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thenerdykneazle · 7 months

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Slytherin Green

Summary: Sebastian is none too pleased to discover you've borrowed Garreth's jumper after his experimental potion ruined your usual uniform. Your duelling practice threatens to turn into a falling out.

Seb's POV

Sebastian Sallow x Ravenclaw F!MC

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, 7th year, aged-up characters, jealousy, CMNF, Seb being toxic

Word count: 5129

Sebastian owed you the world. He would be rotting in Azkaban if it wasn’t for you. He’d spent all of sixth year trying to earn the second chance you’d given him. He helped you on every new mission to root out the last of the Ashwinders or chase off poachers. He helped you with homework. He practically followed you around like a lost puppy, or so Imelda would say. But he couldn’t help if he wanted to be around you all the time.

He'd grown to have quite the crush on you. Not that he’d ever admit it. He didn’t want you to think everything he did for you was a ploy for your affections. Besides, he knew how you felt about him. He’d find you slumped against Ominis as you both napped against a wall. He saw how you’d ruffle Garreth’s hair when you teased him. You gave Natty and Poppy hugs constantly. Even Imelda would get a punch to the arm or a squeeze of her cheeks, much to her dismay. But you never touched him. Not on purpose, anyway.

There was the odd brush of a hand as you trekked through the forest or press of your sides together while hiding from dark wizards or dangerous beasts. But, unlike the rest of your friends, you seemed averse to touch him. He’d dream about it being different sometimes. The heat of your hands sinking into his arms as he tangled your hair around his fingers. Your hot mouth on his neck. The warmth of your body flush against his.

There was a chill that had sunk into his bones ever since he used that damned relic. He felt certain you could warm him in a way blankets, cloaks, and the common room fire always failed. Their heat couldn’t reach deep enough. But you. You would seep into his very soul. He was sure of it.

He wondered if you could feel the chill. If that was what made you loathe to touch him. He worried further if you were simply repulsed by him – by the things you now knew him to be capable of. Maybe you only kept him close to ensure he didn’t slip back into dark magic.

He knew any further misdeeds of his would weigh on your conscience. You would blame yourself for letting him walk free. So, he was determined to ensure that you didn’t regret your choice. He hadn’t even touched a dark tome since the end of fifth year. Not just for you. He’d realized how much he almost lost due to the seductive forces of malevolent magic and decided to stop before he made even worse mistakes. That didn’t mean he’d given up on curing Anne, of course. He was searching for any sort of unusual medicine that might help her. He’d written healers across the continent about her symptoms to see if they had any ideas. So far, he hadn’t had any luck, but he held out hope.

You helped him, too. You spent every spare moment sat across from him at a library table, reading old healer manuals and texts on curse breaking. You’d even gotten Professor Weasley to help tutor you on the latter subject. Sebastian would’ve felt guilty if he didn’t love spending the time with you so much. He cherished every moment spent with you, partly because he feared that, at any moment, you might cut him out – that his sins would catch up with him, and you’d abandon him.

He couldn’t take the thought of not having you in his life. He was paranoid about someone stealing you away. As he entered potions class, he was faced with one of the many things that made him nervous about the prospect.

You were already at your station, which you shared with Garreth.

That day, you were revising brewing veritaserum before you would learn to make the antidote next class. Sebastian didn’t like the mischievous look on the ginger’s face as he whispered to you.

You just rolled your eyes at him.

“Good morning, Sebastian!” you said with a bright smile when you noticed him.

“Hello, MC,” he replied, returning your grin. “Still on for some duelling practice this evening?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” you vowed.

He beamed at you. “Brilliant! Meet you after dinner, then?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” you replied.

Sebastian’s gaze flicked over to your tablemate. His smile vanished. “Weasley.”

“Sallow,” the gregarious Gryffindor replied coolly.

The lesson was torture. Despite having learned the potion the previous year, Sebastian almost mucked it up three separate times. He even almost used a fwooper feather instead of jobberknoll. He kept getting distracted looking over at your station. Garreth kept leaning over and whispering to you, and you kept giggling in response. Smarmy git should focus on his studies more, Sebastian thought.

Suddenly, a cyan plume of steam rose from Garreth’s cauldron, forming a cloud overhead. Blue slime began raining down on your whole station. You shrieked.

“Whoops! That wasn’t supposed to happen!” Garreth said as he stared curiously at his cauldron.

Sharp quickly vanished the sludge from the cauldron, but the cloud kept growing. “Everyone out!” he growled before looking pointedly at Garreth and MC. “Except you two.”

The professor sounded exasperated. Sebastian was taken out in the current of fleeing students. As he left, he could see Sharp casting several spells at the cloud in vain. He could also see you were splattered in blue goo.

“I don’t know why Sharp is punishing you for Garreth’s idiocy,” Sebastian groused as you both walked from the Great Hall to the Undercroft. You were goo-free now, fortunately.

“Well, I did dare him to brew it,” you admitted.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “You really shouldn’t encourage him. He’s a hazard.”

You shrugged. “It was so boring, though. It’s worth the detention.”

Sebastian frowned harder at the thought of you and Garreth sat together in detention. “What time is that again?” he asked.

You sighed. “Eight,” you replied before stepping into the old clock.

Sebastian followed close behind you. “I’ll have to make quick work of you, then,” he teased.

You sent him a scandalized glance over your shoulder. “Merlin, that sounds a bit rude, doesn’t it?” you replied.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that!” he said in an exasperated tone, but his cheeks coloured, nonetheless. He hoped it was too dark for you to tell. “Besides, I’m not falling for your innocent Ravenclaw act.”

You spun on your heel and batted your lashes affectedly at him. It still made his heart race. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said innocently before shooting him a sarcastic smile. “Now are you going to keep prattling on or ‘make quick work of me’?”

Sebastian’s voice caught in his throat as a string of lewd images flashed through his mind – mostly of you on top of or bent over the desk you were walking towards. His ears were burning as you smirked at him.

“Snake got your tongue?” you asked, amused.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “No,” he said lamely as he unhooked his robes. He draped them over a crate.

You shed your own robe, as well, tossing it over the chair as you always did. You began rolling your oversized sleeves up past your elbows.

Sebastian saw red, literally and figuratively. “What the fuck is that?” he hissed.

You looked down at the crimson jumper and then back up at him. “What?” you said brusquely. “My shirt was stained from the goo, so Garreth lent me his jumper. So, no fire spells today, please and thank you.”

Sebastian’s jaw tensed. “That looks absolutely ridiculous,” he said harshly.

You shrugged. “Better than looking like I have doxy sick all over me,” you argued. “Now stop being so childish. It’s not like I’ve switched houses. It’s just a jumper.”

“People exchange scarves when they’re courting,” he said. “You look like you’ve gone off and shagged him in a broom cupboard!”

“Go fuck yourself, Sebastian,” you replied acerbically. He could tell you were more upset than you were letting on. Your shoulders were tight, and your jaw was clenched. There was a fire smouldering in your eyes. He was surprised you hadn’t–

With a quick flick of your wand, you sent a nonverbal blasting curse at him. It hit him in the shoulder, leaving a large but minor burn. Your nonverbal spells were always weaker. “Ow!” he whinged. “That’s hardly sporting!”

“Well, you’re an arsehole. You don’t deserve me being sporting,” you bit back.

“Have it your way,” he growled before send a slew of spells in your direction.

You blocked the first three and dodged out of the way of the last one, which was a blasting curse of his own. “Oi! I said no fire!” you barked, glancing down to check for scorch marks.

Sebastian glared at you. “Oh, yes, I’d hate for your little keepsake to be damaged!”

He sent two more blasting curses at you. You dove, rolling out of their path. When you got back to your feet, you started your counterattack with a stunner. “You. Are. So. Frustrating!”

You punctuated every word with a basic cast.

“I’m frustrating?” he bellowed. His eyes darkened as he prowled in a circle around you, poised to strike the instant your arm twitched. “You are the most infuriating witch I’ve ever met!”

You rolled your eyes. You pivoted to stay facing him as he stalked around you. “You’re the one upset about a bloody jumper!”

“Well, you’re the one acting like it belongs in the deepest vault at Gringotts,” he shot back.

You scoffed. “What do you even care?”

He cared that it was Garreth sodding Weasley’s jumper and as red as his stupid hair.

He cared that you were acting like some moon-eyed, besotted little girl.

He cared that, while you wouldn’t even touch him, you were pleased as punch to be wearing another man’s clothes.

“I don’t care,” he asserted, losing most of his venom as he aimed for nonchalance. “It’s just…embarrassing.”

“Well, if I’m so embarrassing–” you started, hurling an exploding charm at him. He dodged it, and it blew apart a crate, instead. “–then you don’t need to be seen with me.”

You hit him with a banishing charm he was too stunned to dodge. He flew back into a large stack of old books, scattering them all over the floor. “What are you saying?” he asked as he scrambled back to his feet. Fear had edged into his voice.

“I’m saying you don’t bloody owe me anything!” you fumed amidst sending a flurry of spells at his head. He blocked them all and even sent back some spells of his own. You growled in rage as a severing charm caught your arm. “If you hate me so much, then you can fuck right off! I won’t make you hang around.”

You felt like your shoulder might pop right out with the force you used slashing your wand through the air. Your spells deflected off Sebastian’s shield charm or hit random object across the room as he evaded them. By the time you stopped casting, several small piles of rubble were smouldering and you were panting to catch your breath.

You expected a counterattack, but Sebastian dropped his wand as soon as you stopped.

His whole face had fallen. “I didn’t…I don’t hate you,” he said quietly as he stepped forward through the tattered books and splintered wood. You let your wand arm drop.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you spat as he approached.

“How could you think I hate you? I–” He choked back the words. “I care about you so much.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Not more than you hate Gryffindors, apparently,” you said bitterly.

“The only reason I put up with that self-righteous lot is for you!” he said, jabbing a finger into your chest. You took a step back. “You’re the one that can’t seem to stand being around me.”

You rolled your eyes. “How d’you figure that?” you asked, incredulous.

“I’m the only person you keep at arm’s length. You snuggle up to Ominis like you’re a couple of crup puppies. You, Natty, and Poppy are practically conjoined twins. You play with Weasley’s stupid ginger hair all the time – and you’re in his sodding jumper. You’re even touchy with Imelda. And you act like I’d burn you or give you some incurable disease if you got too close.”

“You’re insane! I…I don’t do that,” you said, but your voice faltered.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “You’re not hiding your little crush from anyone, love,” he bit out, making you blush madly. “It’s rather obvious that you’re smitten with Weasley. But the point is–”

“I don’t have feelings for Garreth,” you interjected.

“Yeah, obviously,” he said sarcastically, giving the hem of the jumper a swift tug.

He pulled harder than he’d meant to, sending you stumbling forward into him. You let out a little gasp as you smacked into his chest. He caught you by the arms to steady you. You hissed in pain, and Sebastian immediately released you. There was blood on his right hand.

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” he said, quickly reaching into his pocket. He took out a phial of green liquid. He pulled the stopper out with his teeth, avoiding using his bloodied hand, and passed it to you.

You took the potion from him gingerly, and he noted how you carefully avoided brushing his fingers. You downed the brew in one gulp. His eyes caught on the column of your neck as you swallowed. He blinked and forced himself to look away.

You returned the empty phial, and he pocketed it. He stepped closer before carefully pulling the cut in your sleeve apart to inspect your skin. It was already mended.

He turned his head to your face, examining you with concern marring his features. “Does it still hurt?”

You stared at him with wide eyes. “Um, no. It’s fine now…thank you,” you said, looking down and taking a step backwards.

Sebastian huffed as you pulled away from him – like you always did. “That is exactly what I’m talking about!”

You furrowed your brow. “What is?”

“You’re constantly putting space between us,” he said. His breath caught as a realization struck him. “Are…are you afraid of me?”

“Afraid of you?” you asked like it was a laughable idea.

He ran his left hand through his hair. “Well, if it’s not that and you don’t hate me, then what is it?” He was clearly exasperated.

