gann Josin people.

In Avengers #361, Ikaris performs the Gann Josin by basically just pointing his hands at Sersi and Dane and some light goes WHEEEEEEE!! in their direction, and bam, this rare and special bond is done. And Tony Stark can do that now. To anyone! Unfortunately Ikaris is dead and didn’t leave Tony with an instruction manual. But the point is, he *can*. You can make up all sorts of fun things with this canonical fact (or write your own version because lbr Canon Is Dead; Long Live Canon.)

There are so many possibilities. Does Tony deliberately learn how to use it so he can bond himself to Steve? Does Tony *need* to be able to hear Steve’s thoughts (to thwart some bad guys) and thus end up soulbonded forever to Steve in result? Is Tony’s power activating at random because he can’t control it, and he ends up soulbonding everyone around him? Does he just subconsciously bond himself to Steve without consciously meaning to? Do Tony or Steve want to try it for science?

Gosh, I love comics.

But WAIT. There’s MORE.

It’s not just 1990s comics going ham on the soulbond idea. No, we got some *this year*. Canonical soulbonding? TWICE? In one universe? Two different kinds??

And this time, it’s not in a D-list Marvel title. We’re up the ranks to the big leagues this time, folx, with a brief trek to the world of the Fantastic Four.

In Fantastic Four (Vol. 6) #15, we’re introduced to a Spyre citizen called Sky, a winged team member of the Unparalleled (more cosmic-powered superheroes), who work under The Overseer. (The Overseer, in a burst of beautiful retcon in the way Marvel comics keeps doing to us, is apparently the entity who is responsible for giving the F4 their powers. Huh. The more you know.)

On the planet Spyre, all children are brought before something called The Great Eye. This measures them against the radiation signature of everyone on the planet, divining who their perfect match is. 

Sky looked into The Great Eye, only to find out her match was Johnny Storm, who was 44 light-years away at the time. Long-distance relationships can be tough. Anyway, plot happens, the F4 get stuck on Spyre, get told they can’t leave, and Sky tells Johnny Storm that she is his soulmate. Oh, and she attached a soul binding onto him while he slept. Neat, huh, all the bodily autonomy people get in this universe before being force soulbond to people? So neat, much consent, wow.

Johnny feels a connection to Sky, which is supposed to let us know this lack of choice is a good thing I guess. The Overseer wants Sky to renounce Johnny and crush the F4 which obv doesn’t happen, so of course she leaves The Unparalleled and skips off to Earth to be with Johnny. 

Who knows how this relationship is gonna last. I mean, you can look at the rest of Johnny’s relationship history and have a good guess. Who knows. Anyway, Reed and Sue are each other's soulmate, and also share a “Soul Binding”, so there’s some canonical proof right there that maybe this system has some validity going for it.

The soulbond for this form takes the form of a golden bracelet worn on the upper arm, that Sky explains her people call a “Soul Binding”; it represents them as being soul-mates. This bracelet can only be removed by your soulmate. This soulbond doesn’t seem to come with any extra powers, it’s just to show that The Great Eye has measured their radiation signature and declared them a match that is supposed to mean they’re perfectly compatible in every way: spiritually, mentally, and physically.

I don’t know about you, but I have a pretty good feeling that Steve and Tony might just have matching radiation signatures… Or what if Steve and Tony have perfect matching signatures….with other people? (Someone else on Spyre believes Sky is *their* perfect match, after all!) What if Steve has feelings for Iron Man, but he’s a perfect match with Tony Stark? I feel faint already just thinking about it.

So here you go. Two canonical types of soulbonds for your fannish consideration. Feel free to ask me questions! You can find me on tumblr (@mizzy2k) or on discord (addy#0908).

[intensitystoner]

Adjective challenge 7 – Noisy Sifki mush ~ 2,000 words

“Thor,” muttered the sorcerer under the book atop his face.

The one addressed couldn’t hear from the wall between them, and from the blood drumming in his head; from the ruckus he and his generously paid bedding company were making.

“Thor, be quieter,” Loki tried again dryly. He was a hair away from actually rising up and breaking the pair apart; the only thing that held him back was that he’d have his drunk brother’s attention on himself afterwards, and he had better things to do than babysit him all night. Thor was the tireless kind of drunk, he only passed out with the first rays of the sun, if ever.

Loki shuddered at the thought of having to listen to this hours long. He deemed it better to spend the time somewhere a little more tranquil, if there was no comfort in his bed anyway; and with that thought, he pulled his soft leather tunic over the shirt and headed out. There was a lake near the inn they were forced to draw back in for the night.

The silence buzzed along with the critters’ ruckus inside his head, and it already started calming his irate pulse as he lazily trod across the grass to the clearing among the reeds. He only stopped when the front of his boots almost touched the water. He breathed the calmness down, deep and long.

He swirled around abruptly as he sensed company: his eyes strained to take in the sitting figure no more than two feet away in the shade of the tall plants.

“Yes,” Sif mumbled. “It’s quite a concert in there.”

While her presence sent a familiar flutter of warmth into his stomach, he afforded a faint smirk in the dark at the entertainment offering itself.

“Nothing surprising, unfortunately,” he attempted mild humour to tap out the depth she had sunk in.

He’d suspected for a while that the maiden was not indifferent towards him, which lifted his spirits significantly when brooding over it; but her displayed attitude was no different from everyone else’s, and it should have repelled him. If he’d been like everyone else. But he was Loki, and it was exactly secrets like that he collected for later usage. What kind of usage, it depended on the situation.

“It saddens you,” he pointed out softly, earning an irate huff as an answer.

“Norns, not you. Please.”

“Am I ever wrong at guessing thoughts?"

"You are today," she told him in a tone forcibly light. "And that does sadden me a little. If you don't see through this farce, then how could anyone else?"

Loki’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

"A mystery, then, which I hope you'll reveal to me. Perhaps I can then help people see the truth."

In response, she pulled the hood of the cloak over her head and then down into her face. Her hands fell into her lap as an angry weight. Her voice came somewhat muffled from the makeshift textile fort.

“I just let them hint at our promising future at the feast, in front of everyone.”

“I know, I was there,” Loki acknowledged the feeling with a soft sigh and settled down next to her on the dried reed stalks. He saw her much more clearly from here, now that they were in the same shadow.

“You also know it’s always been just a dumb gossip with too much attention.”

“People love discussing things they have no business in.”

“But I allowed it for open discussion tonight. I’m failing to keep it out of my life. I let it happen today out of sheer laziness. I’ve been tired of labouring to destroy these tales about us.”

Yes. Tales, with no more than a snippet of truth in each. Many of them started off by the God of Mischief, for various purposes from a beneficial exchange to simple entertainment. Thor had never cared what people said about him. Even today when all those tales, and more, were hinted at, he laughed along. Alcohol was already shining in his eyes by then. His interest in it was as meagre as his general sense for consequences.

“No matter,” Loki said. “You’re strong and valorous. Such tales won’t hold up long amidst all the heroic deeds you have and will perform.”

“Right," she answered, but it didn’t sound convincing.

Sif, beautiful Sif was careful about her reputation, she nourished and polished it with great care, which was no wonder: as a woman, it cost her blood and sweat to prove worthy of her position. And her tooth-gritting hold onto these proofs showed how fragile she was in truth. Not in her body, and not in her eyes. She was not brought down in everyday senses. She was the Warmaiden. She was power itself.

This power was now weeping silently in the shade of the hood. Loki didn’t know if she mourned her dignity or something she wouldn’t admit to him, but his hand travelled to the back of her neck, then in slow circles across her back as she bent her head deeper.

“I’m well enough to do without your pampering,” she noted, her voice now thin and soaked.

“I’m Loki, I do what I want.” It came out weaker than intended.

"That's it. Everything serves your purpose, which I don’t see now."

"I do hate seeing you disrespected like this, Lady Sif."

Her breaths quieted down, although her arms were still a tight barrier around her, before she timidly spoke again.

“You haven’t stopped supporting my ambitions up to this day. Don’t think I don’t notice your helpful doings in the background. Yet you keep distant like with everyone else.”

He smirked lightly at the note; the hand disappeared from her back.

“People are aloof towards me, although rightfully. In most cases, it’s them that keep a circle around me.”

“You do get prickly when someone strays too close.”

There was a forced smile in her voice. He could tell that his closeness daunted her. It daunted most people by now, true enough; it was the reason why he kept distant. He didn’t feel like there was a chance anyone would trust in him after all his pranks.

“You’ll never need to be so cautious with me,” he admitted quietly.

He let the wanton promise roll of his tongue, as he did when he sensed his words attempting to lead somewhere. His hand reached across her back meanwhile to hold her arm and move her out of the hunched position. Trusting the natural flow of a conversation, letting control slip away at the right time was one of the tactics that often led him to a favourable point; partly because it was an unexpected move and caught the defender off-guard.

His breath quietly faltered for a moment when the maiden’s other hand slid onto his.

“I would send it back at you,” she said.

He obeyed and stayed like that, then, with her cloaked shoulder leaning to his chest softly, although a hint of worry stirred in him that she might feel the flutter of his heart.

“Just for tonight,” he whispered an idea, “you could be my lady. That way, our resident oaf can’t abandon you.”

Her bent head indicated her look to be in her lap, her voice matching his.

“It is tricky indeed, and revolting like yourself. It’s unwise to answer with a heart as turmoiled as mine.”

“I ask nothing improper of you. I don’t invite your presence into my life, or your bed into my room. It’s merely an offer to better your mood for the moment, right at this place.”

A lukewarm smile hummed in her soft acknowledgement.

“How do you imagine that to happen?”