You stared up at him, biting your lip anxiously. You let your gaze fall again, landing on his bloody palm. You scourgified his hand for him, since his wand was still lying on the floor amongst the wreckage. He waited out your silence. “I just…” You took a deep breath. “It’s difficult for me to be close to you.”

You glanced up at him. He looked gutted. He stayed rigid, even though what he wanted most was to reach out to you. “But why? What did I do? I’ll fix it, I promise! Just tell me what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Seb,” you said, unable to stop the flush from coming to your cheeks. “It’s just hard because it’s not the same with you. I…I like you. And I know you don’t like me. Obviously. But it just hurts to be close to you when it can’t be in the way I want.”

Sebastian blinked rapidly. He looked stunned. “What?” he nearly yelled.

“Please don’t make it a big deal,” you pled. “It’s really not.”

Sebastian was still reeling. “You like me? As in fancy me?”

You just nodded.

In a flash, he had your face in his hands and his lips on yours. He kissed you fiercely, and the warmth of your lips spread through his whole face and down his neck. The heat from your cheeks seeped into his palms. He pulled back before you could even reciprocate. You just gaped at him.

“Why on earth would you think I don’t like you?” he asked, bewildered.

“I heard you telling Isaac Cooper last week that I’m a terrible dancer and he should ask Natty to the Halloween dance, instead,” you said, looking at your shoes.

Sebastian rolled his eyes even as he stroked his thumbs over your cheeks fondly. “Because I didn’t want to watch him spin you around the Great Hall all night or snog you behind the jack-o’-lanterns. Because I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else.”

“You mean you were jealous?” you asked. You gasped. “That’s why you’re so peeved over a silly jumper!”

You were wearing an arrogant smirk now.

Sebastian glared at you. “Obviously, you silly witch,” he said grumpily. “Now take the ruddy thing off! I’m not kissing you again while you’re in it.”

“Is that so?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “But it’s so cozy. And it smells like butterscotch and sarsaparilla. It’s quite nice, don’t you think?”

You were biting back a smile, but Sebastian wasn’t amused.

His hands dropped from your face. “No, I don’t,” he gritted out. “Off. Now.”

You gave a shocked gasp. “That’s no way to treat a lady, Sebastian!” you teased.

He narrowed his gaze at you. “You can take off the jumper, or I can do it for you,” he said darkly. “But I can’t promise I’ll stop there.”

Your eyes sparked with excitement. “And you’ll overpower me how, exactly?” you asked with a cocky grin. “You don’t even have your wand.”

He fisted a hand into your hair as he leaned in, letting his lips ghost over your ear. “I don’t need it to make you beg,” he replied in a low voice. You’d already admitted how affected you were by him. He was feeling rather confident.

His words shot straight to your core. He leaned back to watch your reaction. You licked your lips as his eyes dragged over you. Grabbing the hem with both hands, he pulled the jumper off over your head. He flung it across the room. You were left in your thin combinations and trousers. Immediately, his lips were back on yours. He held your hips as he backed you toward the desk. His fingers flexed into your curves as he memorized the feel of them.

As your bum hit the desk, his hands slid up your back, leaving a trail of fire. He pressed his body flush against yours, eliminating the remaining space between you, and he gave an involuntary shiver. Holding you was like stepping into a warm home after a hike through a snowy forest. Breaking your kiss, Sebastian dipped his head to press his lips along your collar bone. His tongue darted out, tasting the salt on your skin. A moan escaped your lips, and he smirked against you.

“Shut up,” you grumbled.

“I didn’t say anything, love,” he replied before nipping at your skin.

You breathed in a sharp gasp before he recaptured your lips. He slid his tongue forward, licking into your mouth. He groaned with need as he tasted you, whispers of the tea and chocolate pudding you’d had at dinner meeting his tongue. He’d imagined it on countless nights, but now he had the real thing. Then he felt you smirk.

He brought one of his hands around to your front and palmed your breast through the thin cotton covering it. He could feel your nipple perk up at his touch.

“Sebastian,” you whimpered as you panted for breath.

Much better. He quickly began on the buttons lining the front of your undergarment. “Need something, darling?” he asked as he pulled your top open. He brought his hands to cup under both breasts as he kissed down your sternum. He peppered kiss over each mound, avoiding where you’d be most sensitive.

You were keening continuously. Your hands tangled in his hair. He could feel you trying to guide him gently to where you wanted him.

“You need to say it, love,” he said firmly.

You let out a frustrated whine. “I want you to k-kiss me,” you managed.

Sebastian kissed your lips briefly. “Like that? Or here?” He kissed your shoulder.

You shook your head urgently. Your teeth had sunk deep into your bottom lip. The desperation in your face made Sebastian’s cock jump.

He kissed the inside of your breast, then looked at you expectantly.

You let out a pathetic groan. “Please, Sebastian.”

Your whole face was scarlet, though he wasn’t sure if it was from need or embarrassment.

He took mercy on you and latched onto your nipple, massaging his tongue into it as his hand kneaded your other breast. Your moan echoed through the underground chamber. He worked your clothes off your shoulders as his tongue flicked back and forth over your nipple. Your top half was stripped bare. Sebastian released your breast and leaned back to admire you. He took in every contour with reverent attention. His saliva glistened on your skin, but the sheen was already fading.

Using your purchase in his mane, you pulled Sebastian into another heated kiss. He let you explore his mouth with your tongue as he worked to undo your trousers. He moved down to your shoulder, tracing down the long lines of your neck on the way there. He sucked a dark mark into the top of your shoulder, a much more lasting sign of his presence with you.

Your hands shot down to his shoulders, and your nails dug into his jacket. He slid his own hand into your unbuttoned trousers, slipping underneath your combinations and down to your core. He groaned at how slick it was.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You feel so fucking good.”

You moaned as his fingers slid through your swollen folds. He found your nub at the apex and stroked over it languidly. Your hands on his shoulders tightened, and your head fell back. Your breathing grew more and more ragged as he switched to quick little circles.

“Oh gods, Sebastian!” you cried.

“That’s it,” he praised. “I want you to come for me, MC. Can you come like this?”

You nodded eagerly as a whine escaped you. Your lip was back trapped between your teeth, and your eyes were screwed shut.

“Look at me,” Sebastian demanded. He wanted to watch you fall apart. Your thighs were trembling, and he suspected you were close.

Your eyes snapped open.

“Good girl,” he said. “Let me see you. See what I do to you.”

“Fuck, Seb! I…I’m…” you tried. You cut yourself off with a cry of pleasure.

Your hips jerked against Sebastian’s hand. Your eyes had glazed over, but you kept them open. You keened and panted as your orgasm flowed through you.

“Thank you. You’re so beautiful,” Sebastian whispered before pressing a kiss to your temple as he slid his hand out of your trousers.

You laughed. “I should be thanking you.”

He gripped your waistband with both hands, hooking his thumbs underneath your combinations, as well. “May I?”

“Gods, yes!” you replied.

He tugged the clothes down your legs, crouching down and helping you step out of them along with your shoes and stockings. He kissed your thigh tenderly on the way back up. As he stood, you began unbuttoning his waistcoat and tugging his shirt out of his trousers.

Just then, your wand started buzzing in your pile of discarded clothes. Your head snapped in its direction. “Fuck! I’ve got to get going,” you said.

Sebastian pinned your hips to the desk with his own. “If you think I’m letting you run off to see Weasley before I’m through with you…”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s detention, not a social call.”

His jaw tensed. “We can do this here, or I can come and fuck you in front of Weasley and Sharp. And I don’t think you want to be expelled, so you’re not leaving until my cum is running down your thighs so that the next time you think of accepting a jumper from Garreth bloody Weasley, you’ll remember the feeling of my cock inside you and your tits in my mouth and think better of how you cover them.”

You were staring up at him with lust-blown eyes. “Merlin, you’re such a prick!” you chided, even as you were undoing his belt. You added under your breath, “It shouldn’t be so hot.”

Sebastian grabbed you under your arse and lifted you onto the edge of the desk. He leaned over you as he gave a punishing kiss, laying you back in the process. Gods, he would snog you for hours if you had the time. As he stood back up, he undid his trousers and pulled himself out of them. He held your thigh with one hand and the base of his cock with the other. He allowed himself to stroke his head through your slick folds a few times before lining himself up at your entrance.

You were propped up on your elbows and staring in awe at where your bodies were about to be joined.

Sebastian pressed forward, sinking into your heat. Finally. It was like sliding into a warm bath after a rough fight. “Merlin, it’s like you were fucking made for me, MC!”

Every thrust into you was pure bliss. Your tits bounced with every rock into you, and Sebastian couldn’t resist bending down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth again. He was pleased with the moans that poured from your lips. The pace of his hips suffered, and he didn’t have the time for it, but he kept sucking on your perfect breast, anyway. And he couldn’t find it in himself to feel sorry about it. It was the first time he got to have you – though, it definitely wouldn’t be the last if he had anything to say about it – and he was going to enjoy it fully, damn it!

He moved to kiss your lips, slipping his tongue back into your mouth to remind himself how you taste. Then, he finally righted himself and focused on the task at hand. With a bruising grip on your hips, he pounded into you over and over. He watched as your body clung to him while he pulled back before disappearing inside once more. All he could think about was filling you up. Marking his territory from the inside out. Because now that he had you, he’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers. You were finally his – just like he’d been yours since fifth year.

“You feel incredible, Seb!” you moaned, your back arching off the desk as you’d long abandoned propping yourself up.

“I’m gonna make you come again,” he vowed in a strangled voice, making you whimper in anticipation. “That’s it. Be a good girl and come on my cock.”

He released one of your legs, which wrapped around his waist as he thumbed your clit. Your breath hitched. “Fuck, Seb!”

Your thighs began to tremble, and your chest was covered in a sheen of sweat. Sebastian’s teeth sank into his lip. You looked positively delicious as you neared your peak. The noises you made were obscene. Your body writhed in pleasure. Your cunt was clamped around him. He felt ready to explode. But he knew you were close, so he did everything he could to hold off his own climax. But it was so hard. You were in ecstasy because of him. The fact made his head spin and his cock ache.

Your breathing halted altogether as your body tensed, and then suddenly you let out a keening cry and gasped for breath. Your walls fluttered around him, and Sebastian went rigid as he came with you. Waves of pleasure crashed through him as he hissed out a string of expletives.

He collapsed forward, exhausted. You drew him into a kiss with a hand on his cheek. It was slow but still full of passion as your mouths melded together. He rested his forehead on yours and panted in your breaths like he was stealing the air straight from your lungs.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly.

“Yeah,” you agreed, a smile tugging at your lips.

He kissed you again, and then nuzzled his nose against yours when he pulled back. “I love you.” The words had bubbled up, unable to be contained in his throat. All air left his lungs with their escape. Instead, they filled with panic.

“I love you, too, Sebastian,” you admitted. “I think I have for a long time.”

He could breathe again. He scooped you into his arms and just held you against his chest. He never wanted to let you go. He pressed a kiss to the love bite he’d left on your shoulder. You let out a contented sigh as your hands rubbed up and down his back lazily.

Suddenly, you tensed. “Fuck! I’ve got to go!”

You slid out from under him and began collecting your clothes. Sebastian fished his wand out of the wreckage and summoned the jumper. He mended the cut from his severing charm and vanished your blood from the sleeve. He’d rather rip it to shreds, but he knew you’d want to return it intact. He slid off his suit jacket and transfigured it into a Slytherin jumper.

“Have you seen–?” you started as you looked up after doing up your trousers. Your face broke into amusement as you saw Sebastian holding out the emerald jumper to you.

You took it and slid it over your head.

Sebastian smirked at you. “Green’s much more your colour,” he asserted.

“That makes two of us,” you quipped, winking at him as you pulled your cloak on.

You snagged Garreth’s jumper from Sebastian and rushed for the door.

“What? No kiss goodbye?” he asked.

You spun around, smirking at him as you walked backwards. “I’ll need to wash up properly after detention. You can meet me in the prefect’s bathroom. I think you’ll quite enjoy just how – and where – I’d like to kiss you.”