He imagined it precisely like this. Away from everyone. Away from everything. Plotting together against the world, weaving secrets of the two of them.

Wordlessly, his free hand lifted her fingers to his lips. He lingered over each of her nails, which smelled of the grass under them. Her slow breaths grazed his wrist meanwhile.

Her fingertips strayed onto his chin, a thumb over the corner of his faint smile. A nail outlined his bottom lip.

“This is a night of torment either way,” she breathed faintly.

“It’s far from my intention to increase your sufferings,” he muttered.

“A doubtful statement from the God of Mischief.”

“Your well-being is on my heart,” Loki asserted her.

“Doubtful,” she repeated.

As she bent her head and rested it in the crook of his neck, he was not entirely sure it was real; could have been a mawkish dream cast on himself by a spell against Thor’s rowdy merriment. Nevertheless, he was gallant enough to inquire:

“Would you like me to leave, then?”

Two fingers’ hold tightened slightly over a fold of his tunic.

“If you see fit,” she answered in the most level tone she could muster.

Not like Loki would ever not get what he wanted.

“It goes for any later moment. You need but to ask.” Those few words pushed the blame on her with ease, and she wouldn’t even notice.

She knelt up then, to his elevating excitement, but instead of straddling him with her sweet, sweet curves, she held the neck of his shirt in two fists between them, preventing anything but their breaths to contact.

“Would you have me? For real? Right here?” she inquired.

Oh, oh, he knew the answer to that one. He even knew what she wanted to hear (what was right).

“Tomorrow,” he blurted out, quite the opposite of the truth welling up in him; “I’d rather have you tomorrow when your mind gleams as clearly as your heart does now.”

“Does your silver tongue never abandon you?” she breathed over his lips, her whisper thick.

“It is attached to me,” he gloated: a suggestive note despite his previous statement.

“What it says bears responsibility, however.”

“The responsibility is yours, I am in no way worthy of guarding you.”

It was a half-hearted warning that reached her mind faintly through the haze, and she almost let it pass. Almost. She spoke unthinking as she reached after the slippery thought.

“I shall collect myself, then.”

“A token,” Loki said as a reluctant distance grew between them. “Proof that you will think again tomorrow, and give me a chance to draw out your answer.”

She rolled her eyes in defeat, and she leaned in to reach those smirking lips.

“A lock, for instance,” they formed before the contact would have been established, their smirk rather victorious; “that of your hair, would do.”

A frozen moment later, she drew back into her own space, firmly refusing to let embarrassment get to her. In silence, she removed the hood and offered access to the requested item. The trickster took it with a knife, his smile rather chaste, his silence bearing a hint of surprise over her compliance.

“It would look better if it was golden,” Sif mumbled to break the quiet.

“What would I need my brother’s hair for?” Loki inquired, suddenly in a cool tone, while sinking the lock into a freshly produced pouch and then making it disappear the way it came: an unnoticed flick of a wrist, and it was gone.

Sif stared at its empty space with growing worry.

“What about mine? What would you need that for?”

“Blackmailing you into an answer,” he said simply.

Figures.

“It’ll be hard to say yes when your guard is up again,” Sif noted.

“Oh, beautiful Sif, there is no guard,” he laughed quietly up at her. “It is all the people, not me, don’t you see it? I rush into my demise rather unguarded all the time.”

“We’ll see,” she answered as farewell while getting to her feet.

However, Loki moved together with her, standing up and getting a hold of her wrist lightly to stop the movement.

“And now for the promise of tonight.”

“You said you’ll let me go when I say so,” she claimed, though she didn’t try backing out of the hold.

“And so I will,” he answered while his hand slid into hers, pulling her along.

A single step, and they were walking on the lake’s unbroken surface: a mirror to the star-spotted darkness around them. She’d been given no time to protest, and fright rippled through her body in a late wave.

“I’m guessing I’d be deep in trouble if I asked you to release me right now,” she noted.

Feeling his gaze on her jawline, she knew his impish smirk without looking, while she took in the surroundings. No doubt it was a breath-taking sight, and she was nothing near wanting to turn back for now. As an unwilling smile spread on her lips, the wind reached them in their even walk, rippled the water, tugged at their hair, cooled down their faces. Only her hand remained warm in his.

Faint lights loomed up inside the water, but she couldn’t tell through the waves if they were stationary or chasing each other around.

Loki’s voice interrupted her musing.

“Which one would interest you more? Meeting the creatures living under or over the water?” he inquired, drawing her surprised look to himself.

“I prefer staying where air can reach my lungs, at any rate,” she decided.

He acknowledged the rightful desire with a nod. The lights illuminated their features while flying in and out of the water like the barrier never existed. The pair strolled on in the vast sea of stars hand in hand, and only Loki knew that they wouldn’t make it back by morning.

[alternativewinxcontinuity]

Don't mind me, just losing my mental sh*t

Has anyone else ever noticed it always seems to be the people who’ve never written/posted anything that leave the most unnecessary (and often meanest) comments?

Or the people who themselves write like they haven’t hit puberty yet but feel like they can comment like a professional editor by giving advice that is exactly the opposite of what they were just saying needs to be fixed?!

Not Winx Related, I just really needed to vent. I got a shit review on a non-Winx Story and as I bitch a little about that I'm finally taking the time to address a review I got on my GOT fic, which turned nasty that I want to pick apart, but not to his face because he is not the kind of reviewer who should be interacted with, so I'mma dump it here. (Rant un-beta'd.)

Like? You really want to leave a comment on chapter 2 of a part 30 chapter fic that you haven’t read saying shit like:

“I don’t see the point its basically a rewrite”

When, had you read even one chapter on, you would have begun to see the divergence that is about to slowly snowball out of control while the universe does its best to stay on track. (yes the 'its' typo is review accurate.)

Like buddy, I get it, you've never written anything in your life and you think this is okay to say to someone because, and this may surprise you: you're an asshole.

"The point" was that it was a fun idea, "the point" was that I was enjoying the crossover and figuring out how everything could go wrong by replacing a single major part, "the point" was many, many other people found it hilarious and so did I. Not "the point" but it was also a version of Harry Potter not written by a fcking TERF.

Or:

'This Character is just really out of character, you're doing a bad job of writing him.'

Okay *goes to check their fics to see how they wrote him to see if she can figure out where reviewer is coming from. they have no fics in the fandom.* 'hey reviewer, you say he's out of character, how would you go about fix him so he's more in character?'

'Oh well, he's just not very *season 1 characterisation despite the fact he's explicitly stated to be season 3 end of his character growth story arc*, you should have him do *a thing that is something he would never have done even in season 1*'

-

Or shit like (and this is a long one from 'Richard' who hid behind the Anon function):

"This is a great fic. It's surprisingly difficult for me to optimize the protagonist. So first,"

Like? excuse you? why would you need to optimize my character?

"I really hope Sansa chooses to mine the metric tonnes of valuable honey and wax from that beehive once she gets her inventory."

So I hate to admit that the honey and wax would be a good idea, and she will be getting a boon of that, but it will be because she'll be getting Bee Hives later, not because she'll think to strip mine a people in dire straights.

"Also, she has valyrian steel claws, which she now knows can dig into the rock very easily. Those crumbling ledges? She can dig new ones, she can dig a staircase. She can widen the entrance so that her soldiers come in to help mine the liquid gold. Especially since she appreciates the difference between currency and goods. Of course, maybe she'll establish diplomatic relations instead."

So I am going to look so fcking petty when I finally get the next chapter out, because I actually addressed this idea with reality. Trust me, I did some research, and while there's almost nothing easily found on how long it would take to do this sort of work by hand, what I found supported the idea that it's stupid. It takes (and I shit you not) literal days with a team of men using hand tools to carve through even a few metres of rock (the exact time depends on how hard the rock is and how large they make the opening/area).

Sansa would be literally clawing at the walls with her nails which, while yes they are Valyrian steel, are still attached to very human fingers and arms. and here's where my first hand knowledge kicks back in: I went on a mock archaeological dig when I was in high school, I spent several hours scrapping layers of compact sand to uncover artefacts, resistance levels aside, the repeated action is hell on your muscles, Sansa would spend as much time recovering as she would digging. to get all the way to the entrance would take her literal years with Richard's suggested method.

PLUS: the point of the adventures is for SANSA (and Arya) to have the spot light, to be forced to think and find ways to use the new Abilities they've been given, or to come up with new ones. It's part of my whole "Power is Earned, or it is Corrupted" mentality, if you don't work for it, you will sooner rather than later abuse it.

AND: of course she's going to use diplomatic solutions, she's Sansa, and that's what the clue of foreshadowing was saying! Literally everything you need to know to solve the Dungeons is in their individual clues!!!

"Secondly, medieval people already had long-lasting torches which burned for hours and hours instead of 5-10 minutes. Each torch looked like a pillar or stupidly elongated torch that was carried with the tip lit and burning down like a candle. They also didn't use candles as those were too expensive. They used rushes soaked in fat which could be made by the dozens to hundreds with a few hours' work. There's a youtube video on this subject entitled medieval misconceptions: torches and candles."

Oh. My. God. Such. Valuable. Information. If . Only. I had. Known. This. When. I wrote. about. reed candles. in this. very fic.

Literally of the four times I used the word candle, twice it was explicitly 'reed candles' (and guess what other name rushes go by?) and once it was a metaphor specifically about the smoke and not the candle.

As for the pillar candles, the ones that burn for hours are too heavy for someone of Sansa's size and arm strength and the hour candles, (if you've ever seen Avatar Last Airbender, the candles they used in the Secret Tunnel) are unwieldy and aren't so good for putting down in a way that doesn't risk them going out. (Putting them far enough into a wall sconce that it won't topple back out makes it very tricky to remove it.)

Which, why even bother with torches that are more effort to obtain when Sansa's powers make the 'advantage' obsolete anyway!? Not to mention: Displayed Content! If a show uses something even in the background, it exists in that world. Wax candles aren't that rare. (Also side note, because I do my fcking research: the majority of hives which supply the honey and wax to Westeros are owned by the Maesters of old town.)

"I don't really care about those things though. The latter is a mistake literally everyone makes and I didn't know was a mistake until a month ago. Which goes into my third point, how Sansa could optimize things."

Then why bring it up, especially since I didn't technically make said mistake??

"At this point she knows she needs people and she's already given her powers to someone trustworthy. She also knows that healing is a power she can give. And she knows they're going to need this at least as much as medics. And there are indeed people she trusts whom she hasn't approached with an offer of power. Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, Lyra Mormont of Bear Island, and Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion Lannister can wait but not forever. Lyra should be approached as soon as possible."

NO. Arya was the exception, not the rule, Sansa isn't going to just go off and give her god-blessed powers to anyone else. I was hesitant to give it to Arya as it was, and only let myself because I could use the 'Arya's God is Death, there's more stakes than you thought' to fully justify it.

Tyrion as he is can't be trusted, and future Tyrion chose Dany over Sansa, neither Sansa nor Arya know how his story ended, so as far as they are concerned he's a good ally, but not actually trust worthy enough for this.

For those of you confused, Lyra Mormont is one of the daughters of the Lady Maege Mormont, and one of Lyanna's sisters. Lyra got maybe two mentions in the books and nothing in the tv series so I can only assume Richard meant Lyanna, who is currently 2 years old! But we'll come back to this, because Richard sure did!!!

As for the medic thing, I really hope Richard meant he was fcking off for good in his final word, because if he comes back, I really don't want him to think he's responsible for the medic corps that I've been planning and attempting to foreshadow with Sansa approaching Luwin, and Beth and Jeyne following Sansa's lead with archery.

Like, oh hey, guess which unfortunate field medic bride of a Stark might find her way to Winterfell if she hears about young women being trained in some basic healing to help Maester Luwin deal with any cases of over flow of patients. That's right, I'm planning for triage nurses! No magical powers required. 

"I assume she's going to get glass from Lys through the Tapestry of Doors. For that she's going to need tokens. She's going to need tokens for everything, and she already knows it. So collecting and hoarding tokens should be a big priority for her. And that means going places where there are tokens to be got. Places she hasn't gone to yet, like The Wall and Bear Island. Just to get tokens."

No. Again, just NO! Sansa already stated that Tokens and relying on them were a thing that would come back to bite her, she'll horde them as she finds them, but she's not going out of her way to find them because she has things to do! Also: the Tapestry of Doors was a piece of Flavour text for way late in the fic if it ever came back, and like a Stargate, requires one at each end, so someone would have to travel to Lys anyway, which is dumb when Sansa now has a Loom which can copy any 'raw' material, and the ability to convert that 'raw' material' into any object she has the blueprint for, which she can get by 'scanning' with her console.

She just has to put 2 and 2 together!!

"She also knows there are dungeons in each place, and that she needs to get to them. And that it's better if she gets in with people. Like people Lyra trusts to whatever dungeon is in Bear Island."

The thing about the Dungeons is that the whole thing is for Sansa, some of them will have special requirements, but very few of them are crucial, they're just there so Sansa has a place and a trial to obtain Unique Items of game breaking power or ability.

"The last way to optimise her powers is one I don't think she'll take even though it has a lot of benefits. Going with a squad of soldiers into the Dreadfort's dungeon in order to confront the walking dead, with hit and run tactics slowly draining the population there. The main benefit and reason to do this is to harden and blood the soldiers to prepare them for the Long Night, so she should have the soldiers on rotation in order to expose as many as possible to the horrors to come."

Problem is the undead in the Dreadfort Dungeon aren't the same as the Wights and White Walkers, they can just be killed in the same ways. The idea of these kinds of fics is that by the time the Long Night Comes, Sansa and Arya can do most if the heavy lifting. You are right that Sansa wouldn't risk her people for some EXP though.

Sansa will be going back though, there's a pair of Shears and Needle in there.

"Also, the loot should be great. Perhaps another loom. But I would do it even for more bobbins. Or nothing at all."

Literally the Loom is a one off item. It is super powerful with what it can do in the context, so having more than one would ruin the power balance I've been trying to keep between Power Fantasy and OP Bullshit.

-

Someone of course pointed out that (Richard said Lyra, but responder said Lynna) Lyanna was currently literally 2 or 3 years old, she can't do shit. (they also brought up that 2 (actually 3) characters had already declined the super powers, because it included bad timeline memory downloads.) Guess how Richard took that?!

If you guessed "not well" you get a cookie!

Seriously, I was kind of annoyed at his review because^^^ reasons he was wrong about stuff, but also the arrogance of 'telling me how to optimize my character' was just, icky, so I was just going to ignore him.

But then he went (in response to the other reviewer):

"(snort) I think you need to recall what Lyanna Mormont is like at 10 years of age. She is a force and she is in charge. And what exactly is your objection, that Sansa needs consent or is preserving innocence?"

No moron, the objection is that she's literally 2 or 3 years old, what the fck is she going to do in her tiny little body? But yes, now that you mention it, Sansa (was assaulted and lost her bodily autonomy, she) would place a huge amount of importance on consent, it's one of the reasons she was so upset by Arya taking advantage of her sleepy state to get her to agree.

"Lyanna Mormont wouldn't care. Jon and Robb care, that's why their sister cares. Lyanna would never thank Sansa for trying to preserve her innocence, keep her ignorant, or keep her weak. She would be insulted."

Lyanna is literally 2 or 3 years old, she doesn't know enough to care or be insulted by not being told that she's lost the chance to remember several years of horrific shit before being violently murdered.

Also I notice you didn't say anything about the name correction. Got it wrong the first time did you?

"Which leaves only respecting Lyanna's will. Or her mother's will maybe. Or at least informing them of what she's decided to do before she does it so they can prepare. But Sansa gains nothing by not asking."

And what would she gain by asking? also nothing. Lyanna is 2 or 3 years old. Also the fic isn't about her. Why would Sansa even trust her? The child who thought she could judge Sansa for being unable to stab her way out of some horrible places? who scorned Sansa because she was femme? Because Sansa's strength isn't the same as hers so Lynna decided Sansa didn't have any?

Lynna chose Jon to lead the North over Sansa who had a better claim to the throne, Jon, who spent the entire 8th season saying how much he doesn't want to be king, Jon who legit just tried to walk away from the Command of the Nights Watch.

"And this brings up another issue, the fact Sansa never decided FOR Jon and Robb cuts both ways. She informed them of their choice and she let them make it."

"Sansa didn't keep them in the dark without informing them of the decision she was making for them, as you seem to want to do, since that definitely isn't the right thing to do. Mushroom management is a shit heap."

The boys were already aware that something was up, Sansa had nothing to gain by lying, and she made the offer before she realised the memories were a thing.

"The question to ask a toddler is "do you want to grow up?" it's not a difficult question to ask and it does have a meaningful answer. And that's the problem you have, because you already know Lyanna Mormont would say yes and you want her to say no. That's why you want the question never asked."

"You want to pretend that Lyanna Mormont, DEFINITELY in charge of bear island at 10 years of age, is a gormless wimp like 25 year old Jon Snow who refused to be king and refused to even THINK whether or not Daenerys would be a good queen by constantly uttering the refrain "she is my queen"."

Laynna was in charge because she was the last of her family, everyone else was lost fighting someone else's war. More importantly: she's not even part of the equation? Why would Sansa travel to Bear Island to ask a 2 or 3 year old if she wants to become an angry and traumatised 10 year old in a 2 or 3 year old body which will feel like a prison because she's not as tall or fast as she used to be, because she can't lift or climb or jump or ride or fight like she used to.

And for what? a few super powers she has to ask Sansa for? For mental trauma her family and friends cannot comprehend?

But no, have a look at the part where Richard really started to cross the line:

"No, Lyanna Mormont wants power, wants to grow up, that is obvious. And you're an obstacle in her way. She would hurt you for standing in her way, probably smashing a mace in your knees. And you're so weak that yes you would in fact be hurt by a 2 or 3 year old toddler. She killed a giant and she would have no problem killing you for daring to think you're a giant."

"Stand aside little man and let Lyanna Mormont have her glory."

Now I don't know what this guy's obsession is with Lyanna, but that sounded like a threat to me. Like, who tells people that a fiction character would physically maim or murder a real person just for pointing out said fictional character is 2 or 3 years old?

Lyanna doesn't want power? She's not that kind of person, even if she is fictional? More importantly:

Neither I nor the reviewer were 'standing in her way' because she's a fictional character who's not even in this fic!!!

But his behaviour was pretty shit, so I told him to knock it off or I was going to turn the review filters on.

That went about as well as you might expect.

So I was All:

[I don't know what you think you mean by 'optimize the character' but half of your assumptions are wrong, the rest run counter to my pre-existing plans and I don't care for your overall demeanour. I was prepared to leave your post be, but your recent reply is inappropriate and uses language which runs VERY close to sounding like a death threat, which I DO NOT APPRECIATE. I don't want to be 'that bitch', but I am going to ask you to please be respectful, or I will be turning on the comment filters.]

Because I don't Know if you know this but AO3 has three filters in the privacy tab of every story posted:

1] “Only show your work to registered users”

this means that you MUST be logged in to an AO3 account to even find it let alone read it

2] Disable Anonymous Comments

you Must be logged in to leave a comment

3] Enable Comment Moderation

doesn't matter what you say, with out Author OK, your review will not be showing up in the comment section.