Sebastian’s pulse jumped. His eyes darkened as they fell on your lips – his witch’s lips. He was still speechless as you slipped through the gate, chuckling at him.

Several thoughts were running through his head all at once. The first was that Ominis would kill him if he found the Undercroft in this state. The second was that you were in need of a date to the Halloween Dance. The third, and most important, was that he should thank Garreth for his inadvertent assistance in getting you to admit your feelings for Sebastian – and tell him to keep his sodding wardrobe to himself.

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hannahyeaman · 2 months

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Hello,

I'm an adult fiction author—fantasy and contemporary fantasy—and my debut fantasy releases May 28, 2024.

I initially got the idea for SOUL-BOUND in early April 2017, wanting to explore how a winged character would navigate their world without flight. But I didn't truly start writing it until January 2019 and now I'm finally pursuing publishing it!

Here's the gorgeous cover! Illustrated by the wonderful @oxiente, who has drawn Mika and Roshan a lot for me over the past few years. I'm really grateful that she took on this project. She delivered beyond my expectations! There are so many cute details! 🥺

PITCH

When a tsundere princess with healing magic loses her flight during her quest to heal corrupted crystal roots, she must depend on a charming vagabond's aid to help her before their avian world collapses to corruption.

SUMMARY

Avem, a continent inhabited by bird-like humans called Avians, consists of seven territories, each of which contains a crystal root: a treelike sanctuary preserving magic. Avians cannot wield the land’s magic themselves.

Except, Mika, the princess of Passíer. However, her father forbids her to use it out of concern for her safety.

Due to the expanding corruption from Cantio; a fallen territory under Passíer’s jurisdiction because of its damaged root, Zayn the militant king of Nyx, suggests Scorching Cantio. To avoid such a catastrophic outcome, Mika flees from home, determined to heal Cantio’s root herself.

In Cantio, she meets Roshan, a vagabond playing double agent to protect what’s left of his uncorrupted homelands. Upon noticing her pink feathers, unique for her specific species, he cautions her to leave before she’s captured and used as coin. She snubs his warning and is nearly taken captive.

During his efforts to help her, Roshan is wounded. Mika heals him with her magic, unintentionally and unknowingly bonding them together.

When the quest costs Mika’s wing and grounds her, she accepts Roshan’s offer to escort her across Avem to heal the damaged roots before corruption destroys their world.

If you like birb characters, the ship dynamic from Anastasia and Tangled, books like Dance of Thieves and The Girl at Midnight, and prose like Naomi Novik and Margaret Rogerson, then stick around 🩷

eBook pre-order link!

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bardcore-jaskier · 1 year

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♡My immortal Jaskier headcanons♡

So here are my headcanons, because I refuse to believe that our ball of sunshine has an expiration date...

So, I know Lauren said that Jaskier not aging in the show was just a filming mistake, something they simply forgot to do and on a completely logical level I am fully aware that in canon Jaskier is completely human, 100%. And I also know that they're not gonna change it, no matter how much some of us may wish they did (Although why not? They already strayed so far from the books and made so many changes, might as well go the extra mile)

Realistic-ish headcanons:

- Jaskier is part elf, perhaps quarter elf like Yennefer, it is an entirely justifiable headcanon, theoretically, Jaskier's human father could have married a half elf commoner woman (who may or may not have had the pointy tips on her ears cut off with a knife to avoid human prejudice)

- Jaskier has a fae ancestor, somewhere many many generations back in his ancestry, so his entire family is suspiciously long lived but nobody cares because Lettenhove isn't politically important and therefore doesn't catch the attention of the prejudiced Nobles farther up the royal court chain.

- Jaskier unintentionally drinks the same elixir mages/sorcerers drink to prolong their life. I read that chaos wielders don't have naturally long lifespans, they semi-regularly drink an elixir with mandrake roots in it to slow the aging process. According to Witcher Wiki, you can only buy mandrake root in Lindenvale and my headcanon is that Jaskier experiments with many different tea blends to see which one is more effective for soothing his throat after singing. So at the age of 29-30, he wanders into Lindenvale and buys some dried mandrake to make a tea, after one sip he felt more rejuvenated than ever and since that day, mandrake root tea has become his number one go-to, he drinks it as often as he can.

More fanfic centric, less canon possible headcanons:

- Jaskier is a Dryad. (Yayyy trans Jaskier headcanon) Since Lettenhove is so tiny, it isn't even on the Witcher continent map, but a simple Google search says that it is Located somewhere in Kerack. Kerack borders with Brokilon, so it's kind of a nifty little loophole for fanfic writers to use and place Lettenhove somewhere near the forests where Dryads live.

And while most Dryads treat any man that enters their realm as a mere sperm donor, Witcher Wiki does also mention that some Dryads can form emotional relationships and fall in love with humans and/or elves, but in the end, all Dryad born offspring is AFAB. So imagine this, Jaskier's father falls in love with a Dryad, she falls in love with him, they have Jaskier, Jaskier notices early on that he feels like a boy and his rich Viscount father hires a mage to help Jaskier transition early.

- Jaskier is a higher vampire, higher vampires are a HIGHLY secretive society, even in canon, part of the reason why even Witchers have so little information about them is because they prefer to hide in plain sight and are ridiculously good at it. Jaskier doesn't age, has no self-preservation instincts, doesn't buy a horse and yet still keeps up with Geralt on foot for 20 years. Jaskier's personality isn't fake, he doesn't act like someone else, it's all him, but his clumsiness is a little bit of an act, he also purposefully avoids physical fights, it comes across as fear of getting hurt but in reality it's because he's afraid of appearing too strong and exposing himself. Lettenhove doesn't appear on maps, because it doesn't exist legally, it's just a castle hidden in the woods, a safe place for higher vampires, kinda like Kaer Morhen is for Witchers, Jaskier's parents just happen to be the ones who run it.

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redtsundere-writes · 1 month

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Can you write a Sukuna x Uraume fic, where they both go to Mexico since well....why not??? and Sukuna is tortured by the all of the spicy shit and all while at the same time loving pulque and other Mexican foods that are not spicy? if you can add Sukuna and Uraume going back to Japan after learning a large ammount of swearwords in Mexican like "Te voy a tumbar los ojos, pendejo" "Cagaste cabron" "the voy a chingar a tu putísima madre wey" and something along dose lines, it would be AMAZING...thank you!

Masiosare | Sukuna x Uraume (English)

mexican!sukuna ryomen x uraume

ENGLISH VERSION! ! ! (Haz click aquí para la versión en Español!)

Sypnosis: Sukuna discovers he is Mexican and wants to visit Mexico with Uraume. Contents: A LOT OF MEXICAN REFERENCES (but I explain them in case you are not part of the club, don't worry boo.) I tried to explain them as best I could so if there's something you don't understand, just let me know! Translations. A lot of them. Fluff. Is a crack fic but not really? Uraume uses They/Them pronouns. Human Sukuna. Word Count: 1583 words. Author's Note: I laughed so hard while writing this, I can do so because I am literally Mexican (iykyk) Thanks anon for the request! I rediscovered a lot of songs I usually dance to in weddings or quinceañeras. I couldn't stop bobbing my head lol. Wait... Am I turning into a señora? Welp... * = Definition on comments

Uraume is a faithful servant. They follow the supreme king wherever he wants to go. So when Sukuna asked her to go on a journey of self-discovery with him, they thought they would go to a sacred temple or a paradisiacal place in Japan. What he never expected was that he would want to go to Mexico. Uraume knew that he liked to explore new lands to conquer them later on, but traveling to another continent for funsies seemed excessive, but they did not question it.

After a long journey to discover his origin, Sukuna discovered that he was born in Mexico, but did not live there for long. So as soon as he met with Uraume again, he asked them on a journey to reconnect with his roots as any whitexican* would do. That’s how the king and his faithful servant set out on their journey to new lands.

After two days of travel, Sukuna and Uraume arrived in Cotija de la Paz, Michoacán. A lively magical town* with stone roads, leafy trees and hardworking people everywhere. The characteristic Spanish architecture, orange walls and beautiful colorful mosaics caught the attention of the newcomers. The first thing they did when they arrived was to buy new clothes to mix themselves among the locals. Sukuna bought a white guayabera* with black shorts and sandals, while Uraume opted to wear a Mexican pink* summer dress.

Once they settled in, our protagonists decided to wander aimlessly in search of something interesting to do while drinking aguas frescas* they bought in a Michoacana*. They wandered through the main park, watched the squirrels sprinting across the lawn and the people setting up the rides for the summer fair. They sat on a rusty bench to watch in fascination the gigantic church that could be seen from any part of town, several locals were going out to eat after the spiritual service.

“I'm hungry,” Sukuna complained as soon as he got bored of admiring the view.

They both wandered through the town until they came across a long line to eat at a local restaurant. That could only mean they must be serving delicious food. On the plastic sign hanging from the ceiling, a pig in a chef's hat could be seen inside a boiling pot. It was a Michoacán-style carnitas restaurant. Michoacán-style carnitas are pork fried in its own lard, but the secret is that the lard is flavored.

“We'll eat here,” Sukuna decided for both of them before going into the place. Uraume only followed him closely.

As expected of a king, Sukuna cut the line causing everyone waiting to start cursing him in Spanish. They screamed things like “Metete a la fila, cabron!” (“Get in line, you bastard!”) or “¡Quitate, pendejo!” (“Get out of the way, asshole!”) Paying no attention to the rabble, they sat down at a white plastic Coca-Cola table that had an assortment of condiments, like salsa, salt and limes, in the middle. Sukuna snapped his fingers a couple of times to get the waitress attention quickly.

“Disculpe, pero debe respetar la fila.” (“Excuse me, but you must respect the line.”) The waitress asked him very angrily. To which Sukuna only answered leaving a bag full of gold coins on the table, leaving the waitress completely disconcerted but happy.

“Le traeré una orden de carnitas de inmediato.” (“I'll bring you an order of carnitas right away.) The waitress changed her attitude with a big smile as she ran to the kitchen.

Sukuna and Uraume were impressed to see the pot full of carnitas, a tower of corn tortillas and two little jars of pulque.* Uraume could see the fat dripping from the food and their mouth watered. Sukuna didn't hesitate to make himself a taco and pour some of the reddest salsa in the assortment. Uraume warned him to try it first because they heard that Mexicans love spicy food, but the king ignored him thinking his taste buds would be fine. Big mistake. The king felt his mouth on fire at the first bite. His eyes began to water and his nose began to run, but he didn't crack. Sukuna swallowed the delicious fatty meat dipped in red sauce. He took a gulp of the pulque like a thirsty man in the middle of the desert. Uraume just ate their tacos with some green salsa with a calm mind having warned him.

Night fell faster than they thought, but the rides in the plaza came to life. The center of town was filled with families walking among the rides, colored lights illuminated the streets, vendors shouted promotions at the top of their lungs, and the music of Los Angeles Azules blared from the speakers. Sukuna and Uraume had jumped on the mechanical game that seemed to attract the most people. The famous tagada, a spinning plate on which those entering had to hold on tightly without letting go, as the sudden movements made by the tagada caused people to jump or bounce off. The game began to spin as soon as the loudspeakers began to play Arremangala Arrempujala by Los Karkik's, a song that Sukuna completely hated within the first second.

“Ay wey!” A man shouted next to Sukuna, who was slipping little by little due to the sudden movements.

“I don't understand why people like this,” Sukuna commented to Uraume in boredom as they spun out of control.

“¡Ya llegó La Monja!” (“The Nun is here!”) The boy, who was controlling the game, announced.

To the surprise of the two foreigners, a man disguised as a possessed mummy entered the game and began to dance to the rhythm of the music, balancing perfectly, while the game continued to shake and spin vigorously. Sukuna and Uraume watched in bewilderment as the mummy did his sexiest dance moves in the middle of the tagada while the crowd clapped along to the rhythm of the song.

“I think that's why they like it,” Uraume commented without taking his eyes off her.

“¡Es hora del amor!” (“It's time for love!”) The boy at the controls gave the excited announcement over the microphone.