(… tumblr just did that thing again where it refreshes in the middle of my thousands of words of text and loses all my stuff, it is literally making me want to kill myself. Because I have to retype all the responses from the next fcking section. It's my own fault for not just using a word document, but also: fck tumblr? For being stupid?)

So, from here Richard had three options:

1- Apologise and move one

2- say nothing and pretend it hadn't happened and move on

3- He went with this:

“Your Sansa Stark is weaker than canon Sansa Stark. It's true your Sansa Stark has a strictly higher level of ambition than Sansa Stark. But what she uses in order to achieve her goals, her resources, is weaker.”

“She uses actions, capabilities and skills. She uses embroidery, archery, learning (archery), she uses the people she already knows but not strangers. She uses and manipulates the people she can interact with, learn from, act upon. The level of people that is directly equal to skills.”“

She doesn't use language, nor does she use strangers. Strangers are the level of people that don't require interaction but DO require language to deal with. And your Sansa Stark's language is too weak. When she manipulates the maid in the Dreadfort, it's entirely accidentally and unintentionally.”

Sansa has seen what power does to people, she's seen what lies ahead for the manipulators of the world, she's been taught at the side of Cersei and Petyr, and she does not want to become them. For all the horrific things she's gone through, Sansa came out the other side with her compassion intact, possibly even stronger than before.

“She talks to Domeric only because she's already interacted with him, she's been healing him for days by that point. She fakes Green Dreaming to her father because she knows her language is inadequate and will achieve nothing. The way her father and mother treat her, they know mere words would be inadequate. And they would dismiss any words she said. "Haven't we told our children dreams can't hurt you?"”

She doesn't want to interact with Domeric, he looks like the man who violated her repeatedly, killed her brother and sacked her home. She wants to be as far away from him as possible. When she does end up interacting with him, despite being so sleep deprived it's a wonder she hadn't started hallucinating, she manages to win him over pretty easily.

She fakes Green Dreaming because “a god made me time travel” is not only a ridiculous concept but a foreign one as well. Why would Sansa tell her parents that when it would mean admitting to going through some horrific shit, to letting her family down and being let down by her family when Green Dreams are a known thing which explains her knowledge. It's not inadequacy, it's efficiency and an attempt to hide horrible things.

I need to point out that “Haven't we told our children that dreams can't hurt you?” is said by Catelyn in self-recrimination afterwards, and is said specifically to reference the reason Sansa might not have felt she could go to them with her problem was because it was based on dreams. Because what parent would take dreams as a serious threat unless they were a Nightmare on Elm Street survivor, especially since Green Seers have become so rare they've been relegated back to myths and stories by the time Jojen and Bran show up.

“Language requires actions such as mouthing, shouting, tonguing, but actions will never add up to language. Actions are necessary but NOT SUFFICIENT for language. This is why you can't write a single damned sentence with only actions. Try it, you won't be able to.”

I can't take this paragraph seriously if only because of the use of the word 'tonguing'. FFS, he sounds like a small child trying to convince people he's got a PhD. 'If I throw out some big words and phrase them right they'll sound 'academic' and I'll look smarter!

'I know this probably isn't what Richard meant but: Sign Language? Is literally all actions?

(Obviously real language requires thoughts and concepts to be communicated to be a language, but even the most primitive of body movements can express something: I'm hot, I'm hungry, I'm angry, etc. It might not be true language, but it is communication, which is the basis of language, the reason we made language in the first place.)

“Canon Sansa Stark had dreams, plans, and designs on what others have. She wanted to wed a prince, she had designs on the princess position. She wanted out of King's Landing. She wanted Winterfell. She wanted the Knights of the Vale to fight ... FOR HER.”

“People who had never met canon Sansa Stark in their entire lives fought and died for canon Sansa Stark's benefit. For the designs of a (her words) stupid girl. And sure, her initial designs were stupid. And they only rose up to being pathetic. But they were designs, they were dreams, they were plans.”

I need to talk about my interpretation of Sansa for a minute, because that's what I've been writing: my interpretation of Sansa.

Sansa was raised with an idea of how the world should be, not how it was. She was raised loved and protected and surrounded by men of honour. Fed stories of heroes, brave knights and valiant princes, where good always triumphed, or was romantically defeated and beautifully tragic.

She wasn't raised to expect dishonourable men and hidden motives, she wasn't raised expecting a (metaphorical) dagger in her back.

She didn't want the crown, she didn't want the throne, she wanted “the prince” from her stories, who would cherish her and care for her and give her a family filled with love. And yes the pretty dresses and the shiny jewels and the adoration and praise. But she never wanted power, that came later.

Later after she'd seen the cracks in the world and the grime beneath the gilding, when she'd learned friend and foe were often the same, that people with power would hurt her, use her, that she was nothing but a trophy to them.

Sansa wanted power because “if I'm the one with the power, then they can't hurt me any more, if I have the power I'll be safe, if I have the power then I can protect people, if I have the power I can stop people like that.”

But Sansa has never had power, it was always borrowed, an illusion that could vanish at one misstep. She had no money of her own, her blood made her valuable to others as a trade commodity, but gave her no personal power.

When people fought for her, it was never really about her.

Petyr gave her armies so he could win favour so he could use her as a proxy for her dead mother. Brienne fought to fulfil an oath to Sansa's dead mother.

The Men of the North fought for Winterfell, to get revenge on the Boltons. The Wildings followed Jon Snow. And when it was over, it was Jon who was crowned king, not Sansa the one who had to talk him into getting back their home in the first place.

Her parents and Robb fought for her, but their armies fought for House Stark, for the insult Sansa and Arya's capture and Ned's death presented.

“Your Sansa Stark has no plans, has no dreams, and certainly has no designs. She doesn't use language, because her language is too weak and has no power. She doesn't use her emotions or feelings because they are brittle and far too weak to be used. Weaker even than the emotions and feelings of a stupid girl. She doesn't use her mind or intellect because she doesn't cogitate. She uses skills and ONLY skills. To try to fake everything else.”

It's odd that he says this when he started off this response by saying my Sansa was more ambitious than canon Sansa.

First of all: I thought I was making it fairly clear that her goals were: save her family, save the North, stop the White Walkers.

Her dreams are to never be beholden to another man ever again.

Sansa wants her family alive, she wants to be safe and she wants to be free of all the political manipulations she had to sit through in the first timeline.

Second of all: Richard has clearly never been assaulted in his life in any way and I am so fcking happy for him. Really.

Look, people who suffer long term trauma, (or short term, it doesn't matter how long really) are not magically okay afterwards. The idea that sexual assault makes femme women strong is disgusting and so toxically prevalent in movies and shows and books these days its... horrific. You'll notice butch women like Arya aren't typically assaulted to be strong, because they're already so 'manly'. It was a genuine surprise when they tried to have Brienne assaulted, but that was more about showing how much of a 'good guy' Jaime was than Brienne.

You can really tell in several places that the tv series had non-con fetishists on staff.

Sansa is so brittle now, because she feels safe enough to let herself feel the fear she wasn't able to earlier, to work through the panic and the anger and all the emotions she couldn't before.

“Your Sansa Stark plans to use skills in order to change the world. And since it's obvious the world isn't run by woodcutters or farmers or archers or anyone else defined by their SKILLS, she will fail. She will fail abysmally, totally and catastrophically. She hasn't got the slightest sliver of a chance.”

Quick tally: Sansa has managed to convince her parents she had knowledge of the future, put them on track to realising Petyr Baelish was stealing from the Crown, got Stannis curious in Dragonstone, came up with a plan to gain favour for the North by helping to pay of part of the Crown's debt and has begun working on a plan to ensure more food is available for the Northerners when Winter arrives.

Not to mention, (and you'd easily miss this): Sansa has begun influencing a shift in the young women of the North who had previously been influenced by the South.

The thing is, Richard seems convinced its about the looting and the grinding, 'kill enough stuff and you become a God!' but it's not.

“So you stacked the deck in her favor. You put a high tier deity on her side. Now Sansa has a slim chance to squeak out a win, using the power she's borrowing. But here's the thing, it will never be HER win because it isn't HER power, it isn't HER plans. Your Sansa Stark has no plans, but her deity does, even if they're stupid plans of puerile amusement-seeking. So IF there is a victory at the end, it will never be Sansa Stark's victory, it will be her deity's. Because she is only a pawn, a tool, a peon, a minion.”

Richard doesn't seem to understand what the introduction of Arya's God means for the lore. The amount of death from the wars is causing Bad Things in the back ground of the original timeline.

Sansa isn't the Being's pawn, she's their start player, the Being is a sponsor who's giving Sansa the chance and resources to be greater than she was. It's not about 'puerile amusement-seeking', but how do you tell a young woman who's gone through what Sansa's gone through that the fate of the entire human race is in her hands, that if she fails it won't just be her family that falls.

If Sansa thinks the Being just wants amusement, then Sansa will act as she pleases and hope it's good enough, which puts her closer in line with saving the world than if she's actually trying to save the world, because that is a much bigger task than 'stop the issues that got my family killed'.

The Being is only victorious if Sansa is, it's their shared victory.

Now up until this point Richard has been an arrogant tool, but it might almost seem like he's being reasonable. This is where he loses the plot and just starts back on his favourite fall back: threatening people with violence.

“Now generally, when an author writes a protagonist who is a pawn, a tool, a peon and a minion of a higher power, when they write a protagonist who is WEAK, it's because they themselves are weak. Generally doesn't mean universally however, so I had to know. And now I do. You are weak Jasper.”

“You want to convince me of something Jasper. You want to convince me that I'm wrong, that my opinion is wrong, that my position is wrong, you want me to change my mind, you want me to know my plans and judgment are wrong. Because they're in conflict with yours. But how do you achieve this? By threatening me with your borrowed power. Exactly like your Sansa Stark.”

Did he have to google the list of synonyms there?

I don't know what it is about being referred to by name, but it bugs me that he chose to use only a portion of my pen-name like we were somehow familiar, rather than not using my name or referring to me as OP or something along those lines.

Also I really have to disagree that only weak people write about people being weak, but I don't think his opinions of weak and strong match with mine either. 

He is wrong, but more importantly: he threatened someone with violence for daring to correct him.

I wasn't threatening him, I was warning him to stop being an asshole or I would disable anonymous commenting.

“You do this because you're weak. And what do we call weak people who complain about strong people's actions when they are the bitches of higher powers? We call them exactly what you "don't want to be", we call them bitches. You are a bitch to higher powers and you bitch about higher powers like me. You bitch about people who can use their intellects. And for a good reason too.”

“You fear my attitude because I am the bitch slapper. I slap little bitches like you all fucking day long every single day. It doesn't matter to me who it is, whether it's my own friends who are bitching, I slap them for it. And you will never ever convince me that you're right. Because you're weak. And because I don't respect bitches.”

Look, I've seen enough therapists of different varieties to pull off some impressive psych 101 bullshit so I can tell you right now: Richard is a man who has never held any real authority in his life, he has mediocre skills at best and often feels talked down to because he feels more entitled than he is and no one treats him like a god for breathing. He refuses to back down when wrong even in the face of evidence and then he pouts because the world didn't shift to match his delusions.

The worst part is I know this, and I know I shouldn't let this bother me. But it does. But it shouldn't and I can tell him to his 'face' via review reply why he's wrong, or he'll know it bothers me, then he'll feel validated, even though he's wrong. And he'll probably threaten someone with more violence and then I really will have to disable anon comments and effectively punish some readers who did nothing wrong.

“So what are you going to do to me that I care about? Stop me from reading your fic? You don't have that power. Stop writing it so that I can no longer learn how your mind works, my ulterior motive? That would be cutting your nose to spite your face. You would suffer far out of proportion to me. I would just move on to some other author. Report me? Go ahead, I don't care. Really, we're done here, so have a nice life.”

Yes I do, literally the first of the privacy filters would stop you from reading, but that would hurt my other readers who don't have an account.

'Ulterior motive'? Buddy, you apparently don't understand how any mind works.

Again: if you don't care why bring it up?

Are you really leaving though? Do you promise?!

“The only thing you could ever do to me is surprise me by ceasing to be a weak little bitch. Or even resolving to not be one. This would invalidate all of my predictions by rising to my implied challenge. That's what I like, win-win. (lol) I'm not holding my breath though.”

I don't have anything to prove to this douche tool and it bothers me that this is bothering me so much!!!! The worst part is, this review came at a time when my attention for the fic was flagging, so I'll never know if it was really this review or not that made me stop writing for the past few months?

Those of you with an AO3 account who drop by my profile to see if I wrote anything interesting may have noticed my recent 'for archive users only' locked fic. I can confirm that yes: to mental detox this review I went and watched a Chinese Xianxia drama that has become my new hyper-focus. Almost 100 plot bunnies are being posted into the locked fic in an effort to purge it rom my brain so I can get back to what I was doing. It seems to be working. I wrote about 1000 words for Episode: Sisterhood this week, so the chapter is almost done. At last!

[somevirtualnolife]

A Little Luck

1616 Words

Rating: G Pairing: Hawke x Cullen Rutherford  Summary:   Aerianne and Stroud gather information on the grey wardens in the Western Approach. Previous Chapter: Same But Different Author’s Notes:  As promised, here's a little fluff! This is essentially an interpretation of the infamous coin scene, which I feels fits in great to a Hawe x Cullen narrative. Hawke as a character is arguably one of the most unlucky characters in a video game (even more so, if you make the wrong decisions like I did in my first playthrough). And Cullen well, he also had a string of bad luck before joining the Inquisition. I feel like, it's one thing that they could understand about each other without going into too much detail.

“I read the reports,” Cullen shook his head, a concerned expression on his face.

“I don’t know what they were thinking,” Aerianne said. She could already feel her blood starting to boil again from the mere thought of it. “I know that these are dire times, but I never thought that they would attempt blood magic. Not at this level,”

Aerianne closed her eyes and leaned against one of Cullen’s bookcases. In addition to anger, exhaustion was setting in as well. She couldn’t help but have this sense of déjà vu about it.

Cullen nodded sympathetically. He of all people knew how she felt about blood magic. Just as she knew how he felt when he found out that some of the templars turned to red lyrium. There was this sense of betrayal. Everything you’ve been fighting for, or what you thought you had been fighting for, turns upside down. Although Cullen did end up leaving the templars, she could still see that he was strongly attached to the organization. Aerianne was no mage, but her calling had always been to help them in their time of need. But in cases like these, she wasn’t sure how she could help. What could she do when they were actively hurting themselves and those around them?

“I’m just… tired. Of all this,” she finally said, opening her eyes again.

“I know,” Cullen replied, cupping her cheek and lightly caressing it with his thumb. His lips lightly pressed against her forehead. The silver lining in all of this was that at least this time, they were on the same side. She had forgotten what it was like to have someone in your corner during these moments.

“It’s still awhile before we march to Adamant,” he continued. “You should give yourself some time to rest for the next couple of weeks,”

“I suppose, but it’s a little difficult,” Skyhold already in midst of preparing for the battle. No matter where you turned, you sort of had to deal with it being there. And she’d wanted to help. She couldn’t help but feel a part of all this. Corypheus was a part of her legacy after all.

Cullen looked up at the ceiling for a moment, his brows knitting together, thinking.

“You know, the inquisition has some dealings in Ferelden,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to accompany me for part of it. There’s a place I’d like to show you,”

Aerianne tilted her head, curiously. It’d been years since she’d been to Ferelden. She was there very briefly when they first fled from Kirkwall after the explosion of the Chantry, but that was about it. There wasn’t really time to take in the sites or try to see what remained of Lothering. It sounded sort of nice to visit her homeland, especially with Cullen.

“That sounds nice, actually,” she responded, a tired but relieved smile appearing on her face.

**  

Honnleath had been ravaged not long after Lothering during the Blight, according to Cullen. But a decade had passed since then and it was finally looking as though the land was healing. There was green growing from the ground, trees were regaining foliage and the waters were no longer a dull grey. On this particular night, the high grass was dotted with the soft glow of fireflies as the couple walked along a small dirt path.

“It’s lovely out here,” Aerianne said, stretching out one of her hands and lightly brushing it against some nearby reeds.  

“We’re quite lucky that tonight is clear,” Cullen replied. It’s true. Ferelden wasn’t known for its beautiful weather, blight or not. It was cloudy more often than not, and it always felt as though it was going to rain. But tonight, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the air around them was warm and welcoming.

“I know things have been hard, especially now. I wanted to take you away from that, if only for a moment,”

Eventually, they came upon an old wooden dock that overlooked a small lake. Cullen offered his hand to Aerianne and lead her further out. The closer the were to the water, she could hear the croaking of frogs and crickets chirping grow louder.

“I would come here to clear my mind. I loved my siblings, but they were very loud,” he chuckled softly. “Of course, they always found me eventually,”

Aerianne couldn’t help but laugh a bit as well. There was something very typically Cullen about that situation. How many times in Kirkwall (and even Skyhold if she was being quite honest) did she seek him out when all he was looking for a bit of peace and quiet from everyone?

“You were happy here, weren’t you?” she asked.

“I was. I still am,”

She lifted his arm and draped it over her shoulders, squeezing in closer to his chest. His muscles were relaxed, and she could hear his heart beating slowly. It was rare for Cullen to be really at ease. This really was a place of peace for him. Somewhere in his life that hadn’t been taken from him or tainted by bad experiences. She couldn’t help but feel relieved for him.  

“The last time I was here was the day I left for templar training. My brother gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for good luck,” Cullen opened his free hand and in the middle of his palm was a silver coin. It was a little worn from age, but still seemed to shimmer under the moonlight.  

“This was the only thing I took that the templars didn’t give me. We are not supposed to carry such things. Our faith should see us through,”

“No harm with a little bit of luck to boost that faith,” Aerianne replied, looking out at the lake.

“Is that what you rely on?” he asked.

“Me? Hah, I’m not sure about that,” she hadn’t decided whether it was bad luck that a series of unfortunate events seemed to follow her wherever she went, or that it was good luck that kept her alive through all of them. Maker only knew.

“What do you think you’d be doing if you hadn’t been a templar? Or if the blight never happened?” she asked. She wasn’t sure why the question came to her, but it just seemed appropriate with everything that was going on.

He mused, resting his head on hers. “I never really thought of it. I always wanted to be a templar, ever since I was a child. I supposed I might’ve joined King Cailin’s army at the time. If Orlais wasn’t so pretensions, perhaps become a chevalier. As long as I could help people and have a purpose, I suppose I would have been happy. What about yourself?”

“Lothering was small and our family liked to keep a low profile. Realistically, I probably just settled down and married a local boy, becoming the wife of a famer or storekeeper,”

“Now that I have a hard time picturing; Aerianne Hawke, a simple farmer’s wife that kept to herself,” he laughed.

“You don’t think I could’ve done it?”