Out of nowhere, the area where Uraume was standing began to shake violently. They held on tightly to the metal bars behind them as if their life depended on it. Their body moved violently towards Sukuna because of gravity. Slowly the boy at the controls managed to get Uraume to fall sitting on Sukuna's lap. They both blushed at the situation they had gotten themselves into for wanting to get on one of the games. Even though the boy had succeeded in his task, Uraume was still bouncing up and down on his king. They tried to pull themself back to their place, but it was practically impossible.

“I'm sorry, my king!” Uraume exclaimed between stutters with pink cheeks.

“¡Vivan los novios!” (“Long live the bride and groom!”) The boy exclaimed over the microphone, followed by a wave of applause.

Finally, the ride was over, but their blushes still hadn't gone down. They were embarrassed that mere locals could put them in that awkward situation. Sukuna was starting to get annoyed that he couldn't get out of his head how adorable Uraume looked sitting on his lap. “Puta madre...” (“Fucking hell…”) He thought annoyed.

“What do you want to eat?” Sukuna asked them in an attempt to overcome the awkwardness.

“I've seen a lot of people buying from that cart, I want to know what it is,” Uraume pointed to a white cart with a hand-painted corn on the side.

It was a cart of corn on a stick.* A lady greeted them in high spirits as they approached the giant pot of boiled corn. They both ordered a corn on a stick. They watched as the lady quickly prepared their orders. First a layer of butter, then a layer of mayonnaise, salt, and a heaping helping of grated cotija cheese. They didn't know it, but they were about to taste one of Mexico's finest culinary creations.

“¿Con chile, chile del que no pica o sin chile, corazón?” (“Spicy, not so spicy or no spice, sweetheart?”) The lady asked with a friendly smile.

“Del chile que no pica.” (“Not so spicy.”) Sukuna replied, flattered by the sweet nickname.

Sukuna and Uraume continued to wander around the fair as they entertained themselves by watching people partying in their natural habitat. Although it was past midnight, the night was still young. As they walked through the games of chance and skill, a drunk ran into Uraume, causing them to drop their corn on the floor. Uraume was saddened to see the fate of their delicious snack.

“¡Oye, cabrón!” (“Hey, you bastard!”) Sukuna yelled at the man with the curse words he had learned today, not caring that his Japanese accent stood out. He handed his corn to Uraume to grab the stranger by the shoulders roughly. “¡Mira por donde pinche caminas, pendejo de mierda!” (“Watch where you're fucking walking, asshole!”) Sukuna screamed annoyed before throwing him into a trash can. Uraume thought someone would come to the drunk man's defense, but to their surprise, no one around him batted an eye at the small fight.

“Your corn, sir.” Uraume gave his snack back once Sukuna returned while wiping his hands.

“Keep it,” Sukuna told them. Uraume blushed for the kind action of his king. “I asked for not so spicy and my mouth is in fire,” he grudgingly complained. Uraume could not help but laugh.

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popponn · 5 months

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blue lock — fics.

sae

another lazy day. sae was on the sofa, and you played with his hair.

a room of two, in three parts. roommate!au ; sae is one of a kind, indeed, even as a roommate.

weekend news, at night. sae really didn't know how to react when he watched you watching him on tv.

seagull t-shirt. according to rin, sae is insufferable whenever you get involved in anything. this includes the 'ugly seagull t-shirt you bought' topic too.

from the outsider's view. kaiser gets the misfortune of meeting sae and you during a simple trip to the convenience store.

from the roots, to the blooms. [series] [ongoing] in which, itoshi sae falls in love with you, someone who simply isn’t in love with him despite every admiration you hold for him. so, naturally, the answer to this problem is to throw out all the roots of those feelings in his lungs. of course, taking that decision was easier than seeing it through when you, as easy as always, put yourself next to him even closer.

chigiri

pretty boy. once upon a time, chigiri hyoma was a pretty boy who pines. so, of course, he wanted to confess.

kurona

lazy day. kurona ranze loves you even on a slow, lazy day.

rin

a sort of. you (could) always cry beside rin, it's as simple as that.

warm hands. rin is cold, but rin is warm.

the ins and outs. a (bit of) study on how rin might love.

over a sprain. rin tended your sprained leg. grumpily.

after a long while. rin came home, finally.

a boyfriend package. itoshi rin is good at soccer. itoshi rin is not good at jokes and cheering up, but for you, he tries anyway. (aka, you are stressed and rin is there.)

isagi

a long run. isagi yoichi changes a lot after blue lock and carries changes with him.

before sleeping. isagi yoichi wanted to bite you before going to sleep.

a fool in love. downbad!isagi yoichi is a sight to behold, in a lovely handsome disaster kind of way.

soulmate au blurb + scenario. soulmate au!isagi in which of course, he thinks he got lucky and didn't think he will fall, but falls hard anyway.

how one looks. a good love is not blind to your partner's, in this case yoichi's, horrible fashion sense.

late night. isagi was supposed to be sleeping. meanwhile, you were still working.

a bit and more. isagi is an egoist, no matter how sweet he is or tries to be for you.

listener bf. isagi likes to listen to you, a lot.

a seat beside you. as your seatmate, yoichi couldn't help but notice some things about you.

a cushion, two continents away. isagi wishes he could be hugging you right now.

coincidences and flickers. - [series] [ongoing] It was perhaps the way he unwaveringly displays his love to his passion that made your gaze landed upon him. Or maybe it was even less than that and it was simply because the two of you met at that party. Amidst a crowd of elegant dresses and suits, across the product of your craft that you had come to hate. Put it simply, Isagi Yoichi—who loves soccer very much—met you—who used to love painting very much. Then, it went somewhere from there.

nagi

unwilling audience. reo watched two pinning childhood friends, you and nagi.

dating consultations. nagi is a childhood friend and an unwilling dating consultant that still listen to your break up stories.

as classmates, it starts. nagi and you just happens to be classmates, most of the time.

mundane things and where you sit with them. nagi doesn't understand many things (but he does really, really like you.)

reo

a hug and some words. sometimes being comforted means having mikage reo as a boyfriend and hugging him.

a duck and a prince. a story about the oblivous you, the princely reo, and a snowy day.

bachira

bring your boyfriend to work day. you forgot something!!! so he will bring it for you! (kind of.)

aryu

hair and lovers. even if you love him, his hair is a bit too much sometimes.

#navi stuffs

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

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🧣 + Ransom Oh yes I fucking did. You are welcome.

Ransom Drysdale x rich!Reader A Fluffy Blanket, a Root of All Ransom mini-tale

Warnings for zero editing and cursing/suggestive language. No one who has read even four sentences of this series will be shocked by that... WC 640

"Do I even want to fucking know what this is?" Ransom yells from the closet of your penthouse apartment.

You're moving in together, or rather, you are moving in very, very few things to his house because he deems everything you own--but truly do not care about--unfathomably common, old, and terrible.

"Hey, now." You snatch the blanket from his hand, withering at his judging stare. "This is my comforter from college. It's worn-in and perfect."

"Did you drag it on the ground behind you during trips back and forth across this continent? Because that's what it looks like."

You frown and knit your brows together, which is likely a tighter weave than a whole half of the thing cuddled to your chest.

"It's trash."

"VETO," you snap.

Ransom turns and lays his hands on his hips. "You only get three vetos for the entire day. You want to use one on that fucker?"

"Yes, I want to use one on this fucker."

He squints at you, hoping that's a bluff, but you immediately fold it back up and put it in the box to take, not the bag to throw away.

Ran digs past the hanging clothes--all of which he's decided to toss straight off the balcony if you leave him alone long enough--for the next shoebox.

"Of course, you kept your goddamn blanket," he grumbles, "you never even got rid of your fucking roommates."

"I heard that!"

You've just finished reorganizing Ran's kitchen to fit all of your cooking things. It's actually a small miracle that the thing you have the most of, your fiancé has the least of, so moving around his single pot, lonely pan, and untouched baking tray is easy...until you realize...

It is suspiciously quiet.

What is that bastard destroying of yours now?!

You expect the worst but plan to catch him off-guard, leaping into the living room as quietly as you can before skidding to a halt and covering your mouth in shock.

Cute shock though.

Apparently, Ran got tired of waiting for you and fell asleep on the couch, your ratty old blanket, still soft as ever--you kept it for a reason--tucked under his chin and clutched in his arms. The house isn't cold at all, so only one corner covers his hip.

He's out like a light, face relaxed and peaceful, plump pink lips barely parted.

You approach slowly, crouching down between the couch and coffee table to keep watching him rest.

No one else ever sees your Hugh like this; he never lets them.

You can't help but lay your hand on his smooth cheek, fingertips grazing the soft hair behind his ear. He never lets it grow. Ran would die before going over three weeks without a trim, but there is always just enough to know how silky the short, prickly strands are.

He nuzzles into the blanket some more, knees shifting higher, and after a quick flutter where his eyes do not open, he huffs indignantly.

"You were taking fucking forever."

His sleepy voice is the best.

You giggle and playfully grab his face for an assault of kisses, and Ran has to fight like he hates each one. All his struggles do is bring you closer and flip you on top of him, wedging you between the leather and the plush blanket.

Deep blue eyes meet yours. Behind him, the sun sets on the vibrant leaves outside.

"Well, you're in luck. I'm done with the kitchen."

"Good," Ransom says, "because I'm hungry."

You roll your eyes and start to toss a leg over the back of the couch. There's definitely enough in the fridge to whip something--

Ran's hand takes your blanket with it, covering your chest as his arm pins you down.

"Where are you going? I'm hungry."

Oh.

from this game of "Comfort My Characters"

Thank you bitch for asking!

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @kjdara @starkleila @adulting-sucks @brandycranby @petalj @ghotifishreads

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro answers #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale x reader #the root of all ransom #ransom drydale x you #ransom x reader #ransom x you #ransom x y/n #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale fluff #ransom drysdale x you

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mishapen-dear · 2 years

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There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.

Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.

Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.

He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-

A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.

“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”

“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.

“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.

“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.

(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)

“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.

“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.

“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”

“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”

“He di-”

“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”

“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”

“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”

“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”

Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.

“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”

“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.

“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”

“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”

“You’re the worst,” Grian says.

“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-

“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.

Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”

“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”

“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”

Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.

“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”

“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.

“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.

Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.

(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)

—---

Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.

Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.

Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.

(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)

Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.

(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)

(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)

“What’s that for?” Grian asks.

Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.

“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”

Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”

“That’s weedkiller.”

“So?”

“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”

Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”

Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.

“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.

“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”

“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.

Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.

Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”

Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”

“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”

Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”

Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”

Grian stares. “Oh.”

Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”

“Oh.”

Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”

“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”

“That can’t be it.”

Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”

“Are you going to chop his head off?”

Grian is quiet.

“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Grian is silent.

“Please?”

Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”

Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”

“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.

Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.

—---

The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.

The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.

He’s maybe a little nervous.

The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.

It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.

Scar, of course, seems unaffected.

“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.

“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”

“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”

“Your funeral.”

“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”

Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.

“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”

Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.

A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.

They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.

He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-

Wait. What?

Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.

“What have you brought me?”

“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”

Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.

Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.

(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)

“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.

Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.

“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”

“What?” The dead King asks.

“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”

“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.

“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.

“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.

“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”

“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”

“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”

“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”

“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”

“Whuh-” Grian starts.

“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.

“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.

The Tree stops rumbling.

“Yes?” the King asks.

Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”

“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?

“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”

“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”

“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.

“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”

“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.

The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”

“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.

“Scar,” Grian says quietly.

“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.

Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.

“Now, the choice,” the King begins.

“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.

He’s on the ground three seconds later.

Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.

Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.

Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”

“Huh?” Bdubs says.

“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.

“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”

“I said that,” the King argues.

“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”

Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.

In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.

Grian feels several emotions all at once.

Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”

“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.

“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.

“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”

“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.

Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.

Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.

It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.

The Tree shudders.

The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.

“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”

“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”

“The plants-”

“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”

Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.

Why isn’t Scar bleeding?

“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”

“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”

There’s silence. “Bdubs?”

The Tree stops rumbling.

“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.

There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”

Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.

“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”

Grian can’t reply.

“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.

And Grian goes to sleep.

And Mother Spore wakes up.

---

written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!

(also on ao3)

#i wrote this in like four or five hours and posted On the deadline #this is almost pure stream of consciousness babeyyyyy #mishapen words #grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fic #<- lemme know if i need to add any more trigger tags #hello tag readers. i want you all to know how genuinely little i planned this fic going into it #i do not understand how there's several moments of foreshadowing #i cannot comprehend the fact that the consistencies outnumber the inconsistencies #this fic wrote itself and i was merely its possessed vessel for four-five-however-many-hours #anyway spoilers in the next few tags you have been Warned #look away now #have you looked away #it's okay i read ahead when i shouldn't too #these are the trigger tags for filtering purposes theyve got to be spoilery sorry about that #death tw #blood tw #body horror tw #<- im not sure the body horror really Applies but there you have it anyway #lemme know if i missed any

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cinnamonest · 1 year

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This is by far my favourite genshin yan blog, the way you write the characters are so like how i picture them! My question is, of all the mortal genshin boys, other than Razor, which do you see as the top handful of yans being most mentally determined to find you and bring you home if you managed to escape, even across the continent? Like, the LEAST willing to just give up eventually and find a new darling?

Uwahh ty anon <3

I like that you had to specify “other than Razor” lol

Obviously all are gonna be rather determined to find you again, but some in particular that come to mind:

-----

Ayato keeps a fairly humble exterior, but in truth, he has a sense of pride, and when that pride is wounded, it’s not something he can easily forgive.

Of course, he has quite a large amount of resources at his disposal, so he'll likely be able to find you rather quickly, in which case you'll get the cold treatment and quite a firm talking-to, after which the matter will be let go of, albeit gradually. Still, it won't be treated as that big of a deal.

Not that he isn’t attached to you, of course, but that pridefulness is a large part of his motivation in tracking you down. It’s not just ‘how could you leave me,’ but it’s more ‘how dare you leave me.’ It’s offense, anger, bitterness. You don’t get to do that. He’s not about to take such an insult without putting every resource he has at his disposal into correcting what he feels to be a transgression against him.

If, on the other hand, even all the subordinates he has on hand can't find you within a day or so, then it becomes a bigger issue. He initially had a few people sent out to retrieve you, but in this case, he'll instead direct all of the staff he has available to do so.

Over time, though, the longer you stay unfound, the more he begins to lose composure. Becomes more irritable, less emotionally stable, begins to uncharacteristically snap at people and lose his temper. Which he realizes and is self-aware of, often stopping and catching himself mid-sentence and forcing himself to calm down... the realization that he's acting so unusually undignified just drives him to put that much more effort in.

Which is also why, by the time you are finally found, it's far from a warm welcome home. You're treated with a rather cold demeanor, narrowed eyes downcast to look at you with disdain. He treats it as quite the offense, which is why you'll never be given such an opportunity again... and frankly, in part due to the fact that he's worried of what would become of his sanity if that were to ever occur again.

-----

Tighnari is a bit sad to witness, really. It’s yet another instance of the whole “mate for life” thing drives him to find you at all costs, his brain is hardwired to have a ‘one and only’ in a way a human’s brain is not. Life ceases to feel worthwhile, nothing else seems to be of any importance. He’ll forget to eat and sleep.

His mental state will gradually deteriorate the longer you’re gone. It's not a matter of logical reasoning that he's likely to find you, and while despair and longing is certainly a major element in it all, that's still not the root cause. It's a sense of wrongness. His brain is constantly alerting him to a sense of something being wrong and needing immediate resolution, an instinct that's subconscious rather than conscious, like pain or hunger, a sensation that is hardwired into the brain and will not go away until the issue is fixed.

People feel a lot of pity for him. He doesn't eat much, doesn't sleep. He'll go out into the forest, aimlessly wandering around, as if expecting to find something. Constantly searching, often to the point he's at the brink of collapse from exhaustion. He takes trips out into the city, to the desert, everywhere he can think of.

He also, probably more so than any other listed here, undergoes personality change, in which he essentially gradually becomes a hollow shell. Rarely speaks. All his movements become slow and lethargic, he walks around with glazed-over eyes staring out into nothing. It's such an innate instinct, he's essentially incapable of functioning normally, his very body begins to shut down out of grief as he becomes emaciated and dull-eyed.

That being said, pitiful as it is, and as tempted as you may be to feel bad for him, that also means it will be extremely unfortunate for you if you were ever found again. The experience leaves him utterly traumatized, to the extent that if you're found, you can be absolutely certain that you will never have the opportunity to leave ever again, regardless of how extreme the measure to ensure it may be.

-----

Childe is similar to Ayato in that it's partially a pride matter, but it's not a matter of that pride being offended by you running off, so much as it is maintaining it by being able to get you back. That is, he won't see your running off as a slight against him or hold a grudge, but he stakes his confidence in being able to hunt you down with ease.

Far more importantly, however, he likes the challenge of it. It's part of who he is in general, he's the sort of boy that if you say "there's no way you can do that" or the like, it will suddenly become his utmost imperative to do exact the thing in question and not stop until he has accomplished proving you wrong. It's practically compulsive, he has to prove that he is capable of whatever he decides to do, and the thought of being wrong and thus incapable is infuriating. Likewise, you running off is essentially an indirect way of you presenting a challenge to him. How could he ever just sit back and let you go, or not put full effort into finding you?

His attitude changes a bit, though, depending on the duration of time consumed. For the first little while, he treats it sort of like a game, has fun with the whole matter. He doesn't even seem all that upset that you've gotten out; if anything, he's almost excited by it.

Once you've disappeared for some time, though, and he begins to feel like he actually might not be able to find you, that you might get away, his attitude changes. Now he's actually getting nervous, and more importantly, the fact that you successfully hid from him for such a duration of time is... irritating. Basically you getting one over on him, and it feels like you're mocking him... in his head he can practically see you being all smug about it. Makes him grind his teeth, clench his fists.

The angrier he gets, the more frantic and desperate he gets with his search. Normally, he'll be slower about it, likes to see you squirm and finds it cute to see how you will try to hide away somewhere, so he likes to give you enough time to make it to potential "help" and all that, just to see you despair when it all falls apart anyway. But on the rare occasion you hide a little too well, and suddenly he actually can't find you, then it's a problem, and he'll be far stricter and harsher with his searching, and far more emotionally volatile to those around him.

Eventually this can become too much. If it takes too long and he genuinely panics, he'll even drop the usual snarky demeanor after finally finding you, too upset to even mock you, entirely focused on anger and prioritizing taking you back. So if you're finally found, but he's uncharacteristically quiet and cold, it's not a good sign for your immediate future.

-----

Heizou... well, he thinks he can find you, so he sets his mind to it.

He's a much more mentally stable yandere than most, but when it comes to you disappearing, when the situation arises, he has to calm himself down and remind himself that this is basically his specialty, is it not? He's been on plenty of missing persons cases before. He just needs to apply the same methodology he would use for those.

Of course, his personal emotions do get in the way of his efficiency. Due to being very lucid and all, his primary feeling in the moment is intense paranoia and panic that you're going to go to law enforcement. The first thing he does, actually, is head to the station himself, thinking he might catch you there if that is where you decided to go... but then again, you'd probably not do that for obvious reasons. In which case...

He has to calm himself down, but putting his mind to work helps with that process. He goes about it just as he would with anything else, making a mental list of possibilities, narrowing it down and prioritizing the most likely of those possibilities, then gradually begins checking each and using process of elimination. He has to keep his mind distracted, treat it like a case, or else he knows he's going to break down.

But in terms of dedication, he can keep it up for a very, very long time, and puts in every ounce of effort he has, everything he's learned over his years, into seeing it through. This, too, is largely about his own sanity. He focuses his entire mental energy into treating it like a case because he knows he'll fall apart if he doesn't, and thus, he's incredibly dedicated. He has to keep focusing on it, not take his mind off of it. The moment he begins to let himself despair, he'll give into paranoia, and quite possibly fully lose his mind.

Thus, in a way, continuing searching is what keeps him sane. If he stops, he'll be constantly paranoid, constantly panicked, but at least searching for you gives his brain a faux sense of progress, which calms him down... although, given enough time without success, that coping method might start to fail too...

-----

Although what is perhaps the absolute worst isn't immortal nor in any particularly notable position of power.

Kaeya is driven by a lot of things. Love, sure, it's part of it.

But primarily, above all else, when he comes home one day to an empty room, he goes through a few stages. First panic, grief, you know, the expected emotions, the whole process of frantically checking around for you, slowly coming to terms with reality. He then falls into a deep depression, lasting around two or three days, drinks himself to the point of unconsciousness at least twice over.

And then, when he wakes up slumped onto the couch, head pounding and dizzy, staring up at the ceiling, the hurt is quickly overridden by a new sentiment: pure, unadulterated spite.

It's no secret to you, after living with him for so long, that despite the exterior, he's not exactly the most emotionally stable person in the world, that he has quite his fair share of unresolved psychological issues.

It's a bit different from the pridefulness of precious entries. It's an extension of pride, tied to it, but it's more... malicious. Vengeful. Driven by a desire not just to get you back out of love, nor out of desire to restore a sense of pride, but because getting you back is the only way he can ensure you suffer.

Which is why you probably should have known better. You're just inviting the potential consequences. And that spite is one hell of a motivator.

Day in, day out. He takes time away from work, comes up with an excuse about an emergency that must be dealt with. Uses any and every resource at his disposal. Embezzles funds before he departs if necessary.

You think you can just get up and walk off. After everything he's done for you? No, no, you don't get to do that to him. You're not allowed to do that, you don't get to get away with that. It's a bitter, seething feeling, but that sensation just drives him to work harder. It can be easily utilized and converted into energy and dedication, like fuel to an engine.

He doesn't really have any limits to what he's willing to do, either. Unlike some that would still maintain their ethics, if threatening or hurting people is necessary to get information, it's not something he'll hesitate to do.

He may not have what others have — underlings at his command, the animal senses, the professional investigative background, the unlimited lifespan of time, or any of the other advantages that everyone else listed here has — but he gets the top ranking here purely by merit of relentless, boundless, unhinged determination. And, of course, unhesitating use of extreme measures and remarkable willingness for violence doesn't hurt. Quite the force to be reckoned with, and you really don't want to be on the receiving end of the vengefulness fueling it all... not that you have much of a choice, as you will be found eventually, no matter how far.

And yet, despite how unlikely it is, somehow, you know. When you come back one day and notice the lights are all out and door hanging open, you feel dread. When you walk in to a quiet, dark room, walk around the home with trembling footsteps, come to a halt and feel your eyes go wide as you look down to some indistinguishable shapes lying on the floor, you know immediately. Without having to think, without having to wonder, without any clues to go on. You just immediately, instinctively know. Even before you feel a presence right behind you, even before you slowly turn your head over your shoulder...

And you did, in fact, manage to get pretty far. Found some nice people that let you stay with them. How nice of them.

For most people, it would seem like you were in the clear, and even now, whenever you get paranoid, look around with nervous eyes in public and all, people tell you you're letting it get to your head, that there's nothing to worry about. But you can't shake the feeling.

#im not dead #yet #(ily my unhinged baby boy 💕)

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my-jokes-are-my-armour · 11 months

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His home is them

I loved this season that we see Jaskier part of the found family. Weird uncle Jaskier 😊. But there is a point that seems recurrent in S3, but that roots in S1 and S2 : Jaskier doesn't have a house and doesn't seem to want one. He never speaks about his family, only places to go.

The wandering bard

The Book!Jaskier (lets give him his english name for practical reason - Dandelion) is a travelling bard also but he seems to enjoy city's comfort way more than Netflix one. Like, Jaskier is at ease in cities with all the comfort he wants and so, but way more adaptive to all kind of fields. Also in his design, he feels more like a wandering bard.

Dandelion is more like Valdo kind of wandering bard in his appearance, with bright colors. He adapts surprisingly well to tougher moments and places, but to the court environment also. Jaskier can do that too (S1) but to the point where we find him in S3, like not anymore. He barely remembers how to act in front of a prince.