“Not in the slightest. At the very least, you would have more likely started some sort of ‘farmer’s wife union’ and ran for mayor of Lothering,”

“Psh,”

“You’re not really the type to watch things go by around you, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing… It’s one of the qualities that I love about you,”

She could feel a rush of heat fill her cheeks. Aerianne didn’t easily blush, but Cullen was rarely able to express his feelings so easily. Hearing those words now, she couldn’t help but make her heart race like that of a young maiden. She really was a romantic, as much as she tried to pretend that she wasn’t.

She buried her face into his mantel, taking a deep breath. Sometimes she felt like she was cursed, considering everything that had happened in her life. But there were times when the Maker gave her a break. Moments like these were precious. It’s what made her keep pushing forward. To not completely give up.

It was then that Aerianne felt Cullen’s hands wrap around hers, and she could feel the weight of the coin drop into her palms. She looked back up at him, curious.

“Humor me,” he said, giving her a half smile. “We don’t know what we’ll face before the end. This can’t hurt,”

Aerianne closed her fingers around the coin and squeezed it tightly. Luck. Despite what she felt about herself, Varric had always told her that she could make the best out of the worst situations. Only Hawke could do this. Only she could manage to go from a Ferelden refugee to one of the most powerful names in Kirkwall. Only she could go head to head with an Arishok and make it out with all her limbs attached. Only she could manage to have both a templar commander and a grand enchanter vying for her support.

Right now, she wanted to believe that maybe it was true.

She then smiled and went on the tip of her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulled him in close, their noses touching for a moment. The hairs on his jawline tickled her cheeks, before their lips locked in a kiss. She wasn’t sure if she believed in luck, but in this moment, she wanted to. Through everything that had happened, when she was certain that she was meant to be alone, they found each other. And with Cullen, she could see a future where she was happy again.  

“I’ll keep it safe,”

[lamujerarana]

108... doom and reed...

I hope you don’t mind that I changed the phrasing of the line you chose a bit, but I’ve had this idea rolling around my head for a while, and I wanted to write it.

***

MANY YEARS AGO, AT STATE UNIVERSITY:

“Richards, cease that insipid sighing!” Victor snarled over the chessboard they’d laid out between them on Victor’s dormitory bed. “If this is an ill-advised attempt to win the game by infuriating me, I assure you it will not succeed. I am the master of my emotions. This will not distract me!”

“To be honest with you, Victor,” Reed sighed again, much to Victor’s great and visible displeasure, “I’m hardly paying attention to the game.”

“That much is obvious,” Victor snapped. “I win in three moves. There have only been four so far. Even allowing for your limited mental capacities, this is deplorable.”

Reed peered down at the board and found that what Victor said was true. “I’m sorry, Victor. I suppose I’m just distracted.”

While Victor never rolled his eyes (because he thought it was undignified), Reed could tell he wanted to. “Richards, whatever is the matter with you, I am not interested. Go whine to your football player.”

Reed started to sigh, but a glare from Victor stopped him. “I can’t talk to Ben about it. It’s about Ben.”

Victor’s snort was full of scorn. “Did the insipid oaf forget to bring you flowers this morning?”

“No,” Reed said mournfully. Ben had never brought Reed flowers, no matter how badly Reed wanted him to. “He started dating someone. Alynn Chambers.”

Victor looked genuinely confused. “Then you and he are not—?”

“No,” Reed said and he sighed again because he just couldn’t help it. “That’s the problem.”

Cut for length.

Victor did not seem to realize that he had gotten himself sucked into precisely the conversation he had been doing his best to avoid. “Good,” he said firmly. “He is your intellectual inferior and by no means worthy of you, Richards. I don’t know what possessed you to waste any time on such a cretin. Surely even you can do better.”

“Intelligence isn’t everything, Victor,” Reed said. He slid one of his white bishops a few squares forward and took one of Victor’s black pawns. “Ben is kind, and compassionate, and generous, and brave—”

Victor cut him off, which was probably a good thing because Reed would have gone on listing Ben’s good qualities until he exhausted them, and there were a lot. “And he has biceps the size of my head. No doubt that had something to do with it. I would have thought you above such petty considerations, Richards.”

“It’s really more about the kindness,” Reed insisted. “And he has a nice laugh. Laughs are important, Victor.”  

“Oh, I’m sure you think so,” Victor said viciously. He slammed his black rook down where Reed’s white knight had been a few moments ago, though now it was rolling off the board and onto Victor’s dark blue quilt. “How you manage to maintain prolonged conversations with imbeciles like him is beyond me.”

“It’s not so hard,” Reed said dryly, “when you learn to value qualities besides intelligence. Haven’t you ever cared about anyone who wasn’t as intelligent as you? Parents? Siblings? Fr—“ Reed was going to say “friends” but he stopped himself. If his time at State U was any indication, Victor had never had any friends. But, then again, Victor never talked about his life before coming to State U at all. Reed knew little about it. “Erm. Anyone?”

Victor stared intently at the chessboard. “Well,” he admitted. “I suppose there was a girl. Once.”

Reed didn’t know what he was more taken aback by—the fact that Victor had had a girlfriend once, or that he was telling Reed about it. “Oh. Did it matter that she wasn’t as smart as you?”

There was a long pause. “No. I suppose not. There were…other factors.”

“Precisely,” Reed said. He slid his last white knight three spaces to the left. “That’s why I love Ben. Other factors.”

“Still,” Victor said. “It would be better to be with someone who was your intellectual equal.”

Reed laughed. “That would be a very short list. Currently, it would be comprised of, well, you.”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “Richards, while I am flattered and of course I understand why you are interested in me, I am simply not interested you. I could also point out that we are not equals, as I am clearly your intellectual superior.”

“Victor, I wasn’t—I already told you. I’m in love with Ben.”

“Ah,” Victor said. “That’s convenient, because I am still in love with my Valeria.”

“Good,” Reed said. “So we aren’t interested in each other. That’s settled then.”

“Of course,” Victor ventured, right as he toppled Reed’s king over. “My Valeria is an ocean away, and your Bernard doesn’t love you.”

“Ben,” Reed corrected.

Victor waved a hand dismissively. “His name is unimportant.”

“Well. I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” Reed said.

“I’m suggesting that we distract each other,” Victor clarified.

“Are you proposing a ‘friends with benefits’-style arrangement?” Reed asked suspiciously.

He was sure he must be misinterpreting Victor’s words.

“I have no idea what that means, Richards,” Victor said. “But we are not friends.” Reed wasn’t sure Victor would recognize a friend if he was sitting on his bed playing chess with him. “I am proposing sex without any emotional attachment whatsoever.”

“Why on Earth would I agree to that, Victor?”

“To forget your Benedict.”

“Ben,” Reed said automatically.

Victor snorted. “I do not care to recall his name. It is a waste of valuable brain matter.”

Reed thought it over.

Victor was actually very handsome, now that Reed thought about it, but there was a darkness to him, a rage, a coldness, that Reed found off-putting. He didn’t think he could ever love Victor the way he loved Ben.

But he supposed if it was just sex, that shouldn’t matter.

And he was, admittedly, desperate to forget about Ben, who had been all he’d been able to think about for years.

“All right,” he said. “You’re on.”

He suspected already it was the worst decision he’d ever made, but what was the worst that could happen?

NOW, AT CASTLE DOOM, DOOMSTADT, LATVERIA:

Reed found out years later in the middle of the umpteenth fight-to-the-death between the FF and Victor in Castle Doom.

Even Reed had to admit that Victor had, temporarily at least, gained the upper hand. His Doombots had managed to get power-negating collars round all of their necks, and handcuffs to keep them from attacking him anyway.

Victor, as always, was convinced he had won and that the FF were permanently beaten.

Reed wasn’t too worried. He knew he’d find a way out before too long. He always did.

He had plenty of time to come up with a way to escape, given that Victor was currently monologuing about his boundless genius.

Reed sighed. In some ways, Victor—now a dictator, clad head to foot in iron—had changed drastically from their days at State U, but in other ways…he was the same haughty boy who loved patting himself on the back for the smallest accomplishment.

Really, Victor never learned.

Reed was so busy trying to come up with a way out of their predicament that he was hardly listening to what Victor was saying…until, that was, Victor came to a halt in front of him, the heavy clang of metal ringing against stone floors, and said, “Richards, I must admit, you always did look rather fetching on your knees.”

Reed froze and hoped against hope that Ben, Sue, and Johnny wouldn’t catch the clearly sexual innuendo.

“Wait,” Johnny said, head poking out to Sue’s left. “What?”

“Reed,” Sue frowned, “what is he talking about?”

“He’s lyin’,” Ben said confidently. “Reed would never with the likes o’ him. ‘specially given how he treated me even when we wuz in college.”

“Have you forgotten?” Victor said, smiling beneath the iron mask. “I do not lie. I have no need to lie when the truth is so much more satisfying.”

“Reed,” Sue said, but Reed could hear in her voice that she was beginning to believe Victor. “Say it’s not true.”

“Dude,” Johnny said. “Tell me you didn’t fuck Doctor Doom.”

“No,” Victor said, although his meaning was rather unfortunately plain. “He did not.”

“Oh!” Johnny said when he caught Victor’s meaning, looking thoroughly disgusted. “Gross! Reed! Dude, just why?”

“I—“ Reed looked back and forth between Victor and his family. Now this he could find no way out of. “We were in college. He was just…Victor then, not a mass-murdering tyrant and supervillain. I had no idea he would become Doctor Doom. Besides, it only lasted a few months, and it was never anything serious.”

“No,” Victor said annoyedly. “Richards was far too besotted with his oafish football player.”

Victor glared at Ben, and Reed was uncomfortable with the degree of homicidal rage he saw in Victor’s eyes and half-tempted to throw himself in front of Ben protectively. He knew that Victor was perfectly capable of murdering Ben on a whim.