When we see Valdo, we can see glimpse of the former Jaskier pursuing fame, in his sofisticated outfits in S1, yet even the Jaskier back then was not afraid of not been clean all the time. By the end of the mountain episode, he had durt on his face and his outfit, and didn't seem to bother much. What mattered to him was his friend.

But after the mountain, Jaskier turns into a more adventurous person on his own. And the contrast with Valdo is more visible.

Valdo has a rich doublet, very clean clothes and hairdo. Everything is for parade. Jaskier has rich clothes too and some jewellery but he is more in a kind of free style and his trousers and boots have clearly seen many roads. His outfit is now more practical.

No fixed home

This is something that come across several times in S3 (vol 1 to date).

First Vespula throws him out of her home. Before the reconciliation. Still it's her place. A recurring one, as Geralt knows where to find him. On a side note, I guess Vespula is one of his muses, as she throw his music sheet out of the window. So he is probably composing at her place.

But then, still with Vespula, she jokes giving him bad titles for other countries because he is having affairs everywhere. So he is still wandering the Continent, even with her as an anchor.

When Radovid proposes him to become Redania's royal bard, he laughs. "No, a staid life at court is not for me". Later when he chooses to accept the proposal in exchange of Rience death, he grins while saying that he could maybe settle there.

But why does he say he could stay at one place ? It's clearly not for Radovid at this point. He is intrigued but has not fallen for him yet. The answer is : if Redania welcomes his found family then this is where he belongs 😭.

The found family is his home

Since S1, being with Geralt seems his natural habitat. As long as he is with him, he seems thriving. Also Geralt is a wandering man himself, a hard life for a soft boy but going everywhere, anywhere, is kind of his thing, innit ?

Sleeping outside, no problem. Washing in a lake, no problem. Going to the hunts, or near, no problem. As long as he is with Geralt...

We also see him trying to bound with Geralt's world, the dwarves, the others witchers... But it doesn't work at first.

In S2, we see him opening his heart to Yennefer. They are still frennemis but there is respect and acceptance, deep down. And she learns that he is a true friend.

This season, we see him earning respect from Yarpen Zigrin, like he has become strong enough to run into battles and help those who need. He is no warrior but he has a knight heart.

But most of all, we see how he has bounded with Ciri. The last member of the found family. He can't protect her like Geralt or Yennefer, with magic and swords. But he protects the last glimpses of true childhood she has left. He doesn't cary the gloom accompanying her destiny. He sees her like she is without any judgment over her capabilities and powers. She is just a little girl who needs her laugh and ray of sunshine. And he gives that to her without restrictions.

His home is where his White Wolf goes. His home is where his mama Witch need his shoulder. His home is when he can make his pocket sized Princess giggle and smile.

#jaskier #geralt #yennefer #ciri #valdo marx #the found family #geraskier #yennskier #tws3 #tws3 spoilers #spoilers #my potato edits

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renmedys · 26 days

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BACKS TURNED, FACES FORWARD

haruno sakura is tired of always being left in the dust. (or: sakura throughout the years, chasing after people who might be too far gone.)

pairing: haruno sakura/uchiha sasuke (slight) content: character study-ish, slight romance words: 3.5k notes: my attempt at a character study (not really). its just that 685 forever has a chokehold on me & i love sasusaku & kishimoto rlly did his main heroine dirty. originally i wanted it to be more of a piece about team 7 collectively, but winded up being a little more sasusaku centric xdd

HARUNO Sakura has spent her entire life gazing upon two backs. And she’s tired of it, of course she is. Sasuke was never once in reach, but after he set out on his quest for power and vengeance, even the slightest trace of him was hard to come by. That teenage back and the red and white fan that sits proudly upon it—Sakura wishes she had some way she could reach him from across the continent and alleviate the weights which burden him so. But she could not stop him. Not with her words or actions, and not with her love.

And what use was love if it couldn’t save anyone, especially the very person who brings it to life within you?

She wanted to curse her weakness, and to curse Sasuke most of all for all the tears she shed and the nights she lay awake. Yet still she cannot. Love would not let her, and that was the cruelest thing of all. She would love him to her grave, and whether that is testament that her love is true or that she is just plain old stubborn, she’s not sure. What she’s sure of is that she’s tired of watching Naruto run off ahead of her in Sasuke’s pursuit.

Sakura has been watching this whole time. She watched the curse mark embed itself into Sasuke’s flesh, take root like an invasive plant. Orochimaru sank his fangs into him, and though she’s sure Sasuke’s not foolish enough to hand over his body so willingly, even she could tell that the venom was corroding him from the inside out. His bloodline—Sakura does not pretend to know its blood-steeped history, and she’s long since stopped pretending to understand the pain and hatred that comes with it. But she does know the pain that it has brought her, and the pain it has brought Naruto.

She can see the way Naruto’s eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit at Sasuke’s mention, the way his gaze softens at the murmur of his name to the way it hardens when people speak ill of him. She notices the skyward glances, the clenching fists. His steadfast promise, his unwavering shinobi way, she can see its resolve strengthen for the sake of Sasuke. Like her, Naruto loves Sasuke, and Sakura can see this too. It is ironic, then, that it is Sasuke who possesses superior sight in the Sharingan who cannot see the same.

Nonetheless, Naruto has been chasing Sasuke all this time. And what has Sakura been doing? Weeping like a damned, helpless damsel, waiting for someone else to do all the work to bring back her Prince Charming? She has watched the Uchiha crest grow smaller and smaller upon the horizon of her heart, so faint and out of reach that despite thinking of him every day, she feels he is going to dissipate. Naruto, too—his back has grown broader in the years he has been away from the village, but smaller as well the further she lags behind.

The same scrawny brat has grown into someone reliable, and Sasuke surely has advanced as well. Sakura cannot sit idly by any longer. Not that she has, by any means—under the tutelage of Lady Tsunade she has grown into a medical ninja of unmatched potential and honed her physical prowess to the highest degree she can. But it is still not enough. So long as she cannot reach Sasuke’s heart, she is afraid it will never be enough.

“Sakura.”

Naruto’s voice shakes her out of a trance. They are sitting side by side on the bench by the village gate, the same scene that marks the biggest failure of Sakura’s life. The sakura trees are blooming, but Sakura cannot say the same for herself. Each passing day she is continuously wilting. There is no cycle for her, only an everlasting process of fading until one day she will have fallen completely from the branch.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was lost in thought.”

“About Sasuke,” he asks, though he says it like he already knows.

Sakura nods, twiddling her thumbs. “I wonder what he’s up to.”

Naruto typically takes it upon himself to brighten a dismal atmosphere, but today Sakura is sullen enough that she does not want to be cheered up. No, she wants to linger in this sadness a little longer, let the melancholy soak the way one does in a freshly drawn bath. It is better to face the pain than to continue shutting it down. To bleed is to be alive, so to hurt is to love.

“You know him,” Naruto says, sinking against the backing of the bench. “Probably moping about revenge and all that. He won’t come to his senses unless we sock it to him, Sakura.”

“I know that, idiot.”

Naruto gives her a sideways glance and smiles. Pats her on the back a couple times, then stands in preparation to leave. Naruto is more sensitive than most, in that regard.

“I miss him,” Sakura says, before Naruto has a chance to turn his back to her again. “I wish he would come back. If we could just talk to him…”

“Guys like him,” Naruto says, “only talk through their fists.”

“I can’t beat him,” Sakura admits sorrowfully. She buries her face in her hands. “I’m not strong enough to get through to him.”

“Right now, neither am I.”

Naruto’s confession brings Sakura’s face out of her hands. She turns to Naruto, who is smiling against the blue sky and blossoming petals.

“I lost to him at the Final Valley,” he continues. “I’m sure Sasuke’s gotten super strong since then, too. So I’d probably lose to him now anyway.”

“Then—”

“That’s why we both gotta get stronger.” Naruto turns, looking over his shoulder. “That way, no matter how strong Sasuke is when we see him again, it won’t matter. Because it’ll be two against one!”

Yes, Sakura thinks, her eyes closing as her lips pull upward into a smile. Tears are pooling in her waterline. They will get Sasuke back. And when they do, they’ll be three again. Naruto’s back is growing ever smaller as he walks toward the village center, but for once, she doesn’t mind it.

AMONGST the broken rubble of Orochimaru’s hideout, Sakura is perusing the halls like a child lost in a maze. She’s not looking for anything in particular. No, that’s not true. She’s looking for a reason. Something, anything that might explain how Sasuke had become the stranger that stood before Naruto and Sakura, how the clan crest etched on his back had fanned the flames from a kindling warmth to raging wildfire. There must be something.

Naruto is outside, still standing in the crater left behind by Sasuke. Locked in place, his head is tilted upward, and the sky is clear despite the way their hearts are overcast. Yamato and Sai are by him, having left Sakura to wander on her own, but she can sense the little inkborn mouse that Sai sends to tail her, to make sure she doesn’t go off too far or get herself into danger. Sakura has always been the most observant of the three—so it’s an easy task to hear the tiny footsteps that tap against the stone floors a few paces behind.

Sakura pushes it out of her mind. Let them follow her all they like, it doesn’t matter. What matters right now is finding something that will help. She checks every path and every turn until she turns the last one and finds a dead end. She places a hesitant hand against the stone bricks. She’s ready to accept defeat and reconvene with the makeshift Team Seven. She’s ready to go home, she thinks. She wonders if Sasuke ever misses Konoha. If he ever misses home. (Was Konoha ever home to him?) Then she feels her hand sink into the wall. Her head whips around as she sees one of the bricks push inward. She pushes harder, until the grinding of stone relinquishes into a click. The wall crumbles. It seems that the explosion from earlier broke the mechanism.

Regardless, Sakura ducks her head to squeeze through the hole that has appeared, and on the other side she is rendered speechless. The room sprawls out before her, empty and bare but familiar. To her right, aligned against the corner, there is a desk and a chair pulled out in front of it. Someone was here, not too long ago. She walks over. Somehow, she can tell—if there is anything of value in this room, it will be in this desk. She reaches a tentative hand toward the drawer, careful not to break it. It’s unlocked, and it slides out smoothly. There’s a blank white sheet of paper. It’s been ripped apart and put back together. The paper is fraying at the edges, and when she flips it over she begins to cry.

The smiling faces of their younger selves—Kakashi, Naruto, Sasuke, Sakura—they are gazing back at her, though Sasuke and Naruto are, of course, glaring at each other more than they are posing for a picture. There’s no doubt about it. This belongs to Sasuke, and it proves nothing if not that Sasuke thinks of Konoha, of them. Enough that the attempt to sever these ties is remedied by tape and glue, shoddy though the job is. Sasuke is not yet out of reach, and for now, that is enough.

WHEN Sakura tells Naruto she loves him, she already knows that Naruto won't be fooled. He’s not that same naive kid anymore. But she says it anyway, because it’s worth a try if it means obtaining closure. She disregards the shocked faces of all those around her, ignoring the way their eyes are baring into her back. She meets Naruto’s gaze, and she meets it with headstrong determination, a conduct becoming of the kunoichi she knows she can be. She will kill Sasuke, and she will kill her love when she does. Then it will all be over.

She tells Naruto she loves him. That she’s done chasing after the once noble Sasuke who has fallen to criminal and fugitive status. She says to him that Sasuke keeps getting farther and farther away, that in her mind’s eye she can hardly see the Uchiha crest on his back anymore. That it is Naruto, who remains steadfast by her side and staying true to his word, whom she loves now. A woman’s heart is as changeable as the autumn sky, she laughs, and she hugs him.

Naruto does not move, and instead he shoves her back by the shoulders. He tells her, “I hate people who lie to themselves.”

They argue. Naruto says it's not just about the promise anymore. He wants to help Sasuke, and Sakura can see through the windows to his soul that he knows more than he is letting on. Inside, Sakura wants to scream. Why is she always the last one to know things? Why is she always outside of the loop? What does Naruto know that he cannot tell her, that she does not deserve to know? How can she ever reach Sasuke when everything is always one step ahead of her, whether enemy or comrade or information or life?