“Wait,” Ben said, remembering precisely what Reed had been hoping he wouldn’t. “Hold on. Is he that mysterious guy you were seein’ right before you ‘nd me got together? The guy you would never…tell me…anything about…and…you always came home with bruises in weird places…”

“Yes,” Victor said, seeming to take great joy in the dismay written all over Ben’s rocky orange features. “Richards was mine before he was ever yours.”

“I was never yours, Victor,” Reed said fiercely. “Not any part of me. I was always Ben’s. Even when I was with you.”

Something seemed to click for Sue. “Wait a minute,” she said, gazing up at Victor with something like pity in her eyes. “That’s what…this is all about, isn’t it? Reed chose Ben over you, and you’ve never forgiven him for it. Did you…were you in love with my husband?”

“No,” Reed said instantly. “Impossible. Victor never cared about me. It was just…sex.”

“Ew,” Johnny said. “Wrong. Did not ever need to know about this.”

“Richards is correct,” Victor said. “I never did love him.” Somehow, Reed didn’t find that quite as convincing as he would have liked. “I simply have never been able to forgive him for choosing that dimwitted lout over someone who was clearly superior in every way.”

“Why…would you care who I chose if you didn’t love me?” Reed said. Oh, god. He was…beginning to see Victor’s obsession with hurting him in an entirely new light. And Victor’s petty hatred of Ben—it was jealousy. He couldn’t believe it had never occurred to him that Victor had fallen in love with him. He was remembering now with great regret how indifferently he’d broken things off with Victor. It seemed cruel, almost. But he truly hadn’t thought that Victor cared. “Victor. If I’d known how you felt, I would have handled things very differently, I never would have—”

Broken up with him via text message. Ouch.

Victor waved a hand imperiously. “I have no interest in continuing this insipid conversation, Richards. Doombots, return them to their cells.”

As Reed was dragged out of Victor’s throne room, he couldn’t help but think that Victor looked…rather more lonely and tragic than he ever had before.

[lesmiserablesfashions]

*gives you 10 cents and a shoelace* tell me about corsets and widows wear

sure thing! those things all vary quite a bit depending on exact timeframe, but i’ll do my best to cover as much as i can. big disclaimer that i am not a historian! hopefully other people will jump on this post to help me out a bit.

corsets! corsets changed a lot over the course of the 19th century since the ideal figure and cut of dresses changed so frequently. in the regency era, the ideal figure was pretty columnar; they didn’t want too many curves. the natural waist was deemphasized, as the waistline was just below the bust. this led to regency corsets, in their more popular form, being soft, with minimal boning. many stopped soon below the bust, like the dresses:

a very comfortable era in fashion, which did not last very long. already by the late 1810s, waistlines were beginning to move downwards, and corsets followed suit:

here’s some from 1819. as you can see, there was still some diversity in shape and style, but they did extend at least to the natural waist. they served a few different purposes, and each one unique in which they would emphasize. in general, they would gently narrow and lengthen the waist, push up the bust, and improve posture. gussets did a fair bit of the work, showing off the parts you want shown off.

the big board you see up the middle of the one on the right is called a busk. these were generally made of either wood, baleen, bone, or sometimes even ivory. they were meant to separate the breasts and keep the posture set.

boning was usually made from baleen; reed was an older convention and slowly phasing out. steel boning wasn’t much of a thing until until the 1850s as the industrial revolution took its course. boning was pretty light for a while; gradually corsets came to have more boning.

the fabrics used for corsets at this time was almost always cotton, though i have seen at least one example where linen was used as a lining! multiple layers of the fabric would be sewn together to make the corset strong.

the lovely pattern you see is the cording! strong cords made of cotton or similar fabrics were sewn into the fabric to stiffen it a bit. here’s a really great image of someone’s modern recreation:

[x]

while early regency corsets laced in the front, as time passed, they came to be laced in the back. the eyelets could either be holes in the garment itself, as so:

or separate rings:

conveniently, both those past two examples are from the 1820s, so you can how slowly the ideal silhouette became more of an hourglass figure. the 1830s kept this pattern going, as corsets continued to narrow around the waist:

the waists weren’t nearly tight enough to suffocate you or anything like that, but they did show off your curves! note the shoulder straps, too – some were attached directly to the body of the corset, as in that white one, and some laced on, as in the brown one!

moving on to mourning clothing! widow’s weeds is the general term for widows’ clothing specifically. not weeds like plants; the term comes from “waed”, the old english word for garment.

this is a subject i know much much much much much less about, so this took a fair bit of research. customs tended to vary a lot between cultures, too, so ??? people who know more than i do please lend me a hand here

the main point is, there were specific rules you’d have to follow, depending upon the period and region. the essence of these was modesty: simple fabrics, less flashy color and ornamentation. to cheat on any of these specifications would send a very distinct message – possibly that the widow was promiscuous, vain, or didn’t really love her husband. the rules began pretty simply in the regency era, and grew more and more complex until the mid-victorian era, with the influence of queen victoria taking hold over england and spreading to france in the way popular fashions tend to do.

mourning was broken down into stages, the length of which varied.

the first period, called full morning, lasted a year and a day for widows (i’ve seen this figure mentioned for both regency and mid-victorian customs, so it appears fairly constant, though both of those sources were focused on england). the only color to be worn was black. fanciful ornamentation was to be minimized as much as possible, if not cut out entirely, and it should only be black. shiny fabric wasn’t allowed; all fabrics should be matte. crêpe was the fabric of choice, though matte silks like bombazine were also solid options. here are some examples:

^ evening dress from 1817

^ morning dress from 1818

^ another from 1819

^ 1820

^1824

^ 1830

^ these two from 1837 – a few years past out era, but you get the point.

the two stages past this varied, and honestly confuse me quite a bit. i’m not clear on the duration of these stages in the regency era, but by the mid-victorian era, it seems pretty clear that the second stage lasted one additional year, and the final lasted 6 months. even the textiles – one website that focused mostly on the mid-victorian said that shiny fabrics became okay in the second stage, but a blurb for one dress in the victoria & albert museum says the lord chamberlain decreed velvets & shiny silks only okay for the third stage sometime around the death of princess charlotte in 1817. regardless of period, subdued colors other than black, such as white, gray, or lavender were allowed in first as small adornments, then as the color of a full garment. so uh ???????? here are some pictures, anyway.

^ evening dress from 1819 – this is one of the few ones i’m sure is from the final stage

^ the victoria & albert museum confirms this as a final stage mourning dress from 1823-1825

^both from 1827

^ late 20s/early 30s

^1835

the range of jewelry in the later stages also expanded to include lockets, pins, or brooches with the hair of the deceased inside, like so:

all of these rules were incredibly unfortunate for anyone without a ton of money, since new clothes were expensive. most people chose to try and rework some of their old clothes into appropriate mourning attire, dyeing dresses black, sewing in black linings to outerwear, or draping bonnets in black crêpe. if you were too poor even for that, you’d have to resort to finding any small black accessory, or even scrap of fabric to add somehow to your outfit. that or follow marius’ route of just only leaving your house at night so your clothes all look black.

that’s the best i’ve got to say, so the floor is 100% open to others!

[jasoncnkam]

secret santa ‘17: jason & julius

the fruit and sap of the sycamore tree bestow immortality, and where willows do their weeping, strength and hope inspire survival of those who suffer from loss of harmony.

last christmas i got the opportunity to write for pansy and this year i have for frida, @juliefinn​. the writing i were supposed to have written got lost along the way, a week or so before today, so unfortunately i have not given this one as much time as i would’ve liked. i hope it’s readable, still, and more akin to magical realism than fantasy. if it happens that you like it, i’d love to revamp it for you. i hope your day have been well and that it will continue to treat you better.

also, thank you for this year, everyone. 

title: anastomosis word count: 2444

tw: medical-ish gore and body horror below the last asterism, though it’s technically inosculation. there are also mentions of death throughout.

“hello.” the greeting marbles off julius’ tounge as he stands between earth and dawn, his shadow cast on the stranger who underneath awakes from slumber. tufts of bluegrass shimmer across the red and golden of his tickled skin, embosomed by tiny specks that bewing his jutting shoulders and gather its shed down along his nape and neck. when julius with forethought stoop down by his side, the presumed spots come forth as something else—it is not dirt that the boy had blanketed himself with up to his waking. they are freckles, either from sun or birth, and as such they belong on his skin no less than the purple airfoil that a demoiselle has left for his eyes to wear and water neath each lid. julius’ gaze moves off his shoulder and gets caught by his stare, intent though mellow from doze. alongside the rising sun he promises much life past noon, for in his seize julius’ heart somersaults in-between its beats and then cheers loud enough for morning bats to flee the other way.

“i’m sorry, did i wake you?”, julius laughs as quietly as he may, embarrassed of how soon as well as long he fell into daze. he withdraws to settle down on folded legs. shallow wrinkles set in rows down the bridge of his nose when the grass tickles his sensitive ankles. “i thought you just had your eyes shut.” or so julius had hoped, for now his guilt to have awoken the boy is well enough for him to draw in his bottom lip and gnaw it raw inside his unstrung mouth. he fears for the worst until the boy forces himself up on languid arms and asks,

“who are you?”

reluctantly the teeth unloose as to let him nudge his wounded lip back in place to answer, “julius finnigan bo mccallaghan jr., and you?”

“...jason amadeo naim cankam.”, he returns at slower pace.

“where do you come from? i don’t recognise you.”

“you could’ve not just seen me”, jason avoids in such a narrow frame of time that it brings julius to withdraw his hands off the grass and onto his lap in a clasp. was it dumb to ask? the poor boy asks himself with no answer to drape his trust upon. why could it have been dumb to ask?