“Fine!” she tells him. “I’m going home.”

She beckons Kiba and Lee and Sai, and they follow. She bites her lip to stop it from trembling. She cannot show weakness here. Sakura must not falter.

Her plan is simple, and executed despite a few bumps on the way. Kiba, Sai, and Lee are put to sleep, Naruto caught in it too.

At the bridge, she sees him, cloaked and standing over a woman’s body. Sakura doesn’t have time to worry about who she is.

“Sasuke!” she yells. “I’ve come to join you! I’ve gone rogue from Konoha.”

Sasuke meets her eyes with skepticism, eyes blood red and whirling with the Sharingan. He tells her that if she’s serious, she’ll kill the woman he’s standing over. Sakura can tell she’s wounded, though not fatally. She could live, if Sakura treated her. But Sakura says that she’ll do whatever Sasuke wants, and even when she flinches at Sasuke’s desire to destroy Konoha, she forges onward. When she walks by Sasuke, a poisoned kunai is ready to strike. With it in her trembling grasp, she thinks to herself, “Right now, if I stab Sasuke, it’ll all be over.”

That moment of hesitation, the multitude of thoughts that flash through her head in that single millisecond are enough to spell her doom. A chidori is crackling with static behind her, and if it weren’t for Kakashi intercepting and redirecting the blow, Sakura was as good as dead. Of course she knows why she faltered, even if she resolved time and time again to bring this to a close. She doesn’t want it all to be over. She wants Sasuke to come home, to be himself again, to smile with her and Naruto and Kakashi and to be Team Seven.

Kakashi orders Sakura to take the woman and leave. Tells her that this is not a burden she needs to bear alone. That it is his fault, his failure as their teacher and mentor, that led to this rift between them. Sakura is tired of being coddled. Tired of things being out of her hands and sick of being reminded time and time again that she can do nothing but rely on others. She takes the red-haired woman who Sasuke has now abandoned away from the battle, treating her as the tears flow uncontrollably. She’s careful to make sure none of them drip onto open wounds, because she can handle this, at the very least.

“Sasuke…” coughs the woman, her eyes on the verge of unconsciousness, “you don’t know Sasuke anymore.”

Everything after that is a blur. She leaps into action, ricocheting herself off the arch of the bridge in a sudden movement, kunai ready to pierce the very back she has spent her adolescent years chasing after. But she freezes, and she falters once more. She cannot do it, and such is the curse of love.

Sasuke whirls around and brings a hand to her throat. This time, Sakura is okay with it. Better that she die by his hand than somewhere on the battlefield, unfulfilled. She closes her eyes, waiting for the release of death. This love was going to die eventually.

That much is evident when it is Naruto, always only ever Naruto, who can reach Sasuke with his words.

IT is in the midst of battle when Sakura sees him again. Kneading chakra and channeling into her medical ninjutsu as she treats Naruto, Sasuke leaps down to land in front of them. He says her name, for the first time in what feels like forever, and the sound of his voice washes over her like a springtime breeze. This is the Sasuke she knows. Warm and strong and genuine. Sure, his announcement of his interest in the position of Hokage shocks her (as it does everyone else), but she can look past it.

At his arrival, Naruto has seemingly recharged and been given a burst of new energy. Looking over his shoulder, he thanks her for the healing, tells her to take a break.

“Let’s go, Sasuke,” Naruto says, and Sakura is sure that he means no harm and is simply oblivious to how the words spear her heart. She’s done being reduced to a spectator. She’s done sitting on the sidelines and merely being the third member of Team Seven who cannot compare to the great Uzumaki Naruto and infamous Uchiha Sasuke. Haruno Sakura is a Konoha shinobi, too. Haruno Sakura is an apprentice of one of the great prodigal three, too.

She will take her stand here. Not once has she been proud of her life, of her journey of being a shinobi. But today, that will change. She always considered herself beneath them, figured that their destinies were simply far greater than hers. But Haruno Sakura, you are not only the third member of Team Seven, an apprentice of the prodigal three, but also the Fifth Hokage’s disciple. She feels the heat bubbling in her forehead as the 100 Healings Mark settles. Her once greatest insecurity has now become the shore which harbors her greatest achievement, and this time, she stands beside and not behind Naruto and Sasuke. This time, their clan crests circle each other as equals. Yes, this is how it was always meant to be. Even in the crossfire of war, Sakura cannot help but wish for this moment to last forever.

But when the tides of the war ebb and flow, as they do, she wonders if that feeling of equality were nothing more than her own childish delusions. A belief in grandeur, a meaningless faith in a destiny greater than oneself—was that all her efforts amounted to?

Obito is kneeling before her. Sasuke has been whisked away to some other realm in a different time-space that only Obito can reach. Naruto is off occupying Kaguya, and Sakura has once again been relegated to a supporting role where she cannot do anything on her own. Assisting others, helping others—don’t get her wrong, she’s happy to do these things. But it is so damn frustrating to see her teammates do, on their own, the things that she cannot.

Sakura swore off self-pity years ago. Still, it manages to stick, like gum on the sole of your shoes, the residue forever there, unable to be washed off. As she’s pouring all her chakra into Obito, she can only pray for a miracle. She had tossed off her tattered combat vest, it falling to the floor as she quickly pushed her sleeves up. She released her mark, letting all the chakra she’d been kneading and storing flood through her. She can feel a prickling electricity travel down her neck down to arms, the mass amount of chakra she’s circulating through her body making her heat up, and if Obito can’t find Sasuke soon, she’s going to burst.

Suddenly, a portal opens, and off in the distance stands Sasuke, facing the opposite direction. She can see him as clear as day, though—she’s been staring at his back all this time, after all. She’d recognize it no matter the distance, because no physical distance can match the mental rift she’s come to realize exists between them. She still loves him, of course. But she can’t deny it any longer.

She yells his name. It falls off her tongue flawlessly because it is second nature. His name was engraved into her from the moment she was born—this was the boy she was always meant to love and always will.

Sasuke turns and begins to run, and it takes every fiber of Sakura’s being to maintain the portal, and she can tell Obito is struggling just as hard. She’s not sure how much longer she can hold out, and she can tell she’s nearing her end when the portal begins spasming, flickering as it tries to close. The portal is growing smaller and smaller as the seconds tick by, and Sasuke is nowhere near. This is it, Sakura thinks. This will take the place of the greatest failure of her life.

Her eyelids flutter as sparks fly from her hands, the heat combusting in her veins as she falls back from Obito, weakly. Her body is collapsing, and she can see the ground growing ever closer, until—

She feels an arm around her and a warm presence she could never mistake. She has barely enough strength to merely shift her gaze to the man who caught her, and she is met in return with the same red wheels of the Sharingan. But this time, there is no spite, no hatred, no vengeance. There is fire, but it is gentle and caressing, and suddenly she realizes there was never a rift between them at all.

To show one’s back is to show vulnerability. To leave it unguarded symbolizes trust. Sasuke and Naruto have shown her theirs all this time not because they were leaving her behind, but because they knew she would never betray them. It’s so stupid. If that was what they meant, they should’ve just said that. Sakura feels a tear well up in her eye.

“You’ve got it from here,” she mumbles, giving Sasuke a grin.

Sasuke allows himself the slightest of smiles. “I made it here thanks to you,” he says.

“Hmph!” she scoffs with pride. “You got that right.”

“Sakura.” Her name sounds so right in Sasuke’s voice. “You did well.”

She feels a blush rise to her cheeks as her consciousness begins to fade.

“Come back alive,” she says as he sets her down against a rock. “And tell that to stupid Naruto, too.”

Once this was all over, they would be together again. As three, as Team Seven. The way things were always meant to be. And this time, Sakura’s not falling behind.

#haruno sakura #sakura #sasusaku #sasuke uchiha #uchiha sasuke #sakura haruno #naruto #naruto uzumaki #uzumaki naruto #kakashi #naruto shippuden #sakura x sasuke #naruto 685 #when sasuke catches sakura iykyk #sakura they could never make me hate you #my girl <3 #renmedys

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slowpress · 2 months

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Elain: “He snapped your wings, he broke your bones.” Cassian: “It will take more than that to kill me.” Elain: “No it will not.”

What if Elain wasn't talking about Cassian and Hybern? What if it was Cassian later on in life? Or do we think that Nesta with her power over death, blocked his death from reaching him? “Will I hear the earthworms writhing through the soil? Or the stretching of roots? Will the bird of fire come to sit in the trees and watch me?” Dusk coming back to life. Or the leylines (roots) activating with Bryce opening the portal. The Midgard worm which appears to eat / be attracted to magic. Bird of fire is Vassa

"I can hear your heart beating through the stone. I can hear hers too" Vesperus and Nesta? I can't remember who she said this to. On rereading Koschei and Vesperus? Or Koschei and Aelin?

"I can hear her crying. Everyone thinks she is dead, but she isn't. She was changed, like I was."

Who is this! Another made person? Another seer? "I can hear the sea. Even at night. Even in my dreams. The crashing sea—and the screams of a bird made of fire.”

The sea, Dusk? The bird of fire Vassa? Why is she screaming?

“They sold her—to … to some darkness, to some … sorcerer-lord …”

The human queens sold Vassa to Koschei.

“I can never see him. What he is. There is an onyx box that he possesses, more vital than anything … save for them. The girls. He keeps other girls—others so like her—but she … By day, she is one form, by night, human again.”

He has his heart (soul?) trapped in an onyx box, and he is looking for the key. Reminds me of what the Bone Carver said, that the blood of a power High Fae trapped Koschei and her blood still runs through the humans. He is trapping humans to see if they will open the box for him. Vassa has "Blue eyes" and "reddish gold hair" - like Meave? Like Theia? I actually think that Stryga was Koschei's wife and stole his heart locking it in a box as punishment for something. Similar to Meabh and Erawan.

“There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests. He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.”

Is this Vassa the Firebird (Mala) and Mab (as a swan)?

This reads to me like a retelling of the Children of Lir.

“I can hear her—crying.” “Everyone thinks she’s dead." “But she’s not. Only—different. Changed. As I was.”

Who is she? Briallyn? Mab? Who people think is dead? Her crown was never recovered? Another made person, mortal to immortal? Miryam?

“She stared into the darkness above. “I think they used it to … to trap their enemies and their enemies’ children into the stone itself.”

The Asteri trapping the fae into stone in the prison? Looking up at the darkness, to the sky, the stars / asteri on different planets. Who are their enemies? Aelin, the fae, and the starborn. "He did. He saw me. He will not now.”

He? As in Hybern? The Cauldron? Koschei?

“It made sense, I supposed, that Azriel alone had listened to her. The male who heard things others could not … Perhaps he, too, had suffered as Elain had before he understood what gift he possessed.

The biggest questions for me are the flaming feather on the snow.

#elain seer #seer elain #elains prophesies #acotar theory #acotar theories #sjm universe #maasverse #elain archeron #cassian #azriel #elains visions

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limerental · 1 year

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here, have a half-finished witcher americana retelling I've been sitting on for years now. I didn't quite have the gusto to go everywhere I wanted with it but here she is. I got in my yenralt & ciri feelings mostly :')

It did not go like this:

Yennefer was born the unfortunate eldest daughter of a local farmer of dairy goats and hogs, the sort of farm built into a gully that boiled up with mud and shit when it rained. Born all twisted up in the womb, her spine curved in a permanent hunch.

Some devil got to her mama, her daddy always said, leaning on a fencepost, hard-eyed and jeering as he spit tobacco into the dust.

Some devil had likely looked a lot like the young man her mama fancied just a few months before she was married quick to her daddy.

The devil long vanished off to the city.

Yennefer was no good for farm work, but she could do well enough bussing tables at the diner off the main road. She worked there more hours than not for less than scraps, but she did her work and ducked her head and kept mostly quiet about it. If she was just patient enough and careful, she could find her way out of there in time.

Yennefer kept a secret.

She'd been born with witchcraft hidden in her crooked body, the sort that ran in rich veins through the land itself. The kind that sang in the creek-carved ravines and thrummed through the gnarled roots and swaying branches of the forest.

She could call the animals to her and find anything lost and drive out the snakes from the chicken coop with a word, and she'd heard stories about things like that all her life so wasn't surprised by the possibility at all. Except for the fact that no one had ever taught her those things, and nobody knew she could do it.

In only a few short months she'd come into the full depth of her magic and the Witch would come for her and changed her life for good.

Before that, she met Geralt.

Yennefer'd long given up fantasies of being spirited away, thinking about strangers' lives with the kind of detached daydreaming of a girl who did dull work for ceaseless hours.

She wondered who this man was, old enough to have seen the war but younger than her daddy, who had been exempt from the draft on grounds of being a farmer. Which was good fortune, because he would have made a bloodthirsty soldier.

Geralt was a simple man who worked in travelling pest control. His beat up company van coughed over the miles, tools of the trade rattling in the back, big cartoon rat grinning evilly painted across the side.

Geralt kept a secret.

He knew every trick and gimmick to eliminate a rodent problem, could give his usual spiel about baiting and trapping to any fellow who asked, but had never employed anything that mundane even once. The pests he controlled and catalogued tended to be bigger and meaner and not as pretty splashed over the panels of a van.

Monsters were real, and he knew them by name. Kept tabs on the quiet ones and put down the loud and messy ones.

Always respectfully, that is.

Most of them weren't evil, just creatures as old as the land or older, the growing civilizations on this Continent encroaching more and more on the wild places they had once owned.

The war was many years over, and they said the future was bright. The future was now. Geralt didn't know by what metric they measured those things, because to him the world looked the same as always.

He'd done pest control enlisted in the war too, chasing the sort of monsters that paled in their wretched cruelty in comparison to men. Most of the things he sought out were just trying to survive with shrinking odds in a world rapidly forgetting them.

Geralt got that.

Got it in ways rural poor America did, living the same rusted out life they always had, going on in the usual quaint and tragic ways.

Yennefer didn't quite get it yet, but she was going to.

She poured burnt coffee for the grey-haired stranger in the far booth, a typical dusty midday silence settled over the diner. The slanted cartoon eyes of the rat on his sepia-toned van stared at her from where it was parked beside the pumps.

Places in towns this small wore many faces, general store, filling station, and diner in one. The main road was a common route north, and Yennefer liked to wonder where passersby were going, what lives they led. Imagine what faces they hid from the world, same as her.

Geralt had a job out this way with a few hours left to drive, hoping the company van didn't shit the bed again before he made it there, and he watched the waitress' hands shake as she poured him his coffee. Crooked through the shoulders, she limped when she walked and seemed to have trouble with the weight of the full carafe. Geralt smiled at her, an ugly, little smile on a face unused to such gestures, but the girl smiled back. He hoped they paid her fair. She had nice eyes, sharp and a cool violet.

Yennefer brought him a slice of apple pie and wondered where the stranger'd got his scars. He had a number of them on his face and hands alone, pink puckers and angry mauve ridges and was sure to have more hidden by his dark coveralls. Probably the war. If it had been the other waitress working, the chatty one, she would have asked, mister, did you get those in the war, must have gotten half blown to hell, but Yennefer didn't ask.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her starched apron and got back to work filling salt shakers, and neither spoke a word to the other.

Geralt didn't make much of a living on the road, but he lived simple and didn't need much anyhow. The pie was an extravagance, tart and sweet. The girl had working hands, calloused. He thought of saying something to her, making conversation, but he didn't. There was the sound of flies humming against the dust-streaked glass, the occasional rumble of traffic on the road, the quiet noise of his fork on chipped china.

He didn't stick around to watch his dollar tip fluster Yennefer's cheeks red. Didn't look back at all. If he had, he would have seen her pause in the screen door to watch him drive off, wondering about what sort of work he did in a strange vehicle like that, what sort of man he was.

The van's ignition choked and then caught. He had some miles to go.

Neither left a lasting impression on the other at that first unremarkable meeting, but when Yennefer next saw him two decades on, she knew him at once in the way that witches always know those sorts of things.

How fascinating it was to see that the stranger looked exactly the same despite the years. Same greyed hair, same dour expression, probably same pale orange van parked at the edge of the festival grounds. Witchers didn't age the same as men, after all, and that's the sort of thing she saw he was. Perilously slow heartbeat, calculating look in his newspaper yellow eyes, scars curved by talon and tooth and not shrapnel.

Geralt had known what she was by her description, whispered low and reverant like something holy, that this woman was no ordinary medic. Knew before he parted the canvas flap of a shabby tent in some muddy, over-trodden field and stepped into an opulent throne room, the stone walls hung with erotic tapestries, the high ceiling shimmering with a cloud of stars.

The witch herself sprawled perfectly naked on a high-backed throne with a seat of red velvet. Alone, she looked on in detached interest, still as a statue, a haughty and omnipotent sentinel. Geralt thought her ethereal, beautiful, enthralling.

Trouble.

In truth, Yennefer was wretchedly hungover after a riotous orgy the night before and could avoid the throbbing of her temples if only she kept perfectly still.

It was by her eyes, shrewd and violet, that, with a jolt of surprise up his spine, Geralt recognized her as the crooked waitress from the diner many years past.

There'd always been witches hidden behind any great power, old world or new. King Arthur ruled by the guiding hand of the wizard Merlin and JFK by a blonde starlet in a snow white dress, though none would ever have taken the latter for a sorceress.

How tiresome it was, thought Yennefer, how empty, how thankless.

Geralt sighed and adjusted his hold on the unconscious Dandelion's thighs, hitching his friend higher across his back as he wheezed into Geralt's ear. Would have rather gone elsewhere. Would have rather the idiot had not offended the ancient, moth-winged creature Geralt had come to reason with into making less noise.

But there was no talking sense into Dandelion. Damn lucky the creature the locals here called Mothman hadn't thought to curse him with something more severe than whatever ailed him.

It didn't take kindly to flirting.

Dandelion was a poet and a philanderer and a starchild and a balladeer and a free spirit and a scholar and a conscientious objecter and a right pain in Geralt's ass, except that he was also good to talk to and steadfastly humorous even all these years on and the sort of friend who remembered little details like your brand of cigarettes or your favorite candy, who Geralt liked even for his numerous flaws because Geralt liked most people truly and was a good man and loved deeply and loved consistently with his whole damn too-big heart.

"A friend?" asked Yennefer and Geralt shrugged.

What happened next happened the way it always did in every version of the story.

Two broken, fragile-hearted people and something close to tenderness.

It didn't happen like this:

Somebody had a pest problem, a wealthy widow with a pretty young daughter. Somebody'd cursed a poor son of a bitch into beastly form. Said he roamed the hills howling by night and walked the streets a man by day.

The curse broke in the usual way, just as Geralt said. The daughter's kiss on a full moon. True love and all. Happily ever after.

Except a new war broke and in time, it widowed the daughter too and her poor heart couldn't take the grief, and then the market turned sour and the wealthy widow lost her fortune and hung herself in the pantry. Geralt got a letter naming him next of kin by some questionably legitimate legal twist of fate and then, he sighed deep and resigned and drove north to pick up the girl.

It wasn't so unusual in his line of work, strange orphans scattered all over like grisly flotsam. But he didn't usually see to raising them. He'd never had a father besides the old man, and he'd never thought much of having his own children.

He couldn't know the true dark web of conspiracy around her and would never know the whole of it. The sort of man her daddy was to bear a curse like that in the first place. The old and intricate magicks, bound up in blood and circumstance. The sort of woman young Ciri would be.

Even if he'd known, Geralt would have drove to get her even so. He found the girl buck-toothed and scrawny and lugging a too heavy briefcase down the slumped front stoop of the elderly neighbor who'd been putting her up. Hair the pale color of woodsmoke, eyes like her mama, green as a copper kettle.

And just like her mama, young Ciri had some whisper of something else in her. Something carried over from older lands than this and bolstered by the ancient things here, passed on like the detritus of trauma gained generation to generation. Something tainted and bigger than he had the know-how to suss out.

Geralt sat down and fumblingly wrote a letter.

Meanwhile, young Ciri passed an idyllic summer and cold as tits winter on the isolated Morhen ranch in the rural mountains. She'd never worked a farm before and never even seen a farm animal up close, especially not a ranch like that one which was straight out of some pastoral fantasy.

A painted red barn and swaying, golden fields and a willow tree with a swing beside a white farmhouse on the ridgeline and a little cliche collection of animals. A black and white cow and a billy goat and a pair of checkered chickens and an old, whiskered horse and a little, scrappy dog.

Keeping up appearances, old Vesemir said and made her go muck out the pen. She wished they'd keep up appearances with mucking too and when she said that, the old man's eyes bugged out his head and Uncle Eskel wheeze-laughed folded over smacking his knees.

But the others didn't come until later into fall when the harvest needed brought in. For many long, humid, dust mote days of summer, it was just Ciri and her new, mysterious guardian and the old man who trundled on his tractor with a pipe dangling from his lip, mowing grass and cussing when the tires dipped into a whistlepig hole.

Most days, Ciri was expected up early to feed and muck and clean, which she did with a healthy amount of complaining. Her little pink hands sloughed red with oozing blisters, and Geralt held them in his rough palms to apply salve, feeling like he wished he could give this girl something more, something grander, but this was what they had, this was what he knew.

But Ciri liked the idea of it, her hands going rough and calloused and big like his, her body going hard and lean. She wondered about his scars and his lined face and how strong he was when he lifted her up in his arms.

The lightning bugs came out over the fields each night, so numerous that she could cry over it, and Geralt taught her how not to be afraid when catching them cupped in her hands, kneeling before her with the flickering light held out like a solemn offering.

He prayed it would be enough, the small things he could give her, but Ciri had never known anything bigger. Her daddy sitting on the creaking edge of her bed in the attic to tell her a bedtime story. One with the true monsters and evils smoothed out into a fairytale.

Geralt told her many stories. Long ago, there were elves and giants and wizards and queens and all of them tangled up together in mysterious and elaborate ways. Ciri reminded him about the knights, and he said, ah yes, the knights, and told her about the quests and the riddles and the labyrinths and the dragons. Ciri liked the dragons best. And the swords that slayed them.

When she asked about his own monsters, he said only that there were things in this land older than all of them.

Sometimes the land itself resisted occupation.

And if she was ever on a dirt road along a field of corn or alfalfa at night, never stray in, no matter what beckoned. And if the screams of the coyotes took on a different pitch, don't go looking. And if the cicadas and the crickets went silent all at once and the woods gathered a hush, run home and run fast and don't glance behind your shoulder.

She brandished a pitchfork out in the animal pen, playing at killing beasts, and Geralt watched from the front porch of the farmhouse wishing he could make it all true for her. Heroes and legends and noble truths.

Instead, he whispered a prayer to the wind rattling through the corn fields and held tight as he could to her little, calloused hand.

It all went more or less the same in the end.

"And that's it!" says Ciri, waggling her fingers in a dramatic flourish. "Well, it didn't happen like that." She keeps her voice low and steady in the manner of storytelling, perched up on a fence rail, hands dangling between her legs. "Well, it all did happen. But not like that. Not in those places at that time."

The farm boy she is speaking to looks at her with big eyes, dumb as a newborn lamb. He doesn't know where this America is or half of the words she uses.

Ciri yawns. She doesn't think she'll tell that version again. Or else be choosier with her audience. The sky has started to go red with fading light, and the bats loose themselves from the eaves of the barn to take wing over the fields.

"Don't you have evening chores to do, boy?" she asks, and the boy startles as though awakening from a dream. "Those sheep won't feed themselves."

Later, when his mama cuffs him over the head for his tardiness, he will not be able to explain the reason for the dawdling. He remembers the dark silhouette of a stranger on the border of the fenceline and a peculiar sort of hollow sadness.

In all the darkest and strangest days of his life afterward, his thoughts will return sometimes to that shape in the cradle of dusk.

And one night when his own young, sleepless daughter asks to hear a story, he will close his eyes and draw a breath and tell her one.

#the witcher #yenralt #ciri #my fic

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