“yes, but… i have a feeling i’d remember you…” thereunder his fingers rush a hold each of the blonde curls that wreath around his ears. “i mean, we look alike, you and me. not wholly, of course… but enough that i think i’d remember.”

“we do?” 

julius confirms through a soft nod and replaces his curls with his mouth once again. meanwhile, jason draws further into himself to unravel the ball of his childhood’s yarn. 

“…i haven’t seen myself before.”

“never?”

“never.”

has jason, the poor boy, not once looked upon his own reflection? has has never seen the corners of his mouth muster a smile? his lashes shoo off cobweb and dew? his cheeks blush from the weakest breeze? julius looks back to when he was seven years young, feeling like royalty when he sat atop of his brother bo’s broader shoulders and held onto his head while elijah waded backwards in front of them, arms obtrude lest their little brother were to totter and fall. it was the day where he took his first breaststroke and floated. as was it the day when he met his own smile. he wants to help jason meet his, too, thus on two rifled limbs julius rises up, holding his palm open for jason’s to fold over. “come.”

“where to?”

“you have to meet yourself once in your life. come, i’ll lead you.”

doubt melts off jason’s nerves and he accepts his hand into his, fingers squeezing his fist. it feels silken to his own palm, which is fenced in scars, pink as white. presuming a flinch from julius he holds onto his breath, but once helped off the ground and dusting the sod off his pants, he is nudged back to breathing as he is lead off the meadow, into the grove of anemone, and step out on the other side on ankles, battered in bitemarks of nettle and thornbush.   

                                                           ⁂

“it’s okay, jason. you won’t have to get in.”

tethered a bit off the lakeside he sits, crouched and hugging a boulder as far as his arms their sinews can stretch. it is not to prefer before julius, but with freshwater up to his calves, jason regards himself as without rescue, whereupon he gripes, “it’s too much. please, come back.”

“...vic said that too the day he decided to come to the lake with us.”, julius paws onward, weighing his words with care as he climbs up the brim and afterward use the linen above his abdomen to dry the lichen off his palms. “though we hurried to, he had already run back home before eli, bo, and i got up.” of course they had followed, comforting their younger brother by the plum trees among wasps and dew. thereafter they had agreed to try another day and make tarts in lieu.

“vic?”

“yes, my little brother, victor. elijah and bo are our oldest… william and zebulon are our youngest, in that order.” he pauses. “…and john, lucas, and joseph… they were born before vic and after me.”

his teeth play then on untuned strings as they screech between sore gums, hidden from jason to keep him catching its cry with his sight. but he knows better than not to trust his gut, and thus he sets his arms free, using them for linchpins once crawling on his fours to the brim while julius watches him, curious until content.

“just... don’t push me in...”, jason falters while he grasps the earth on his fours and julius wades in once more, tiptoeing astern as to bait waves of neither water nor blood.

“i’d never.” sunlight slide down his thin fingers when all then of them point at the sky where birds come in garlands and no clouds are to be found. meanwhile, jason’s abdomen whines as he forces his curved spine to unbend—the farther away he can be and yet witness his own reflection, the better. julius, however, wants to admire up close. thus, he does.

“…do you see yourself?”

“yeah.”

“so what do you think?”

“...i’m not much to look at.”

“how about now?”, julius asks low when he, with no thought of clothing, kneels down before his reflection and it dissolves as his fingertips flit across.

“better.”, jason nods low.

“...because you see less of yourself.”

it was not a question but whilst pulling himself up, another nod is the affirmation jason offers before he hides his mouth against the shoulder, teeth nipping at its skin till it goes red. if he only knew how he sees him, julius mourns to himself but nevertheless forces out a bashful smile, though the words ease off his tongue,

“i think i like you better.”

his irises, warm with yellow in ultramarine, look back at his ones, pale in cobalt, and their throats lace in pollen, their bodies pulling one another’s into the water. soaking wet with sternum aglow they remain, hands on each other when sharing hugs as well as frolicsome shoves, bringing forth giggles which erupt like hiccups do. that is, until jason is to discover julius’ love for underwater breathing—submerging their bodies, charged with soft, visceral electricity that killed neither.

                                                          ⁂

“singing along?”, jason smiles to julius when they walk back side by side. a leaf of reed rests against his mouth, for soon before it had made a woodwind for his lips. but julius’ have already hurried themselves to silence and the lower one gets drawn into his mouth like it had been at dawn. he had felt sure that his hums were low enough to elude the other’s ears, but alas, he had been wrong.

“no.”

with eyes that mean no harm as they roll, jason lowers the reed and his gaze as his thumbs begin to rove. “can you tell more about your brothers? what are they like?”

“...eli and bo are much taller than i am. they grew alongside each other and after i had been born i dovetailed their arms in bed. and then our youngers brothers came, and i attached to them as well... but vic and will often sleeps along eli and bo so, who knows, perhaps they’ll grow tall like them… with zeb, it’s to wait and see.”

“and john, lucas, a—”

suddenly jason quiets. not from just anything, but from the three beddings which tread forward in the grass before them. by each one the wood anemones that has been spared from getting slept into the ground grow. all triplets, they are inseparable but the one to the right, the home of a tree whose height has been reduced to that of a stump. eyes turn aside, but not julius’. the thin membranes of his have gone glossy and his pupils miniscule. if they could talk, they would in snivels and on to sobs. but devoid of words for to utter, julius drops on his knees before the bed on the left, carefully places his two palms past its edge, and puts his mouth at rest against the cold earth.

“hello, john.”, he whispers midst a tone, threatful of lament. “please... don’t be afraid. you will meet us all and be held for as long as you want. i promise you that. your brothers love you… give a hug to our mother from us. tell her we love her, too.” a familiar kiss to seal his prayer is pressed with two more to come and hindered by five, spiritual fingers that have his neck locked in a lurid halo round his pileum, jason is forced to look further, and when he is to drop his jaw in apology another five push it shut, he is also forced to listen. “hello, lucas... we miss you. you don’t have to say that you ran back here. you can say that you fought, if you want. but please, come back. if just for a day, come back. we love you.” his brothers do not lie above. “hello, joseph.” nor do they, hidden under the wilted, torn wood anemones. “…what our father did to you was cruel… we love you so, little brother. nothing can wane our love for you… father did not understand this... i don’t know if he still do...” they lie underneath, “but he isn’t here. you won’t have to see him if you decide to come back…” in the roots of the dogwoods they were begotten from, “please, come back.” and since then have gone astray.

and julius, hiding his face behind his hand, hobbles up on two to cry to jason’s heart as neither of them return yet another night, though brimmed with stars to guide them.

“are you leaving?”

brought into a pinky-hold, jason swears him his reassuring, “no.”

                                                          ⁂

though they couldn’t know for sure, that evening they shared, vulnerable and hurting, had changed it all. the year has gone from late spring, on to summer, and at last, before wintertime, early autumn.

tears no longer ferment within julius, bringing forth fungi to strike his veins and taint him orange. nor is he today afraid that there might be some left, for he trusts jason as he has trusted him with tending for skin as it has shed, several times over. his scar tissue flickers now in peach and eggshell, and the skeleton that had once shattered in broken joints have healed to become pliable. during the summer they had run and stumbled with purpose to roll about, fished for mussels and their little treasures to make jewelry with, and above all, cried till all hurt got out to make space for the wonder right in front of them.  

“julius?”, jason interrupts the crickets as they lie—himself with his head on julius’ lap and his on a tussock for a pillow—amid the meadow where they first met. on both’s fourth, left finger, a silver ring of their size has been put.

“yeah?”

“i’ve been thinking.”

“...what about?”

“i want you be with you in winter as i was in spring and summer—as i am now, in autumn.”

“...jason, what are you saying?”

“that i love you, and that if you want me as i want you, you have me forever.” 

                                                          ⁂

cut with the first gash, jason and his wound slowly spatter apart. tendons stretch and muscles writhes and throbs whilst in aerial hands. sap leaves his tear-ducts and nostrils, his wrist gathering them all to use for thread besides those who julius steals with his lips, kissing them gone.

“i love you, honey.”, he hums against his cheek, bathing in the scent of honey and sandalwood one last time before theirs are to coalesce. “i love you so...” the blade drips his tummy crimson whilst it beats wild against its edge—closer to jason, his love. “i’m so happy to be yours as you are mine.” curls drape each face, blonde to caramel, which the lovers brush away and arrange, noses touching and teeth showing until their foreheads press and julius bids, “jason, do me as i’ve done you.”

and the second gash forms in wished hold, shroud atop of his own. pushed upward, a twincut is brought to be whereon their chests press close, ribcages of honeycomb cracking open for the nectar to run while their arms hold onto each others’ back—hearts unfolding and sealing their pleats upon touch. whilst jason smears the sap off his wrist and runs his fingers alongside their seam of skins, julius kisses him—his mouth a butterfly in frenzy—in line with his drawn stitches, needle casted in bumblebee fur and freshwater pearl.

this is their home—a meadow where wildflowers grow and mice, rabbits, and voles delve dens and cavort. here birds come to make nests for their young, as do deer on the ground and runaway cats until they feel ready to be found and return home.

here are his brothers, all eight of them—elijah and bo, twining each other’s hands and holding them high above their heads to bestow curtains of chiffon for the young to play with and hare through. william and victor, throwing edelweiss as far as they will go before they float down and strew around them. john, lucas, and joseph, smiling and blessing the earth with laughter that encourage petals to twirl and whirl.

and here is his sycamore, jason.

and here is he, his willow.

together at home, at last and evermore.